It’s Time to Take Out the Aerotrash, Can First-Class Warfare be Far Behind?

Living in Paris for three weeks is something that I will never forget. Using an airplane to get there and back is something that will also remain lodged in my memory bank for a long time, although it would be preferable to have it surgically excised.

Except for maybe driving a car, a world war, or the “Jerry Springer Show,” there seems to be nothing that brings out the worst in human behavior more than flying. To begin with, the prime directive of all plane passengers is to be both the first person on and off the plane, a mission that even the formidable captain Kirk would deem unrealistic.

Initially, I was lulled into a sense of well-being and, paradoxically, even a sort of foxhole camaraderie, since, to me, being 25,000 feet up in the air in essentially a giant winged coffin, means that the bloated sales rep obsessed with his Blackberry, the teenager chewing gum with bovine proficiency, and the mother who is obviously force-feeding her one year old something the saw on the “Anthony Bourdain Show” may all be sharing our last moments together. Sitting there at gate four of Dulles International, everything seemed copasetic as Barbara and I struck up a conversation with a seemingly pleasant Australian man headed to Paris to see the World Soccer Cup. But once the announcement that the plane was ready to board first-class passengers was made, it was every man and woman for themselves, and I cursed audibly as this same man transmogrified into some sort of George Romero creation and stomped down on my foot, as he lurched wildly toward the boarding area, even though I learned later that he was in economy class with us. But he was only one of hundreds of fellow concourse zombies who were starting to crowd the boarding area despite the heedless pleas of the public address announcers to go back to their seats.

In my opinion, it’s time for the FAA to get tough with these people: Water hoses, cattle prods, tasers? Not tough enoucn. These people—lets’ call them Aerotrash instead of zombies, since the latter may be dangerous, but not necessarily ill-mannered and obnoxious—are not easily deterred, but I think I’ve got the answer, and a timely one at that.

If these people are pursuing plane-boarding as a major life goal, maybe they’ll be up for a little water-boarding. You simply put up a sign, “Line A, immediate boarding. Guaranteed to get you there first, even ahead of those pushy wheelchair people.” Then, instead of entering the plane, they tumble down a chute at the bottom of which they are greeted by three burly, ‘roid-crazed (that’s “ste-“ not “hemorrh-“ but perhaps both) Blackwater employees standing under a snarling (smiling while snarling) picture of Dick Cheney. “Welcome awater-board,” they chime creepily. These people will be guaranteed to wait their turns in the future.

Of course, the reason for the “board first” mania is not to get the best seat, since they’ve all been pre-assigned, it’s to lay claim to the overhead storage compartment, which usually has a number on it corresponding to the one on your seat, but these yahoos ignore this, so a good deterrent might be tagging the carry-on baggage with number, and if the numbers do not match, the flight attendant would open a compartment outer door and the offending baggage would be flung out onto the tarmac. But not so fast. Just in case that piece of Aerotrash is inclined to try to retrieve it, all tarmac baggage would become the property of the Concourse Gorilla, who, incidentally, would be a very cost-effective TSA employee (no wages, health benefits, or paid holidays, just a hundred or so pounds of bananas a day, and not even a tire, since he’s got the luggage to toss around.) And to avoid the torture overload label—we’ve already got water-boarding—each violator will be given a key to the cage and five minutes to convince the hirsute no-so-civil servant to return it.

To deal with the stampede to get off the plane first (To deplane, as the Aeronerds call it, and quite frankly, a term for which they should be paying royalties to the estate of Herve Villechaize), all passengers should be required to stand and get their luggage out of the overhead compartments in turn, from the front to back. Those not in compliance will have all their luggage, including check-in, sent to Basra, Iraq. And the only way ti can be gotten back is for the owner to join the armed forces and be immediately deployed there—no time for training, of course. This certainly is guaranteed to get the ringing endorsement of our president as a bold new recruiting tool. Incidentally, once the enlistee completes a three-hour IED disarming course and successfully deactivates six of them during combat, he/she will have their luggage returned.

Another manifestation of Aero-trash is the selfish asshole who takes up overhead compartment space with items that could be kept in one’s lap: coats, handbags, scarves, etc. These people will be strapped to their checked luggage and made to ride the baggage carousel for six hours with a sign pinned to them saying, “I was tricked into thinking this was going to be a merry-go-round. I want my money back, or, least my dignity, only if it’s worth more, of course.”

I think that will take care of the Aero-trash but, before I end, a word about those supercilious divas and divos in first class, who lounge like Jabbas the Hut, as we economy-class clods trudge timidly by. I can always feel their disdainful glances as I pass by clutching my pitiful belongings like some airborne hobo. It would not surprise me if the airlines eventually assign an attendant-at-arms to that section, barking orders out to us such as, “Avert your eyes!” or “Touch nothing!” interspersed with the occasional command from the pompous potentates themselves: “Peel me a grape, vassal!” Talk about the gap between the middle and upper classes.

I feel the time is ripe for me to take a Spartacus-like action. On my next flight, instead of passing sheepishly by these obnoxious Queens-and-Kings-for-a-Flight, I will incite an economy-class rebellion as I bravely shout from the back of the plane, “I’m talking over First Class! Are you with me?” Or I might reduce it to the more succinct, but perhaps more powerful, “Freedom!” as I easily win over the already half-crazed Aerotrash to help me defeat these pampered patricians. However, in a tear-evoking display of humanity, I do not remove these people from their cushy thrones but, instead, inflict a more subtle punishment that may even result in rehabilitation, simply by compelling them to identify themselves in the future by wearing a sign around their necks that says: “I’m a First-class asshole.”

So you see, with a few adjustments here and there, maybe all of us will be able to fly the friendly skies once again.

Nerd-Up Time

I’m a Nerdophile. At least, I’ve said it, announced what I have felt for over 40 years. Yes, I have a profound fondness for Nerds, those people that my dictionary cruelly describes as “unstylish, unattractive, or socially inept persons, especially those slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits.” I did not always feel this way I can remember making fun of the ones in my high school. Yes, I was one of those Troglodytes you saw in that series of Nerd movies, only worse. I did it behind their backs, fearing I’d get a compass jammed in my ear, or a protractor flung at me like one of those throwing stars, if I dared a confrontation.

But a few years after high school, after I had taken my first involuntary respite from college, I was introduced by a non-nerdish friend to a group of people, all of whom had a few, or some cases all, of the above-mentioned nerdish qualities. In fact, for a while, I had two groups of friends, the Ivy League-clad (see early Preppie), beer-swilling, Mash Potato-dancing, live-for-the-day, hedonistic Cool Guys and the fashion conscious—make that comatose—beer/wine-swilling, folk song-singing, life-is-art, intellectuals, a few of whom were of the pseudo variety, a lot like me, in other words.

It was difficult functioning in these two distinct and incompatible worlds and, in retrospect, I wonder if either or both groups ever thought I was working undercover for the other side. I recall one of my Cool Guy friends mocking me about being “In with the out crowd,” in a reference to Ramsey Lewis’s hit, although that same friend had no problem crossing over when it was libidinously expedient, such as the time we had two female Nerds over to my apartment. Nothing happened, as usual, and from this experience I learned that Nerds, for the most part, had moral standards, while the Cool Guys had not yet evolved to that point, and were actually proud of it. (Most of them, as you might expect, grew up to be Republicans.) However, when I experimented with going out drinking with this same friend, whom I shall refer to as “M,” and a male Nerd—let’s call him “H”—an evening of unpleasantness ensued in the form of H’s paranoia regarding M, whom he considered dangerous based on M’s reputation. My earnest explanation that M had been rehabilitated fell on deaf ears and all my efforts at rapprochement were failures. Of course, this was over 40 years ago and I’m sure significant inroads between the groups have been made since that time, though never, unfortunately between H and M.

I think, in those days, I may have had more of an affinity toward the Cool Guys, especially since I always dressed like they did, even in Nerd territory, and it is important to note that the Nerds never made an issue of this, but I feel certain that if I had ever—as a sociological study—affected the dress of the Nerd world within Cool Guy confines, I would have been ridiculed mercilessly, perhaps even exiled. It’s also significant to note that during that period of rampaging hormones, mainstream females, for the most part, were a lot better looking than their Nerdish counterparts. Maybe it was the make-up.

These two groups did, however, have something in common in those days: Big John’s Tavern, where the common denominator of beer enabled the two sides to frequent the premises simultaneously, and even though each group pretty much stayed to itself, there was a definite air of civility, which I’m sure continues till this day unless any in the groups have entered politics.

I continued my double life until I got married, started a real job, and drifted away from Big John’s and the Nerds. All the Cool Guys just became Regular Guys, but the Nerds, they remained Nerds, because that’s who they genuinely were, while Cool Guys, on the other hand, were and still are deeply shallow, with solid commitments only to those things that will enhance their coolness factor. I did maintain a close friendship with H, who incidentally married a Nerd. Nerds, at least the ones I’ve known, are a bit clannish, perhaps based on the safety in numbers theory.

I still continued to encounter and interact with Nerds the rest of my life, but it was only during a recent evening on the computer that I experienced the epiphany that I really liked, admired and, more important, missed my contact with these people. In other words, I found out I’m a Nerd’s Nerd. I, out of curiosity, was doing a search on the comedian Gilbert Gottfried. If his name does not ring a bell with you, he’s the one whose voice you hear as the duck in the Aflac commercials. He’s also on the Jay Leno show frequently and he used to be the host of the USA channel’s “Up All Night” program. When I found his website and began reading his bio and surprisingly long list of credits, I came upon the site for his fan club and immediately joined. The next line should read, “I woke up to my wife dumping a bucket of ice-water on my head, followed by the jamming of Prolixin-filled syringe in my buttocks,” but let’s just say I was stunned by my impulsive behavior, though even more so, I was amazed that I had joined anyone’s fan club, much less Gilbert Gottfried’s. Then, it hit me like a ton of pocket protectors: I was unconsciously showing my love and support for Nerddom by making a virtual connection to their only comedian. (Well, maybe Emo, but he’s not relevant anymore.) If you’ve never seen Gilbert before, he’s socially dysfunctional, despite being an entertainer, is built like a flabby pear, and wears his pants so high, he has zipper scars on his bottom lip.

Then I began to think why would I not like Nerds, I don’t think I’ve ever had a bad experience with one, except for that situation when H got paranoid about M, however, in retrospect, he may have had a point. And I’ve always had a proclivity toward people who not only mock, in a passive, innocuous way, in their case, but are somewhat blissfully oblivious to the self-aggrandizing, back-stabbing society swirling around them.

I offer as an example Radio Shack, one of my absolute favorite places to shop, although, ironically, I don’t go there a whole lot, simply because the world of electronics is one which I flounder about in like a thawed out caveman in Times Square. But if anyone close to a Nerd Central exists, it’s definitely right there. All the employees, even the females, wear short-sleeve dress shirts, even in winter, with clip-on ties, and pants so high they nearly cover their well-stocked pocket protectors, but they are always extremely polite and helpful. They also have a good sense of humor, contrary to popular belief, and, unlike a lot of Regular Guys, these people know and love their jobs. If you’ve got an electronics question, these guys are nearly stroking off (that’s stroking off as in a cardiovascular accident, for any of my prurient-minded readers) to give you the answer, even if you have no comprehension of what they are saying, and you are awed by their infectious enthusiasm, which is undaunted by the continuous stream of absurd queries by dumb-asses like myself.

“Hey, which weights more, an I-pod or a DVD player?”

If it weren’t for our charmingly misfit Nerd brothers, we would be in a worse situation than we are now, if the human imagination can even conjure that up. Where do you think we get all our doctors and scientists? Pick a well-known brilliant person in the scientific field: Albert Einstein, Werner von Braun, Albert Schweitzer, Stephen Hawking, Mr. Wizard, or Louis Pasteur. Nerds all. And by God, let us not forget the incomparable Nerd King, Bill Gates, who’s not only the world’s richest person (depending on whether the Sultan of Brunei’s son makes a weekend trip to Vegas or not), but with his life-saving philanthropy, its secular savior.

Of course, I would be intellectually dishonest if I did not admit to the presence of the Nerd elephant in the room, the smart Nerd’s short-bussed cousin, the Star Trek Nerd, that inferior subculture creature that even James Tiberius Kirk himself repudiated on SNL. Perhaps if they beat their plastic light sabers into slide rules (I may have dated myself there) or learned to speak ancient Sumerian in place of Klingon, they would join Bill and his high achievers. Yet, I like these lesser Nerds, too, along with the Sports Nerds, those sad being masquerading in their heroes’ uniforms, and the 40-year-old Pop Culture Nerds, who dank bathroom walls are dripping—yes, dripping—with autographed glossies of their idols.

Yes, all these Nerds are fine people, a little out of step with the status quo, but in my book, that’s a good thing, and they not only give back to their communities—Typhoid Mary could do that, for God’s sake—but to all of society.

As a somewhat lugubrious post script, I confess that I no longer have a Nerd buddy, my good friend, H, having died 7 years ago, and joining the Gilbert Gottfried fan club is a pathetic substitute, even with the weekly email and photograph. So if you’re unstylish, unattractive, and socially inept, and are slavishly devoted to either or both of my favorite pursuits of comedy-writing or New York City, write me care of Charleston’s Free Time. If you’re a Radio Shack employee, that’s just icing on my cake!

The Dog Days of August: A Conversation With a Collie

August 1998

The Dog Days of August: A Conversation With a Collie
By Bob Coskrey

The “Dog Days of August”—another of those baffling phrases that can easily be solved by referring to a dictionary or encyclopedia. And so, we discover that, according to Miriam-Webster, the dog days pertain to the days between early July and early September, when the Dog Star, Sirius, in the constellation, Canis Major, rises. The dictionary goes on to mention that these particular days, in the Northern Hemisphere, are usually characterized by hot, sultry weather.

Frankly, before reading this, I had always thought the term described those days in August when it was so hot that even man’s best, most highly spirited and physically active friend, the dog, found it difficult to function. It actually seemed to me that at this time of the year, I saw more and more dogs just lying around in 90 degree plus shaded areas, panting pathetically into pools of saliva.

Actually, I liked my answer better than the more astropolitically correct one, so to settle this weighty conundrum, I decided to do the canine equivalent of “going straight to the horse’s mouth”—(My God, there’s another one to look up): ask a dog what the “Dog Days of August” means? Obviously you must think my typewriter is missing a few keys, but don’t be too quick to judge. I happen to live next door to the worlds’ most intelligent dog, who just happens to talk. The fact that I always seem to have conversations with him on those occasions when I have run out of my medication is nothing more than pure coincidence.

His name is Polo, and he has actually taken the last name of his owners, the Stratus family, for legal purposes, although he is such a neighborhood luminary that he is widely referred to by his first name only, just like Madonna, Ali, or Lassie. He is, incidentally, a collie and was named after the famous explorer, Marco Polo, because of his proclivity for exploring large geographical areas.

I visited Polo one afternoon when his family was out, since he wants to keep his talking ability a secret—even from them. He figures it’s no risk talking to me, since anyone who’s read my articles realized I have a hard time differentiating fantasy from reality anyway.

I rang the bell, and Polo, seeing who it is, opens the door by first placing a piece of rubber matting on the doorknob, then grasping and turning it with his teeth. His clueless family thinks he keeps this thing as a toy.

Me: How’s it going, Polo?

Polo is looking good. His sable and white coat is clean and fluffy. He stays inside in the air conditioning during the hot weather, for the most part.

Polo: Great, Bob, what’s up with you? Your president still giving us dogs a bad name with each revelation on his bimbo list?

Me: Yeah, I guess so. Hey, I got a serious question for you, and I’d like to get it answered before your family gets back, ‘cause I need this information for an article.

With a long, pointed smirk on his face, Polo looks up at me.

Polo: Okay, Bob, anything I can do to jump start your plummeting writing career. Shoot.

Me: “The Dog Days of August,” what does that term mean? I know what the books say, but since it’s the “Dogs’ Days,” I thought it only logical that a dog would have the real answer, and since you’re unquestionably the smartest dog of all time, I’m asking you.

Polo: Thanks for the props, Bob. We dogs have been waiting hundreds of years for one of you to ask that questions. Of course, until I came along, there was no one to give you the answer.

Me: Props? Since when did you start talking hip-hop lingo?

Polo: Bob, my man, I am down with the multi-cultural thing. I listen to WPAL, watch BET, and was diggin’ on my homeboy, Sinbad, before “the Man” flipped him off the network. I even watch the Hispanic channel, muchacho. But, just excuse the slip, I promise to be wild and waspy from now on—pardon the oxy, moron. Just kidding, Bob.

Me: I’m sorry I asked. The answer to the question, please?”

Polo: It’s very simple. The Dog Days of August refers to the period of time in that month when the smart dogs reward themselves for the other eleven months of loyal, unswerving service to our so-called best friend, Man, or as my black brothers would say, the Man, although in our case, The Man is not limited to one race. We reward ourselves by just taking it easy and doing what we want to do, not what you want us to do—for just 31 days. Not all of us observe the custom. There are those whose backbones have been replaced by soupbones, who have completely sold out—Mr. Milkbonetoasts, or Uncle Lassies, we call them. Lassie, as you know, was a male who not only did anything that the creepy little “wuss” Timmy told him, but he did it under the guise of being female. Dogs, especially us Collies, will never live that down. It would be like if the black people found out Step ‘N Fetch It was a female to male transsexual. Excuse my emotions, Bob, but if you learn anything from this conversation, let it be, “don’t discuss Lassie around a Collie.”

Me: It’s a promise, Polo. The story?

Polo: Sorry. Anyway, like I was saying we just sort of take the month off. We lie around and cool it, as much as possible. Lucky ones, like me, get to say in air-conditioned houses, but even though you see many of us outside lying around in the shade or even going on boat rides with the family, you won’t see many of us chasing balls or fetching sticks out of the water.

Me (interrupting): You know, you’re right. Every day when I run, this little dog follows me for a while. I throw a stick, he picks it up and trots along beside me. Yesterday, when it was 95 degrees with equal humidity, I threw the stick, and he just looked at me like, “You must be completely insane. You’re the one surfing the heat wave. You fetch the stick. I’ll wait here.”

Polo: Yeah, that little white dog that lives down by the boat landing. That’s Barney. He’s one of us. You won’t see him doing a damned thing he doesn’t want to ‘til September first.

Me: You’re not concerned that the owners will just replace you with another “Uncle Lassie”?

Polo: Just because we bag it for a month? No way! Just like you people always say when one of us joins the land of the hidden bones, it’s just like losing a member of the family. And believe me, from what I’ve seen, although my family’s pretty cool, generally speaking, a lot of you other homo sapiens could use some fresh replacements.

Me: So you think dogs are an integral part of man’s life, then?

Polo: Sure, it’s the unconditional love then. No matter how crappy you treat us, we’re always there jumping up and down and licking your often less than attractive faces (even by dog standards), when you come home every day, just like you’ve been gone a couple of years. Most of you guys have no capacity for the unconditional love thing. It’s just one long orgy of retribution for rewards. We have a purpose; we have a job to do; we fill a humanistic void in your greedy little lives.

Me: Hey, I don’t need a lecture from a sanctimonious fecal forager, and besides, I don’t even have a dog.

Polo (grinning with the recognition that he’d hit a nerve): Oh, for God’s sake, calm down, Bob. I’m not chastising you personally. But you sure could use a dog, if you get my drift. And you know damn well I don’t practice fecal foraging, although I won’t deny that some of my lower socio-economic class brothers do. But I’ve seen much worse things on “The Jerry Springer Show,” which incidentally, all of us canines love to watch. We call it the “Great Equalizer”—whenever we’ve had a particularly rotten day of being screamed at by our owners.

Me: Okay, I am sorry I lost my temper. Let’s get back to the subject of my article.

Polo: Well, there isn’t a lot more to say about it, really. The Dog Days of August simply give us a hard earned respite from a dog’s life, which the dictionary will tell you is a reference to a miserable, drab existence. And to further accentuate this dreary existence, there’s the phrase “work like a dog.” We dogs have it tough eleven months out of the year performing and fetching, running and siccing, taking orders, non-stop, do-this, do-that, or accusatorially, did you do this or do that, or you’re a bad dog (incidentally, there’s no such thing as a bad dog, there are just bad owners, and dogs don’t kill cats, owners without fences do). So it only seemed appropriate to select August, the time of the hottest, most enervating weather, as our holiday. But, while I’ve got your attention, Bob (wake up, Bob), let me make a few observations that might inject more understanding and harmony in the dog/owner relationship.

1. We hate riding in the backs of pickup trucks. It’s totally unsafe, not to mention low class.
2. Although a dog is man’s best friend (with the TV remote control in second place and closing fast), man is not a dog’s best friend. I mean, you own us. Did slaves consider their masters their best friends? You have completely domesticated us, sometimes to absurd extremes, e.g. the French poodle, so we are now totally dependent on you. Even cats can live on their own. We would starve to death. That’s why we hate them, but that’s another article.
3. We are the ones who named Wednesday “hump day,” and it’s got nothing to do with getting over the hump of the middle of the week. By the way, when we mount your legs, we don’t really enjoy it, it’s just a joke. We know it annoys and embarrasses you guys, so we always plan to do it at the most inappropriate social occasions. Only now we just do it on Wednesdays. It just makes it a bit more special, I guess you could say.
4. We want car or truck seatbelts just like humans. We are family members, so give us some protection. And we don’t like riding in your laps. If you wrekc, and you frequently do, we’ll just be crushed between your obese bodies and the steering wheel, oftentimes having a beer can wedged into our innocent bodies.
5. Yes, we love to stick our heads out of car windows, but not because of the wind blowing in our face exactly. It’s mainly because, as you know, we are blessed, perhaps, cursed, with an extraordinary sense of smell—and frankly, a lot of you people reek like something awful.
6. We’re sick and tired of taking the rap for your flatulence. At the suggestion of some of our pointer brothers, starting very soon, whenever this extremely embarrassing situation occurs, the dog will point to the guilty party.
7. The last: Whenever you see any of us tongue washing our private areas in public, give us a whack with the rolled up newspaper. Those dogs are perverts and exhibitionists of the worst kind, and what they’re doing is not even vaguely connected with self-cleansing, and serves only to give us mainstream canines a bad name, and make Howard Stern envious.

There, Bob, I think I’ve answered your question, plus giving you some information to perk up your article.

Me: Thanks, Polo, I’ve really learned a lot about dogs today, although I have to say, you seem to have a bit of a chip on your shoulder.

Polo (resignedly): Bob, you just don’t get it, do you? But then, after all, you’re only human. Why don’t you just read my new book that’s coming out in the spring, published by Random Doghouse, “Timmy’s in the Well and I Don’t Care, or Lassie’s Revenge.”

I need not add anything else, only that Polo and I, in spite of everything, are good friends.

Scream of Consciousness

1. Monotgamy: The inevitable side effect of some long term marriages. (I said “some,” Barbara.)
2. Mother Inferior: Britney Spears
3. “Emission Accomplished”: Semi-annual victory cry from Cheney bedroom.
4. Fecked up: Feckless (idiomatic)
5. Carbon dating: Scientific method of tracking Larry King’s social life.
6. Concert penis: Ron Jeremy plays Carnegie Hall with his hands behind his back.
7. Islarmist: Michael Chertoff
8. Amnesty Bill Horror: Republican name for recent immigration legislative attempt.
9. “Straight-haired Ho”: How some local Hawaiian shock jocks used to derogatively refer to the now-deceased singer of “Tiny Bubbles.”
10. Ear apparent: Prince Charles.
11. “It’s been a real roller coaster ride”: Euphemism for “You make me want to throw up.”
12. The “Stuff of Life”: All that useless crap in your attic.
13. “Raising the bar”: Often used equivocal phrase that lacks the important clarification of whether it is referring to the high hump or the limbo.
14. Snoop Dogg Days of August: That part of the summer when it gets so hot that frizizzles have been known to spontaneously combust, sometimes casuing herds of Ho’s and Bitches to stampede.
15. CPDD (Chronic Public Dissembler Disorder): Psychiatric disorder peculiar to politicians.
16. Psychopath: The way leading out of the labyrinth of shrubs in “The Shining.”
17. Subterranean Nuptials: Marrying beneath you.
18. Tiramisohorny: Italian-American dessert with Aphrodisiac properties.
19. “Serve at the pleasure of the President”: Hiring condition of some administration employees famously misinterpreted by Monica Lewinsky.
20. “Blown out of proportion”: Infamous Linda Lovelace film featuring creative uses of an Electrolux.
21. “Cut and run”: What O.J. excelled at.
22. Cardinal Sin: Priestly duties gone awry.
23. Jackson Hole: Mining excavation site in Wyoming named after Michael Jackson’s nose.
24. Myanmar Shave: Formerly Burma Shave.
25. Backseat Driver: Minnie’s high school nickname based on her amorous intravehicular activities.
26. “Drink like a sailor”: Old school for “drink like an astronaut.”
27. Bread Box: Useless kitchen container used only for comparative measuring.
28. Rhode Island: See “bread box.”
29. Tired groin: Roger Clemens’ early season injury, usually occurring only among teen age boys.
30. Bronx Bombers: Whimsical name of NYC local al Qaeda Cell #122.
31. Auto-eroticism: Specialized sexual activities popular during the days of the four-on-the-floor gearshift.
32. Overeasy Rider: Now defunct biker-owned egg delivery service.
33. Norweejuns: New line of Bass combination penny loafer-show shoes made in its Oslo plant.
34. “Putting meat on the table”: Metaphorically, a description of one who supports a family. Literally, a felonious act in all but a few deep-south states.
35. Random House: An impulsively purchased dwelling, often selected only with the use of darts and the classified section of the newspaper.
36. Moe Town: Small town in northern Michigan in which newcomers must undergo an initiation consisting of running a gauntlet where they receive continuous eye-pokes, double-fisted nose bonks, and 2x4 head-whacks delivered by guys with “bowl” haircuts, yelling, “Why you!”

When Halloween Was Just a Doodie Call

October 1998
When Halloween Was Just a Doodie Call
By Bob Coskrey

Halloween has changed quite a bit over the years. There are a tremendous variety of sophisticated masks and costumes now as compared to when I was growing up in the 40s and 50s. I always wanted to be either a soldier, or cowboy, a pirate, or a policeman, a trend, if it had continued, that would certainly have gotten me an audition with the “Village People” in the 70s.

Some kids used to just wear a black mask covering their eyes, the kind paradoxically enough, only worn these days by male porn actors—I mean performers—who are of course, involved in a more immediately gratifying form of trick or treat. Let me quickly add that I have never actually seen any of these movies, but I once heard Howard Stern describing them. Also let me clarify that I never listen to Howard Stern either; he just happened to be on my friend’s car radio one morning.

But I should be retro—not digressing. In those days of old, you saw a lot of children dressed up in relatively bland costumes like Disney characters, clowns, witches, skeletons, and so on; nothing like today’s elaborate superhero, politician, movie star or monster masks, and these modern-day monster disguises are really myocardially infarctingly terrifying, they’re so true-to-life.

In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t read newspaper accounts of weak-hearted homeowners collapsing, bug-eyes and chalk-faced in their doorways:

The door opens to a grisly group of Hell Raiser, Freddie Kruger, Alien Creature, and other horror movie spawned latex masks, with a Lyle (“only his mother could”) Lovett, perhaps thrown in for good measure.

The smiling, elderly, white-haired matron responds:

“Well, well, whom do we have he---iiieee!”

Clutching her chest, she crumples slowly to the foyer floor, her large basket of candy tumbling onto the porch and spilling out its teeth-corroding bounty (I’ve often wondered if the ADA is a secret supporter of Halloween).

After a five minute slugfest between the diminutive minions of evil all that remains—the spoils of war—are those revolting orange-pink slugs of Candydom, “Circus Peanuts,” which no one but a few gagging ants try to claim.

A candy corn, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, Hershey’s Kiss, Snickers ammed mouth semi-gratefully yells back from behind a quickly departing Michael Myer’s mask:
“Thanks for the treats and the trick, Grandma!”

Speaking of tricks, I don’t think my wife and I have ever had any really malicious ones played on us. I have seen some broken eggshells in our yard, a truncated garden hose once, and the very campy, innocuous, and downright dopey soaped-up windows occasionally. The most horrible effect of this latter, feckless felony was that it compelled the homeowner to wash his or her windows, with the soap being graciously provided.

I guess the most diabolical trick that we played when I was a kid was the Flaming Bag of Feces; which I am sure is still being done today, though fortunately not to us so far, though, by making this assertion, I may as well have placed an enormous neon arrow over my house saying, “On Halloween, be sure to place a Flaming Bag of Feces here.”

For those unenlightened few, this trick involved three very basic ingredients: 1) A paper bag (brown or white); 2) Matches or a cigarette lighter; and 3) Some dog excrement (it could be another animal, but it has always been a universal axiom that dog poop is always available). The concept of the trick was similarly facile: 1) You put the dog poop in the bag; 2) You place the bag in front of the trickee’s door; 3) You set the bag on fire; 4) You rang the bell; 5) You ran like Hell, not just to a secluded spot but one where you could observe the culmination of your devious endeavor, i.e. the trickee stomping wildly on the smoldering poop-filled bag, while cursing an unseen enemy, screaming once he realized the discomforting dilemma, gingerly taking off his shoe, and lastly peering about paranoically before disappearing into the house.

However, the execution of this malevolent maneuver was certainly not a given. To begin with, and I am doing this for purposes of edification only, the dog poop must be of the correct consistency (a sort of prunes and roughage diet consequence) so that when the witless victim stomps on it, you get a maximum distribution: on the pant leg, wall, and door, if possible. This required dedication and teamwork normally beyond an adolescent’s capacity: Each year, in turn, one kid would supply his dog (or any other dog he had access to, if he did not own one) with the proper repast early Halloween morning, then harvest his stinky crop that night, as close to the zero hour as possible. Sometimes, nature didn’t cooperate, but this team member still had to contribute, and every year, with the regularity of a politician’s lies, he came through. And we never asked questions, we simply admired his dedication and creativity. And in retrospect, I’m glad we didn’t. There are, after all, some things that even the best of friends shouldn’t share.
The execution was also of supreme significance. If the bag was lit too early, you risked the fire being out by the time the trickee opened the do, with your only hope then being the very slim one that this person was such a dork that he/she would just step on the “goodie” bag accidentally.

Once again, teamwork was essential. One kid (the ringer), would ring the bell, then if he could not see in a window, he would press his ear against the wall to listen for approaching footsteps. Once this confirmation was made, he whispered or signaled to the lighter to set the bag afire. This procedure pretty much always worked to perfection unless a wily victim was waiting at the door (which is why we never chose the same victim more than once).

Although I risk rupturing the lofty moral tenets of his esteemed magazine, I must admit, if only for selfish cathartic purposes, that there was an even more heinous hybrid of the Flaming Bag of Feces—glorious yet ghastly, humbling yet horrific, The Diabolical Doodie of Doom Device.

With the mere addition of a regular sized firecracker, the FBF’s effect increased twenty-fold. Distribution was pervasive, and equally as important, the trickee no longer even had to step on the bag, since there was no need to set it ablaze. Timing, however, as comedians say, was of the essence, and the execution was more hazardous, since the ringer and lighter would have to wait till the last anxiety saturated second before scampering away to safety—from the estranged victim, as well as the device itself. In fact, the initial deployment of the DDDD proved nearly to be the last, as my friend Johnny (the lighter) was victimized by a fast fuse and even slower feet. Although I was, at least, rewarded with the satisfying sight the trickee reacting violently to the bespeckled porch (“Come back here, you little bastard!”), Johnny, who fortuitously wore his glasses, had to rinse himself off with a hose before going home, figuring his story about falling into Colonial Lake was more credible than the one about standing too close to the diarrhetic bear at the Hampton Park Zoo.

I’d like to clarify, since impressionable adolescents may be reading this, that we only did FBFs and DDDDs to people who blatantly refused to participate in the rites of Halloween, the ones who turned out their lights and waited furtively in the dark for us to leave or who left their lights on but just would not bother to come to the door. We also did it to anyone who gave us those vile circus peanuts two or more years in a row.

If the youth of today no longer employ these “South Parkian” flavored tricks, I’m surely not advocating their return, I’m just spinning a tale from the good old days.

I had actually planned to do some trick-or-treating myself this year and had ordered a special Bill Clinton costume, but now the National Safety Board has recalled all of them, after determining that the pants-around-the-ankles feature results in a lot of falls. Why I oughta mail those guys a DDDD, except that I wouldn’t want to be known as the Doodie Bomber.

Tax, Annoying People and Audio/Video Tapes

April 1999
Tax, Annoying People and Audio/Video Tapes
By Bob Coskrey

I realize that the taxes we pay are necessary to run the government and provide us spoiled, rotten Americans with the services and amenities we take for granted. That’s not to say, however, that I agree with all the ways this money is spent or the enormous difference in the gross pay versus net pay portion of my pay stub.

Indeed for many Americans, this is a much dreaded and intensely detested time of the year. I don’t know anyone who says with an air of ineffable excitement:

“Omigod! Omigod! It’s almost April 15th again, and I once again have an opportunity to contribute a hefty portion of my yearly income to the government of the world’s greatest country. With my help, we will continue to be able to produce $800 government toilet seats, save the rare hermaphroditic flatulating fruit frog from extinction, and buy hookers and penicillin for horny legislators. Where’s my damn checkbook, I’m not waiting till April 15th, and I’m going to include a tip. God bless America!”

So it occurs to me that maybe instead of punishing us hard-working and expediently law-abiding Americans with what amounts to a yearly fine, why don’t we use the tax system to punish some people who really deserve it, and, at the same time, lessen the onerous burden on us good guys.

Hence, I present the Annoying Persons Tax, whereby millions of other Americans will be taxed, not just on their incomes, but also because they are extremely annoying. This new tax structure will not only abate us relatively unannoying persons’ tax debt, but it may even change the behavior of the irritating group, however, the greatest value of the new tax will be the pure unadulterated pleasure of retribution.

I will now give you my suggested list of annoying people, which I don’t plan to turn over to the IRS yet because I figure I may need to keep adding to it for a while. This is not in any order of ascending or descending annoyability:

1. Lies, instances of hypocrisy, and unkept promises by politicians. This should bring in enough to correct the international trade deficit the first year.
2. Any comedians who insist on continuing to tell Monica Lewinsky jokes (per joke).
3. Anyone who owns a vehicle with anything more than an AAA decal on it (per decal; double rate if you have a personalized license plate).
4. Rush Limbaugh, each time he says the words, “I,” “me,” or “myself.”
5. People who start doing yard work before July (per trash bag).
6. Car accident rubber-neckers (per second; double rate for camera or binocular users).
7. Elvis impersonators. If there are more than 3 in a 20 mile radius, all will be taxed.
8. People who mispronounce the word “nuclear,” yes that includes Tom Brokaw (“nucular”) and President Jimmy Carter (“nu-ke-ar”). President Carter would pay double rate because of his mispronunciation’s sexual connotation.)
9. Golfers, not just because of the inherently goofiness of the game, but for the irreparable damage done to men’s fashion (a lump sum retroactive reparations tax may be needed here).
10. Dennis Rodman, for each hair color and gender identity change.
11. Owners of bad toupees. This will require a test: If a person cannot walk by a pack of hunting dogs without being chased (taxed per toupee).
12. People who talk or eat food loudly in theaters (per word, crunch and/or smack, double rate for belchers).
13. Show business and sports celebrities who chew gum during public appearances (per chew; double rate for open mouth chew; triple for audible smack).
14. People who appear more than once in the “Style” section of the “Post and Courier” (double rate if they have a drunk in their hand, triple for men with bow ties with their glasses pushed up on their heads).

If you’re wondering how we will verify these acts of annoyance, I will recommend that we have people who record them with audio/video equipment (tax bounty hunters of the bothersome). These people can contract with IRS to provide this service, and their salaries will be more than justified by the new source of revenue. And you might get some people to do with work gratis—just for the nearly orgasmic pleasure of it.

I will be going to discuss my proposal with the IRS soon so if you have any more suggestions for the list, let me know. And incidentally, although I will not be selling this idea to the IRS, I will, however, ask that they exempt writers for the “East Cooper Monthly” from this list, so none of your should get any ideas.

I am, nevertheless, concerned about one thing: These IRS types, not being famous for their senses of humor or citizen friendliness, may think I’m totally out of line, and decide to slap an audit on me. Then I’ll be forced to reveal information of the year I was paid under the table when I worked the geriatric male strip club circuit in Florida as the “Amazing Mr. Gherkin,” and gave out tiny magnifying glasses to the audience.

Perhaps it’s appropriate to say now that although I write this article, the entire idea of the annoying person tax was Bill Macchio’s. Way to go, Bill!

Elephants and Pigeons…Oh My

Oh, my God, I shouted, as my wife, Barbara, and I were watching a taped report of President Bush’s press conference. “Did you see that? A bird just crapped on the president’s shoulder.” A small white glob landed on W’s left shoulder. He seemed to react to it slowly, yet a good bit faster than when he initially informed us about 9/11. He didn’t seem bothered, just glanced at it briefly, then flicked it off with his bare hand as if he were used to it, causing me to imagine a new version of that John Denver oldie, “Bird Dung On My Shoulder Makes Me Happy,” before concluding that maybe he just figured he was so deeply entrenched in it now, why worry about a couple of ounces more? Though certainly, he must have been disappointed that his red alert warning rhetoric to the reporters that their children were in danger from terrorists may have only scared the crap out of a bird. The camera then swing to the somewhat nondescript little pigeon, obviously not only unaware of the significance of his act, but of everything else in his environment, except for spilled French fired, cats, and rampaging raptors. It’s a pigeon for God’s sake, the most commonplace and maligned of all our avian allies, those ravenous eating machines that swarm over people—sometimes with Hitchcockian intensity—in Central Park and the famous squares of Europe.

But perhaps we have grossly misjudged and mistreated this impressive bird (they served as messenger carriers in combat in WW’s I and II, and NYC brought in falcons to rub them out a few years ago). After all, this particular little creature had done something that none of the Democrats could accomplish. Votes schmotes! Vetoes schmetoes! He just took matters into his own wings. Disregarding menacing Secret Service Men and machine gunners on the White House roof, this feathery fighter bomber swooped down and dumped his ebony and ivory load on target, this finally avenging an angry and frustrated world that has been the dumping ground for W’s misguided, mistaken and mispronounced policies for the past 6 ½ years.

So impressive was this act that I feel we should consider making this former war hero the symbol of the Democratic Party. I never have understood the logic of having a donkey occupy this prestigious position in the first place. And what sense does it make for the anti-conservation Republicans to have the majestic, powerful, but disappearing elephant for their symbol. Of course, if we could somehow acquire the elephant for ourselves, that would be even better than the pigeon. And oh, if elephants could only fly. They would still be digging for W. but that’s not going to happen, so let’s return to the pigeon and reality.

First, we’d have to play up the pigeon’s being a veteran of two ears and naturally compare that to the defer-and-run Neocons who started the Iraq War, but who infamously managed to avoid serving in any wars themselves. In fact, we might consider starting a simultaneous campaign to make the chicken the symbol of the Republican Party, except that in respect, a pusillanimous pachyderm is really the more appropriate symbol, because if there is one thing these guys can legitimately lay claim to, it is the elephant-sized balls when it comes to lying, or more specifically, denying a statement, even if you show them a videotape of themselves saying it. In fact, elephantine balls is a bit lacking in descriptive puissance. I’m thinking that the perfect symbol for this group is an elephant with scrotal elephantiasis. While of course, some consideration should naturally be given to the “lyin’” (lion) with Deferment Dick being the Lyin’ King.

But back to the proud pigeon, who, let’s remember, is mainly qualified, not just because of his history of military service to his country, but because he dropped a load on George W. Bush. Whereas most other birds would have taken the easy way out and waited for a statue to be erected, this bird dropped it up close and personal. In fact, I like to imagine him screaming, as he began his dive, banzai-like, while W struggled to complete a two-syllable brain-twister, “For me to poop on!” (Quotation used with permission from Bob Smigel / Triumph the Insult Comic Dog.)

Perhaps, most important of all is the fact that the pigeon can actually be more than s symbol. If these birds can be trained to carry messages, they can certainly be trained to perform an even more significant “doodie,” so to speak: Dropping deuces on Neocon lie-spewers, illustrating that even though both are full of it, at least the pigeon’s serves a noble cause.

Power to the Pigeon!

Resolve Not To Resolve

January 1999
Resolve not to Resolve
By Bob Coskrey

News Year’s Resolutions. How ridiculous. What a waste of time. They are about as meaningful as election year promises by a politician. Well, maybe not quite that bad, at least, you’re just breaking your word to a few people, or sometimes, just to yourself.

Why are they absurd and time-wasting? Because very few of the resolvers carry them out. Most resolutions, I feel, are not only devised to help the person making them but also to benefit one or more other people who are affected by the resolvers’ appearance, word, or behavior, and those significant others always have input into the choice of the resolution.

It is blatantly obvious to me that hardly anyone fulfils the expectations of these unfortunate people, and perhaps that is why we always find ourselves foiling in an endless sea of dilemmas: The person negatively affected by one person failing to come through on his resolution, does not adhere to his either, thus affecting another person who simultaneously is sleeting down someone else, and on and on, ad infinitum.

I base my gloomy theory on daily observations of other people and it is as follows:

People with conspicuous personality flaws or remediable mental or physical deficiencies, receive input from others at some point in their lives to correct or at least improve in these areas through the formulation of a New Year’s Resolution.

However, since it is clear most people do not change, one can safely infer that they apparently do not adhere to these resolutions.

Do you know any jerks? Of course you do. Don’t you think that at least once in their way over-extended lives, they were pressured by a significant other to resolve to change that jerkish behavior? Are they still jerks? I rest my case.

Walk through a Walmart one day. 80% of the customers have body fat percentages that probably exceed their IQs. Have any of them made an effort to exercise, diet, or read anything more challenging than the National Enquirer or TV Guide? Obviously not.

Take me (please, as my wife would say, doing her best Henny Youngman) for example. I once resolved to read some books on automobile and general home repair to lessen the deleterious effects of my severe mechanical retardation.

Have I done so? Of course not, judging by the huge yachts and impressive winter resorts owned by the auto mechanics and home contractors I have supported over the years. It was only recently that I learned that a hand saw goes back as well as forth.

Everywhere you look, there are examples of repudiated New Year’s Resolutions:

1. Former Governor David Beasley: “To the citizens of the great state of South Carolina, I resolve to try to complete a sentence without using the phrase, “family values.”
2. Bill Clinton: “Hillary, lovebox, I resolve never to look at another woman.” (In Bill-speak, this means he doesn’t have to look at her since she’s often blocked from view by the top of his desk.)
3. Sam Donaldson: “I resolve to get a toupee that doesn’t look like something that escaped from a petting zoo.”
4. Madonna: “I resolve never to change my look.”
5. Howard Stern: “I resolve only to have fully clothed, high class women on my show.
6. Jerry Springer: “I resolve to ban trailer park residents from my show.”
7. Any local talk radio host: “I resolve to take elocution lessons and familiarize myself with a dictionary and a thesaurus.”
8. Any Charleston Country driver: “I resolve to drive according to this motto—“Safety first, courtesy second, and love thy fellow driver.”
9. Super market shoppers: “I resolve that at least for the brief time I’m in the store, I will pretend that others are as important as I am, and will resultantly not do things such as bring 30 items to the 10 Items Or Less cashier, or block an entire aisle while I relate my life story to someone.”
10. Senator Ernest F. Hollings: “I resolve to tone down my language, although it’s not going to be goddamned easy!”

So I’m suggesting that we just all give up on this New Year’s Resolution thing. After all, if you make one of these phony declarations each year of your life, and with the average life span being in the mid-seventies, that’s a lot of lying, and certainly that’s all it is, since most people know even as they’re mouthing it that they have no intention whatsoever of acting up on it. If you have an otherwise ethical life, why muck it up with these inane proclamations?

In fact, the only people who should continue to carry on the tradition are politicians, whose characters are so morally rancid anyway, to ask them to forego making resolutions would be like asking a psycho who has just shot up your family to please close the door on the way out so there won’t be a draft. On the other hand, they already have below zero credibility, so nobody’s even listening to anything they’re saying, much less their New Year’s Resolutions.

In the meantime, I know a couple of honest lawyers (yes, I know an oxymoron when I write one), so I’m going to look into the possibility of having the New Year’s Resolution made into a legally binding document.

Now I figure that may either change the course of the world or nobody will ever make another resolution. We can’t lose.

The Flu – A Runner's Lament

Until a few weeks ago, I had only missed on running day since I started 7 years ago, and that was when I had a 24 hour intestinal virus in 1984. I've just been very fortunate with illnesses and whenever I've had an injury, it's always been the type that compelled me to moderate my running (shorten the distance or decrease the pace temporarily) rather than terminate it for a period of time.

However, my quest to become the Lou Gehrig of amateur running was cruelly and unceremoniously nullified recently by the flu. For four days I languished around my house, alternating between freezing to death and sweltering. As each day passed I agonized over whether I would set some sort of Guinness Book record for being sick with the flu. I also wondered how long it would take me to get back into form. Since this had never happened to me before, I didn't know what to expect. My doctor had told me it usually lasted 3 to 5 days. His nurse said 7 to 10 days. Of course, I figured she was probably right. Fortunately, he was the more accurate predictor.

During my convalescence, I also worried about gaining weight, since I think my eating habits have probably worsened since I started to run—because I feel "I can always run it off." I figured I'd probably game 15 pounds and my return to running would be like starting all over again; wobbling along at an 8 minute clip. Luckily—and only a neurotic runner would say this—I actually lost my appetite along with about 5 or 6 pounds. In fact, it took me about 2 weeks to regain it.

Psychologically—emotionally, I mean—I had some apprehension about how I would react to not being able to run. I considered two scenarios. Both rather scar, one in which I became a ranting, raving lunatic, screaming at my family and/or beating my dob or perhaps behaving like the guy in the movie "Reefer Madness." The second, and actually more frightening of the two, I would gradually lose interest in running altogether. I would re-adapt to my former slovenly, unhealthy lifestyle. Maybe even take up bowling as a substitute, and laugh it up with the boys at the alley about how I used to spend 4 or 5 hours a week running around Mt. Pleasant dodging cards and avoiding dogs. We'd have contests to see who would be the first to top 50% body fat.

I was enormously relieved to discover that neither of those extreme reactions occurred. I adjusted to my predicament fairly well. I really did enjoy my first day back, though. It was like being reunited with an old friend. I know this sounds sickening and a little mawkish I guess, but I got a real thrill out of putting on my shoes and lacing them up. I can remember having the feeling that this is something I shouldn't take for granted anymore.

I only ran 3 miles that first day, and although it took me a while to develop a rhythm again, it was probably the most enjoyable run I've ever had. In fact, only consideration for my son prevented me from breaking out into a skip several times. ("Dad, it's all around school that you were seen skipping down Cottingham Drive.")

Frankly, I see nothing wrong with a good skip every now and then to sort of relieve tension, though of course, societal codes prohibit this expression among adults, especially males. Perhaps it's up to us runners to eradicate this anachronistic taboo. A good "skip and run" race would be a perfect ice breaker. The skipping rule would sort of be on the same basis as the kicking rule in full contact karate, where the contestant must kick a specified number of times in the bout or be disqualified. Let's say, for instance in a 5k race, a runner would be required to skip 25 times. An average or below average skipper may want to space out his or skips at regular intervals A superior skipper (a skip-master) may be prudent to conserve his till the finish for a skip/sprint to victory.

Isn't it a paradox how something so positive can be spawned from a bottom level downer like the flu. I'm going to suggest to Cedric that the first skip race be dedicated to all those runners who have suffered, are now suffering, or will be suffering from the flu. It will be called "The Skip To My Flue 5k."

Yes, this entire article was created just so I would be able to say that.

(Originally published March 1986)

Socially Promoted Through the School of Life

Experience, as someone with either sadistic or masochistic inclinations (to have both would certainly guarantee one a very “self-fulfilling,” if short, life) once said, is the best teacher, and certainly, that is how I, on many occasions during my 60-year enrollment as a student of life, have learned things.

My most recent, salient instance of enlightenment came at the beginning of our annual New York City trip last November.

Perhaps some, or possibly most, of your readers already possess the knowledge of what an express flight is, but my wife, Barbara, and I had no knowledge of it, experientially or otherwise. All we know was that we had booked a direct flight from Charleston to “The Big Apple,” and we were euphoric that we would not be changing planes in Charlotte or Atlanta, the latter where I’m convinced the airport employees make wagers on whether the weakest of the passenger herd will be able to make it through their fiendishly conceived obstacle course at all, much less in time to catch their flights.

While checking in at the Charleston Airport, I had asked the airline clerk whether our 4 pieces of luggage were small enough to be carried on, and he had responded affirmatively. This sounded great to us. No hassle with waiting at the baggage claim carousel or worrying about it being lost, as happened a year ago. Everything was working out perfectly so far. And that in itself should have been a tip-off, but maybe, I thought to myself, God is making a deal with me. He’ll oblige me with one brief, shining moment of perfection, if I lighten up on Goose Creek and North Charleston in future articles. The plane would depart at 11 a.m. we’d be at LaGuardia by 1 p.m., at our nephew’s apartment by 1:45 p.m.; and out walking the teeming, colorful streets of the world’s greatest city by 2:15 p.m.

Of course, there is always a downside to these trips for me, anyway, since I don’t like to fly. Mainly, I hate the take-off and landing, and all that occurs in between. But despite these feelings, my spirits were still buoyed by the fact that I would be at our destination in 2 hours. And I concentrated on this goal, as we walked through the accordion-shaped tunnel that connects the terminal to the plane. We walked, as quickly as our luggage would allow, toward the end of the tunnel, and mentally prepared ourselves for the mandated cheeriness of the flight attendant / greeters who had, no doubt, already reached their optimal general public compatibility level several years ago.

But when we reached the other side of the tunnel, we were suddenly rendered speech and almost breakfast-less, at what we saw: There was no plane and there was light at the end of this tunnel, but we didn’t want it. What we did see was a long, steep flight of steps leading down to the tarmac, then about 100 yards away was a plane, and not a very impressive one, I might add. Although, thank God, it didn’t have propellers being wound by someone in World War I garb, it seemed scarily undersized (An analogy of 2 Toyota Camrys and a half a Tercel came to mind). Then, of course, there was the more immediate matter of negotiating the 1 foot wide stairway encumbered by our 300 pounds of luggage. Barbara, in fact, had to leave one of her piece at the top of the steps, while she carried the other down. Fortunately, a kindly male passenger took it for her, seeing that I couldn’t manage it along with the two I already had.

When we finally reached the tarmac, a place where I’ve never set foot before, and where I was all at once overcome with a desire to act out some 1940s war movie scene in which I would courageously but reluctantly leave a tearful Barbara, as I climbed into the cockpit of my Flying Tiger, perhaps never to be heard from again, we were approached by the baggage man, who told us that we would have to check in our luggage right then and there, there being room in the overhead compartment for only things like pocketbooks, or perhaps, I thought, a small plastic bomb or Anthrax vial, with my luck.

After a brief but heated discussion between Barbara and the baggage guy, over the fecklessness of his tagging system, we boarded “The Pride of Lilliputia Airlines” and were once more dumbfounded, this time by the incredibly cramped seating area: 2 seats on one side of the aisle and 1 on the other. I had heard the weather report for the day and there were 20 to 40 mph hour gusts forecasted. With an aircraft this puny, I thought, either we’ll be tossed about like balsa wood in a tornado or if the gusts are all southeasterly, maybe we’ll just get there 30 minutes early.

Once we got settled in and buckled up (God only knows how many thousands of lives have been saved by these miraculous devices when a zillion ton aircraft plunges into the Earth at 500mph), we actually took off without any difficulty, and I also felt more secure after having made my routine visual check of my fellow passengers to ascertain whether we had an overage of gravity-challenging lard-butts and found there were, indeed, none whatsoever.

I’m extremely pleased to announce that the flight was totally uneventful, and, in fact, maybe the gusts were pushing us, because we got to New York in 1 ½ hours.

Of course, when I say “uneventful,” I am not counting the usual petty but still aggravating idiosyncrasies of air travel that one simply takes in stride, the main one being the p.a. system. I can never understand what the captain is saying. It’s amazing that the airlines outfit their high tech, sophisticated flying machines with t same p.a. systems that the fast food restaurants use. Never do I hear what the pilots’ names are, and I usually only hear one or two words out of a sentence. It is out of terror, hoping not to hear broken-up sentences such as: “Land…Iraq…19 hours,” “Lunch box ticking,” “Mr. bin Laden…report…flight attendants’ station, “scared sh- -tless,” “Hands off my leg, you fairy,” “You’re kidding…you left…contact lenses at home too,” “Just exactly what is…death spiral anyway?” And one complete one: “Your celebrity guest pilots for the rest of the flight will be Robin Williams and a somewhat glassy-eyed Robert Downey, Jr.”

But, as I said, we reached NY in record time, plus we had a smooth flight, and both Barbara and I learned what an express flight is. Lastly, I have finally discovered—it took the flight back to accomplish it—that if you wear ear plugs, you will not be annoyed or terrorized by anything the pilot says.

And so I wait, with great alacrity, my next valuable lesson of life, which, for some reason, calls to mind that saying by Friedrich Nietzsche: “I sit at the gateway of fools and ask, ‘Who wisheth to deceive me?’”

Assholes on Asphalt

“May you flip over 13 times and your genitalia end up displacing the St. Christopher medal on your rear view mirror, you inconsiderate, self-centered son a diseased dugong.” Then the God-mollifying qualifier, “As long as you don’t take anybody with you, of course.” After all, I don’t want the Eternal Extraterrestrial Trooper to think I’m some sort of Mephistophelian maniac, but if one of these menacing morons can be removed from the roadways for a short while or a lot longer, think how much safer we the law-abiding drivers would be.

Such was my reaction to the 2005 Toyota Land Cruiser as it whipped in front of me, coming within one foot of my left, front bumper as it sped off to wreak terror-on-tires upon a helpless public. A somewhat typical day on the road for me, as I let loose my venom of enmity upon another reckless driver. Normally, a very calm and Gandhi-like individual, these outbursts of lethal invective, consisting of scalding curses, hexes, and bilious prayers shock my wife and even me at times.

At least, it’s only been verbal, so far. Thank the gods of Driverdom that I hven’t degenerated into a golf club wielding Jack Nicholson figure. Yet.

As a pre-emptive insurer against this frightening possibility, I have, in desperation, created a safe and subliminal method of releasing my highway hostility: “Asphalt Ad Hominems.” Small, but plainly visible hand-held signs (illuminated for night) with curses and personalized billingsgate, some custom-designed for the opposing driver, guaranteed to let him or her know how you not only feel about their “I’m king/queen of the road, make way for your motor vehicular betters” driving attitude, but even the less noxious ones with the annoying decals, license plates, or even the cars themselves. Allow me to present the following examples for your consideration:

Customized:
1. Guy in a Humvee limousine: “Wouldn’t Viagra have been a lot cheaper?”
2. Guy in an expensive car with dealer plate: “Quit living a lie. Be proud and drive your Gremlin.”
3. Pick-up truck with Confederate flag decals: “Fire if you’re from Ladson. Up in the air, please.”
4. Car with Bush/Cheney decal: “We just saw your IQ test results. You are forgiven.
5. Guy parked illegally in handicapped space: “I see you don’t have a handicapped sign. Would you like some help qualifying?”
6. Senior citizen with turn signal permanently blinking and driving 15mph: “Just wondering, when you take your car to the car wash, do you ask for the ‘old people fragrance’?”
7. “I see your child’s an honor student. Adopted?”
8. Cocky guy in a convertible: “Heyyy, p-ssy wagon. And driven by one.”
9. Woman in convertible: “Thought you might want to know that in SC it’s against—I mean ‘agin’—the law for you to drive with your top down.”
10. Woman with personalized license plate: “I am very happy, Muffie, that the Bmer belongs to you, but I’m saddened that your self-esteem depends on it.”

General:
1. May you find out your 14-year-old daughter purchased a personalized (read “used”) Bill O’Reilly loofah on eBay.
2. May you awake from your colonoscopy to see the O.R. nurse rewinding a ¾” garden hose.
3. May you be disqualified for “American Idol” because you’re only borderline retarded.
4. May your wife find lipstick on your dipstick.
5. May your daughter win first place in a Lyle Lovett look-alike contest.
6. May you be perplexed and perturbed why your (male) doctor paid you for your prostate exam.
7. Hey, I recognize you from that Burt Reynolds movie. Nice banjo playin’.
8. May you get the tragic news that your non-driving girlfriend was rear-ended.
9. I hear your sister works on Remount Road. Whorrendous!
10. That engine’s really blasting. Can I look under the hood? No, not that one, the one you’re wearing.

There you are. Feel free to use any or all of these, or create your own. My only caveat would be to have a very fast car.

Entrepreneurship After Death

December 1992

Entrepreneurship After Death
By Bob Coskrey

The recession is undoubtedly upon us. I saw a guy driving a BMW today using a rotary dial phone (rim shot). Let’s face it, we’re all going to have to find ways to cut back. In fact, my wife and I have agreed upon some mutually cost-saving, as well as money-producing, measures which you could also practice.

It has always vexed me that people spend so much money on funerals, so Barbara and I have made a pact to spend no more than $500 on each other’s internment. Barbara has not released any details of her cut-rate arrangements, but I am eager to share my ideas with anybody who’s willing to read them. The first step toward funeral frugality is simply not to contact a funeral home. Who needs them? Just buy some large—maybe eight gauge—trash bags and stick me in one. Just drop me in a hole in the backyard next to my two collies. They didn’t have all these elaborate amenities, and they were my best friends—so why should I? As you can see, my burial will not even cost $5.00, much less $500, and maybe not even $4.00 if you buy store brand trash bags.

Also, I don’t want any of my good suits to be wasted by burying me in them; in fact, not even my “yard shorts” should be wasted. Somebody else can use these clothes. Give them to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. On the other hand, if Barbara could locate my old leisure suit and my disco boots, she can dress me in them. That will not be a waste; for certainly, even the most desperate of the homeless would not be seen in these fashion horrors. And, since I will request that there be no viewing of the remains, my being eternally out of style will be of no consequence. (Incidentally, I have also requested that the word “remains” not ever be used in reference to my body, since unless I am run over by a riding mower or attend a smokers’ convention at Herbie’s Famous Fireworks, this term seems gruesomely inappropriate.)

On second thought I cannot be buried in my leisure suit, since it’s mostly polyester and I don’t think it’s biodegradable. Therefore, being ecologically conscious to the end, I will be buried in the nude, and once again, it will make no difference at all, since no one is going to be gawking at me and making statements like: “Eaww, disgusting, yet sad—at least they could have laid him on his stomach.”

Of course, is there is some way my wife can turn a profit on my demise, then I would be willing to make an initial posthumous investment. For instance, I could be hollowed out and stuffed with used Odor Eaters and potpourri bags. Barbara could sell me for a piece of New Age sculpture—maybe an atrium centerpiece—or put me in my yard shorts and display me as a sort of “Yard of the Living Dead” lawn ornament. Or better yet, dress me in a little jockey outfit, fun off some plaster copies and market me in the ghetto as “Lil’ Waspie.”

As long as I’m on the “death as a money-making enterprise” bent, let’s dispense with the usual morbid ceremonies and just have a yard sale which includes not only my belongings, but also my taxidermic carcass. List it in the classifieds section of the newspaper, not the obituaries. It should read: “Huge yard sale of belongings of dearly departed extensively unknown writer Bob Coskrey. Clothing, furniture, unpublished and/or rejected manuscripts. Large overstuffed chair with moderately stuffed and environmentally safe cadaver.”

The post-mortem financial opportunities are practically limitless. Barbara could have me disemboweled and “Swansonsized” (deboned), then inflate me with helium and sell me as the “Anatomically Correct (well, pretty damn close to it) Bob-Balloon.” As adults have been slow to discover, kids really enjoy some of the more grisly aspects of life anyway, so you can imagine the joy I would bring to some eight year old, as he trick-or-treats around the neighborhood, pulling my hovering hull on a long string.

She could also stuff me with acorns or soybeans or whatever they use to fill beanbag furniture and sell me as a “Bob-bag chair.” Actually, I think I’d prefer to be filled with cashews, though they’re a bit expensive, since I’ve always had a gustatory fantasy of stuffing myself to larynx level with these delightful kernels. Another fruitful idea would be to preserve me at normal body proportions but give me a slightly maniacal expression, then put me in a standing-up posture on wheels, with an exe in my hands. I could be marketed as a “Scare-Solicitor”—I could be rolled to the door whenever those annoying individuals show up pushing their wares (e.g. encyclopedias, make-up, penetrating anti-mime mace, “The Watch Tower”).

Lastly, I don’t want my friends, relatives or in-laws wasting money on expensive flowers. I would prefer a modest contribution to either of my favorite organizations: SSAP (the Society for the Spaying of All Politicians. Motto: “Don’t Pay ‘em!” Spay ‘em!”); or SCUM (Senders of Continually Unknown Manuscripts. Motto: “Rejection is the mother of frustration, but ineptitude is the mother of editing”).

So, as you can see, the death of a spouse does not have to be equated with completely unnecessary expenses. It costs enough for couples to live. Why should the survivor—a term ripe with multiple meaning—have to shell out vast sums of money just to dispose of the dearly departed non-survivor’s soulless pod, when by following any of the above suggestions he or she can not only avoid the sparse existence of widowerhood or widowhood, but even turn this lugubrious event into an economic bonanza.

Just ask yourself: “Would he/she have wanted it this way?”

Punxatawney Who?

February 1999
Punxatawney Who?
By Bob Coskrey

Everyone knows about the legend of the groundhog that emerges from is burrow every February. If it’s a sunny day and he’s scared by his shadow, he scampers back into his den and through some zoometeorological phenomenon, we have six more weeks of winter. If it’s a cloudy day and he does not see his shadow, and is not frightened by other unnatural phenomenon, such as cruel natured children carrying a picture of Linda Tripp or the eardrum imploding sounds emanating from a Kathy Lee Gifford Christmas special CD, then he stays outside and we have an early spring.

It is uncommon knowledge that before the people in Punxatawney, Pennsylvania, invented the town groundhog mascot, Punxatawney Phil, hoping to cash in on a major theme park built around the waddling wood chuck (that’s another name for a groundhog), Europeans had similar traditions involving other animals, such as bears, badgers, wolverines, and other furry fauna for hundreds of years. They would plan their seasonal planting based on these animals’ behavior, which probably, if they kept records, would prove to be as accurate as your local TV weatherman.

A prescription for disaster, if you ask me. What would happen should there be no shadow due to an eclipse of the sun or perhaps Janet Reno or Marlon Brando walking by? There would be an incorrect prediction, that’s what, and crops would die, possibly followed by people.

And why did they choose a groundhog, and not a more well known and attractive animal such as a bear, a fox, or a rabbit? Supposedly, we can blame those troublemaking Germans for this too, when they introduced the legend into Pennsylvania. And if we’re stuck with the groundhog, whey not use its cuter name, the wood chuck? At least there’s that little alliterative woodchuck riddle:

“How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

Which is superior to:

“How much ground would a groundhog hog, if a groundhog could hog ground?”
Unfortunately, in this part of the country, the woodchuck/groundhog doesn’t even exist, so we, in essence, have no legendary creature to perform a yearly world renowned prognostication event. But that, of course, doesn’t mean we can’t have one.

First, I have a suggestion for us East Cooperites. The legend of the East Cooper Black Labrador Retriever: Each February, we select, at random, a typical East Cooper resident’s home and observe its 2,500 foot dock erection plunged into moistness of the yielding, virgin marsh. If the owners’ black lab bounds onto the dock with a red bandana around its neck, spring will come early, new home building and property values will grow threefold, banks will outnumber trees (since money grows in the former, no on the latter), most 14 year olds will get a Landrover for their birthdays, and a palpable scent of smugness will continue to permeate the salty air.

If the bandana is any other color, spring will be 6 weeks later, new home building and property values wil show a humiliating 50% increase, the bank to resident ratio will remain at a troubling 1 to 5, most 14 year olds will endure the indignity of receiving a Volvo station wagon for their birthdays, and the palpable scent of smugness will only be noticeable during the Boone Hall Oyster Festival.

The city of Charleston could flaunt its Charleston Butterfly (a.k.a. Palmetto Bug or Flying Cockroach). Each February a random Below Broad home is selected. That night, a two pound benne seed cookie is left on the kitchen floor and the light is turned off. Fifteen minutes later, the light is flipped back on. If the cockroach (it is a given that one will be there) is observed dragging the cookie, it is captured, its wings are painted the colors of a butterfly, it is released from St. Michael’s belltower, and there will be 6 more weeks of winter, thus postponing the dreaded annual tourist stampede.

If the roach simply bypasses the cookie and scampers away, it is hunted down and swatted flat, with an old rolled-up Beasley for Governor poster (picture side down), its remains are symbolically donated to the Taste of Goose Creek Festival, and we will have an early spring, initiated by the annual Flip-flop Wearers’ Convention.

Last, but definitely not least, Myrtle Beach would introduce its legend of the Horry County Shag Beetle, a hardy insect that curiously makes its home only in the windmill hole of putt-putt golf courses. If the beetle emerges from his hazardous habitat and does its famous shag dance, there will be an early spring, heralded by a record number of Canadian visitors, Myrtle Beach will be named an honorary province (Sastackiwan), and the city will become the yearly site of the Elvis Impersonator Convention.

If the dithyrambic creature scurries from its at-risk abode and is squashed lifeless by a disoriented duffer’s drive, there will be 6 more weeks of cold weather, vanguarded by the persistent Canadian tourists, all of whom will be named honorary Myrtle Beachers, also qualifying them for permanent Ugly American status abroad, and the city will become the annual site of the Gayest Guy on the Grand Strand competition (also known as the Richard Simmons Look-alike Contest).

So you see, every community, if it is just a little creative and a lot determined, can have its own special annual prognosticator event, insuring it unending publicity and tons of tourist dollars.

If I may ad just one more thought, don’t be timid about self-promotion. Believe me, this self-respect thing is vastly overrated. Just ask a politician.