The Gates of Heck

I thought he was joking.

My coworker, that is.

He was telling me about this electronic device that he wanted for Christmas.  Was hoping that his wife would buy it for him.  Could not wait to unwrap it on Christmas day.

I was kinda sort listening - not really paying that much attention.  I supposed that he was hoping for a DVD player, or maybe a VCR (this being the South, and therefore a tad behind the times) or maybe even an Electronic Fish Finder (this being the one thing that they stay on top of the latest electronic advances in around here).

Therefore, I was a bit surprised when he told me he was hoping to receive some device called 'The Guardian'.  Never heard of it.

"The Guardian?  What the heck is that?" I asked innocently.

Turns out that the "TV Guardian" is an electronic box that hooks to your TV or cable box or DVD or VCR player and purports to remove offensive words.  They even have an option to remove words that in themselves are not obscene, but might be offensive to some people, like the word "God" or "Jesus."  It will even remove dirty words from the closed-captioning devices that make the words scroll across the bottom of your screen if you're deaf or something.

I thought he was joking.  There's no such thing!

Ah, but there is:

http://www.tvforfamilies.com/index.htm

It's a f@$*%n shame! BECOMES It's a shame!
Move your a%#! BECOMES Move your tail!
She's such a b%&@#! BECOMES She's such a nag!
That's b#%*s#%@! BECOMES That's baloney!
Did you two have s@x? BECOMES Did you two have hugs?
J#%&s, you scared me! BECOMES You scared me!
F%!@ you, a&$#%!#! BECOMES Go away, jerk!
Oh, s#!%! BECOMES Oh, crud!

I started laughing, which I think offended him slightly.  I mean, give me a break!  OK, I'm not offended by most dirty words.  As a former Jarhead, I've probably said most of them myself, and more besides.  I used to pride myself on my extensive knowledge of vulgar and insulting statements in other languages besides English!  But I can understand how someone could be offended by foul language.  And turn the channel.  Or turn off the TV.  Whatever.  But a foul-language zapper?

I started going on about this thing - what would it do if you turned to MTV or VH1 when they were doing a rap marathon?  "Dang, dang, dang, dang, dang, dang, dang" until its little electronic brain fried!

Then my coworker's neighbors started coming over.  Seems they all had heard of the TV Guardian.  They either wanted one - or they already had one.  A couple of them had never heard of it - but now that they had, they wanted one too.  My coworker was handing out the URL with gusto.

Turns out I'm the only one who DOESN'T want to own the TV Guardian.  I'm the ONLY ONE of my coworkers who isn't shocked or offended if someone says "Jesus Christ" in my general vicinity.

I was telling them about once when I was a kid - my parents gave me permission to go to some Bible camp by a Baptist neighbor of mine (we're Catholic).  I was very young, I didn't really understand the difference between Baptist and Catholic, etc.  All I remembered was the bus driver was playing music on the radio while we drove - but everytime an 'objectionable' word was sung, he reached over and changed the station.  We never heard a single song all the way through - and this was AM radio in the 1960's (WLS out of Chicago)!  He spent more time switching stations than he did driving the bus!  I told my coworkers this - not one of them laughed.  They didn't think it was funny - they thought it was NORMAL.

Uh-oh.

I think I'm in trouble here.

Best,

Wigwam 'Help Me, Jeebus' Jones

U.N. Undersecretary-General Jan Egeland: A Wedgie for You

According to the Washington Times, U.N. Undersecretary-General for Humanitarian Affairs Jan Egeland said that rich countries (read: USA) are not ponying up their fair share in humanitarian aid for the tsunami crisis which just occurred.

He suggested that the USA is "stingy" and he said that the USA needs to raise taxes to be able to give more aid - and that US taxpayers WANT to have their taxes raised and to contribute more to world relief aid.

Where to start? OK, here goes a typical Wiggy rant...

We don't want our taxes raised, assbag.

We are already the number one largest contributer to just about every international relief effort that exists, and have been since WWII, which you might recall, the world BEGGED us to get involved in - and when we did, we kicked ass all across Europe and the Pacific and then we gave Germany and Japan BACK to their respective governments, remember? The USSR didn't, we did. We're so evil.

As a non-US citizen, Mister Egeland, you need to shut your pie-hole, you rubbish. You don't know what US taxpayers want, nor do you speak for us. You are incorrect that the US doesn't pony up our fair share of international aid. And you know what else? Kiss my ass. Right up in the groove, baby. Get a faceful.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of you and the world hating us. You know what? Hate us. I'm not a nationalist, but I'm not going to apologize for being an American.

I'm tired of the world hating us and then complaining that we don't do enough for them. You know what, Mister Egeland? Stop wearing jeans and buying freaking McDonald's hamburgers, you slag.

You want our money - but not us.

You want us to lend a helping hand wherever you think we're needed, but not where we think we're needed. You want our cash, but only if you can dictate the manner and amount in which it is delivered.

We Americans do lots of things wrong. Our government does lots of things wrong, too. We try to do the right thing, but sometimes we fail. We do care about how the world sees us; but we have no plans to live our lives the way YOU, Mister Egeland, think we should.

Wedgie for you, boyo.

Always,

Wiggy

Snow in North Carolina

I hope you know that to my way of thinking, one of the pleasant benefits of moving to the South is that there is seldom any snow, and therefore seldom any snow to shovel. I want you to understand this now, so that when I begin to curse and foam at the mouth later on, there won't be any misunderstanding as to what I'm on about.

Now, Mrs. Wiggy is of a different persuasion than I am vis-a-vis frozen precipitation. You see, she was born and raised in New York, where they get a lot of the stuff. Having lived in New Mexico for five or six years prior to us meeting up and getting hitched, she had come to associate snow with all things fondly remembered. She hoped for snow, she pined for snow, she thought snow. And although it seldom snows in Albuquerque, New Mexico, it does sometimes dump a few inches. We lived in an apartment then, and frankly, I didn't care much if it snowed - as long as Mrs. Wiggy was happy and I didn't have to shovel it. "Yes, dear, pretty snow. Look at the nice man with the snowblower, he seems happy. Where's my coffee?"

And then we up and moved to North Carolina. Hot and humid, that's their M.O. around here. Snow? Nah. Ice storms, maybe, couple of times in the past ten years. Power out all over, tree limbs down, that sort of stuff. Not big on snow - at least not in the Triangle. The western side, sure. Asheville regularly gets a ton of snow, but they're snuggled into the heart of the Smoky mountains, so they pretty much deserve it. Here east of Raleigh, we're mostly snowless.

And so it was on Christmas Day - a fine day, a fine Christmas, but not a speck of snow anywhere. Not even cold enough, which was just fine with me. Not Mrs. Wiggy. She wanted a White Christmas. I wanted a teenage Swedish cheerleader, but like the man said, we can't always get what we want, eh? Ah, her relatives back home had to tell her how nice it was with a foot and a half of white stuff on the ground, more falling by the minute. My relatives in Wisconsin and North Dakota got into the act; "Ya, sure, 20 degrees below zero, dont'cha know?" I just grinned into my Bailey's and coffee - no snow here, that's for sure. And ol' Wiggy is happy fat bastard.

And so, we woke up this morning to the sound of plastic rattling. Sounded like one of the cats had found a stray piece of cellophane wrapping from Christmas and was making a joyful noise unto the Lord. Ah, but it would not stop. It went on and on. Finally, Mrs. Wiggy got up to take said piece of trash away from bad kitty. But you know what it was, don't you? Yes. Ugly, ugly, snow. Lots o' snow. Banging against the windows. Snow up the wazoo. Snow in North Freakin' Carolina. The day AFTER Christmas. Seems a danged old snow storm had gotten lost on the way to New York and decided to visit some friends below the Mason-Dixon line. Stupid snow storm.

Oh well, I thought. This isn't so bad. There's just enough of it - the TV news critters are telling people to stay away from the 50% off After Christmas Sales, which Mrs. Wiggy had been planning to attend with gusto in one hand and our credit cards in the other. Ah, perhaps this snow has a bright side! The TV news critters said to stay inside, it was going to pass over us very quickly - heading for New York where it belonged. Be gone by noon. And our credit may remain intact, more or less. What's not to like?

It is a wonder that more TV weather people aren't killed outright, even skinned and hung on barns as a grim reminder of how not nice it is to lie to people like that. The snow came down in buckets - about 4 inches where we're at. And it alternated from snow to ice crystals to sleet to a kind of freezing drizzle. Very nice. The weatherman said that we needed to shovel our walks and driveways, and brush the snow off of our cars - the storm was going to squat on us for awhile, and then freeze solid. Tomorrow, everything will be block of solid ice. Oh, now isn't that special!

So, since we moved here in June or thereabouts, and we have never owned a house before, we've never owned a snow shovel or anything like that. So off we go to the local hardware store to purchase a snow shovel and some weird chemicals to spinkle on the sidewalks like a magic ward against slip-n-fall lawsuits. We obtain same. Gave Mrs. Wiggy an opportunity to try the Jeep Cherokee with four-wheel-drive engaged - much fun was had by all.

Ah, but with the return home, the fun ended for your hero Wiggy. Yer Wigster has fortunately been off the cigarettes for nearly six months, or let me tell you, my friends, he would have expired halfway through this rubbish.

Which brings me to another point. Never having owned a house before, I had no idea where to stop shoveling the sidewalk. I mean, sure I could just stop more or less where my property line ends. I mean, there is no real reason for me to shovel someone else's walk, right? Just shovel like I would mow my lawn - up to the edge of mine, and the neighbor does his, right? Hmmm.

But wait. Doesn't that seem a bit un-neighborly? Even a tiny bit hostile? I mean, it's kind of like saying to the poor fellow, "Hey jerk-wad! Get out here and shovel your freaking walk! Now that I've done mine, you look like a fat lazy bastard for not doing yours, so get to it!" Yes, that's kind of how it feels. And it feels very selfish, too.

But hang on, if I just shovel mine and then shovel a bit of his into the bargain, where do I stop? A couple of feet? Why not just do the whole thing? And of course, if I do the whole thing, isn't that like me telling the world that I think my neighbor's got no testicles? He's not a man, I have to shovel his damned sidewalk for him. Pay no attention to that guy, he's got no gonads! What if his wife is watching? And she's like "Hey! That asshole next door is shoveling our walk! Who does he think he is? Does he think you're not man enough to do it yourself? What, is he trying to make fun of you? Get out there and punch him in his fat face, the bastard!"

Ah, to hell with it. I shoveled the walk halfway. Let him keep one testicle, anyway. Poor bastard, with a wife like that, he needs all the help he can get.

So, I'm out there shoveling away, and my lower back is on fire and I'm getting blisters for God's sake. This is a nice Christmas gift. I'll be popping Advil like they were Pez candy and drinking Jack Daniels to sooth my aching back, and I'm supposed to agree with my wife that snow is dandy thing altogether.

White Chistmas, my fat ass. I see that Santa Claus character, he's getting debagged and radished, on the spot.

Keep yer stick on the ice,

Wiggy

So, it's nearly Christmas...

And the wife had me help her in the kitchen. She feeds me on a daily basis, there is really no way I could get out of it.

We're decorating giant pretzel sticks with chocolate and frostings of many colors. This is both artistic and a loving gift for friends - from the heart, don't ya know, instead of being store-bought.

Mrs. Wiggy gave me the task of applying the candy colors to the chocolate-dipped pretzel sticks. She thought there was no real way to do it wrong. Ha!

I am apparently the Ralph Steadman of confectionary. I tell her "Chicks in New York pay top dollar for this stuff. It's [i]avante garde[/i]!" I have decorated the counter, my shirt, and some parts of a nearby cat. I have candy confection in my eye. She is not buying it, and I am getting the hairy eyeball of doom.

I retreat to the Jack Daniels and trying to clean a stubborn Zeiss Ikon Contina IIa Novicar lens. I think I shall put on a Roches CD and daydream about snow.

The kitchen is once again her domain.

And a Merry Christmas to you, too.

Best,

Wiggy

Office Christmas Trees & Assorted Debris

Got back to work today after some serious time off (went to Boston on the train, more on that later).

Found a Christmas Tree had been erected in the center of the office.  It plays music and revolves.  Fer cryin' out loud.

I need a hatchet.  And a set of earplugs.

Argh.

Season's Greetings,

Wigwam Jones