In my capacity as Mrs. Movie Lady, the lady who “tells it like it is” at MrsMovieLady.com and on Topeka radio station KPZX-FM, I see literally dozens of movies a year. And at the end of the year, I get to tell you which ones were the very best. So don’t miss any of these classics! Many of them are now available on VHS.

Francine Pickens’ (aka Mrs. Movie Lady) Top 10 Movies of 2004

10. “Connie and Carla” Nia Vardalos, fresh off the success of “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” (which you’ll recall I declared to be the best movie of 2002), slam dunks another home run with this hilarious caper about two women who dress up as men and become cabaret singers! But it’s not a “drag,” if you know what I mean. It’s really great! Connie you imagine a funnier movie than this one? Carla all your friends on the phone and tell them about it!

9. “The Village” Good Night, Mr. Shyamalan! Who’d have thought after “The Sixth Sense,” “Unbreakable” and “Signs” that you’d come up with ANOTHER brilliant idea for a movie? What do you need to have thrills, chills and shocking twists? It takes a “Village”!

8. (tie) “First Daughter” and “Chasing Liberty” Move over, Bush twins! Both of these movies are about the president’s daughter getting into mischief, and since I can’t tell them apart, I decided to include them BOTH on the list! Hilary Duff, who simply cannot be duff-eated at the box office, starred in one, and if she isn’t the Next Big Thing, then I don’t know who the Next Big Thing is, nor what Hilary Duff is instead! Both movies earn the Mrs. Movie Lady presidential seal of approval. Hail to these chiefs!

7. “De-Lovely” You can keep your movies about Ray Charles and Bobby Darin. I’ll take this biography of Cole Porter any day! Who knew Kevin Kline could sing and play the piano? And who knew the guy who wrote the musical “Kiss Me, Kate” only had one leg for part of the time? A lump of “Cole” in your stocking if you didn’t like this de-licious, de-lightful de-tribute to one of America’s greatest slightly gay men!

6. “Christmas with the Kranks” I’ve seen the colorized version of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” but it didn’t make me laugh nearly as much as this modern classic. It Kranks right up there with the remake of “Miracle on 34th Street” in my book! Tim Allen and Jamie Lee Curtis should leave their respective spouses and marry each other, because their chemistry together is perfect!

5. “The Day After Tomorrow” You want action, adventure, excitement and romance? You can’t have it now; you’ll have to take it “The Day After Tomorrow.” (Just kidding. You can have it now.)

4. (tie) “Catwoman” and “Garfield: The Movie” If you’d told me at the beginning of the year that two of my favorite films would be about cats, I’d have thought you were crazy! (Sorry to be blunt, that’s just me telling it like it is!) But sure enough, both of these movies — one about a sexy vixen who fights crime, the other starring Halle Berry — are purrr-fect. Bill Murray as the voice of Garfield: Who knew he could do comedy so well?

3. “Wimbledon” This movie is about “love” — and I mean the tennis term “love,” not the word that means liking someone a lot! Although it is about that, too. The main character is played by Paul Bettany, and I’m bettin’ ‘e could get any lady he wants with his charming good looks. And as for his co-star Kirsten Dunst, I’m not done st-aring at how gorgeous she is! Game, set, match, “Wimbledon” “nets” my vote for the year’s best romantic comedy — and I’m not just saying that to make a “racket”!

2. “Shall We Dance” Richard Gere is gere-ate, as usual, as a man who considers cheating on his wife with Jennifer Lopez. Cheating is wrong, gentlemen, but who wouldn’t want to do the tango with Ms. Lopez?! Some say she shouldn’t be in movies, but I say there’s ALWAYS room for J-Lo, especially in a movie about ballroom dancing. You can’t “cha-cha-“change my mind on this one: If these “waltz” could talk, they’d tell you that “Shall We Dance” fox trots all the way to No. 2 on my list.

1. “National Treasure” When was the last time you went to the movies and not just had a great time, but also learned something? “National Treasure” gives us excitement and thrills as Nicolas Cage — can I call him St. Nicolas, because he’s always giving us the gift of great movies? — and a pretty lady try to save the Declaration of Independence from bad guys. But it also teaches us some interesting facts about the Founding Fathers, such as where they hid their gold. I’d pay my last nickel and become “Nicolas” just to see “National Treasure.” This is one movie that lives up to its title!

Salt Lake City gave us a nice gift this year, with free parking downtown during the holiday shopping season. The parking meters were covered with festive green bags tied with red ribbons, with the bags bearing the words “Free Parking” and “Two Hour Limit” — a gift accompanied by an admonition, in other words. I pictured the city saying in a merry voice, “Free parking!” And then, narrowing its eyes and lowering its voice ominously, “Two-hour limit …”

Parking in a big city is a hot commodity year-round, and Salt Lake is no exception. Only the lucky businesses have parking lots; everyone else has to let their customers fight it out on the street. I have noticed, though, that some of the establishments that most ardently defend their parking lot real estate are the ones that don’t actually need it — a sort of Little Man’s Syndrome for businesses.

For example, I live near a hotel called Renaissance Suites, which I guess means they offer jousting and yearly baths. The hotel is adjacent to the Marriott Residence Inn, and the two hotels share about 60 parking spaces, including a row of 20 that are never occupied. These spaces could conveniently be used by tenants of the apartment complex that lies next to them, except that the Renaissance Suites vehemently guards the spaces, ensuring that they remain available for use only by their own guests — the guests who never materialize, apparently, since there’s never anyone parked in those spots. (Never.)

If you do park there, you are in for a life of sorrow, my friend. Renaissance Suites has contracted a towing company to put a boot on any vehicle parked there without a permit. The fact that they are using boots is evidence enough that the hotel doesn’t actually need those spaces. If it did need them, it would have the cars towed out of the way, rather than putting boots on them, which merely forces the cars to occupy the spots even longer. Booting is a vindictive, punitive practice, one of the most evil inventions of the 20th century, up there with emoticons and karaoke.

Several blocks away, there is a place called Salt Lake Coffee Break, a hipster little establishment where the bohemian kids go to sip beverages, browse illegible underground publications, and post notices regarding their need for a drummer. Coffee Break has a scant 10 parking spaces out back, plus another four that become available after 4 p.m, when the financiers in the adjacent office go home.

On the other side of Coffee Break, however, is Arby’s, which has a total of 54 parking spaces. Now, you and I both know that neither this Arby’s nor any other Arby’s has ever had more than eight people inside at one time, and that many of those arrived in the same group-home van or shuffled in from the same bus station. Arby’s does not need 54 parking spaces. But if you go to Salt Lake Coffee Break and park in the Arby’s lot, you will be towed. Coffee Break has even put up signs, presumably at its own expense, warning its customers that Arby’s is serious about its “don’t park here unless you’re going to Arby’s” stance. Consequently, on any given day you can find about 40 empty spots behind Arby’s, with another lot beyond that — which allows Coffee Break patrons — jammed full.

My theory is that these businesses are self-conscious about their lack of patrons and don’t wish to concede the point. The towing companies are like a mobster’s hired goons, paid to ensure no one disrespects the boss by implying he doesn’t need so many parking spaces. What can we do, fellow citizens? Well, we can go complain to City Hall, but we’ll have to do it in less than two hours.

Ah, memories. As we draw to the close of another year (2004, specifically), let us saunter through the stacks of “Snide Remarks” columns that have graced the Internet since the column began its new life on March 8. Enjoy these highlights, won’t you?

On getting fired:
When I lost my job, I knew my savings would run out soon. Probably within the hour, in fact, because my savings consisted of 50 cents, and I needed a candy bar. (March 8)

On my previous roommates:
One moved out in the dark of night without telling me; he left the key on the upper shelf of a cupboard to ensure I wouldn’t find it and realize his departure for at least a few days; I never heard from him again. One disappeared altogether for two months, leaving behind his pet tarantula, a creature which can apparently survive without food for at least two months, since I sure as H. wasn’t going near it. One otherwise well-bred fellow occasionally sat shirtless on the couch drinking beer from a bottle, as if our couch were located in a trailer park. (April 5)

On Portland, Ore.:
I’ve been to Portland several times to visit friends, and each time I go, I am reminded of what a great city it is. And when I say I am reminded, I mean verbally, hundreds of times, by the locals, who ramble on constantly about what a great city it is. All the time an outsider spends in Portland is occupied with listening to natives extol its virtues, as if they are all trained Portland representatives who get a commission if they convince you to move there. I assume that if I did finally cave in and relocate to the Northwest, the hard-sell would cease and Portlanders would finally talk about something else. (Like how they hate all these outsiders moving in, probably.) (April 12)

On having babies:
It is my understanding that childbirth is an extraordinarily painful process, which is no surprise, given that it consists of reaching inside a person and pulling another person out of her. I can’t think of any 8-pound section of me that I would let you remove unless you first gave me enough drugs to kill me. (April 19)

On building my own shelves for my condo:
Needless to say, these were the most dubious, improbable shelves ever built. They creaked and wobbled every time I touched them, or didn’t touch them. There were spots in the wall where you could see several holes next to each other, false starts where I’d misjudged the location of the stud and had to try again; these series of holes made it look like I’d been shot at with a machine gun. I was wildly suspicious of the shelves, bordering on paranoia, confident they would collapse at any moment, until finally one day they did. One of the shelves overpowered its supporting brackets, fell onto the shelf beneath it, and took it and all of its contents down. This was known as the Great Shelf Disaster of 2003, and my ego and a bag of cookies were crushed in the fracas. (April 26)

On the trend toward obesity:
Fat, fat, fat. That’s all anyone talks about anymore. Americans are all fat, and they need to be less fat, and being fat will kill you, and blah blah blah fat fat fat. I get so tired of hearing about fat that it makes me want to get as fat as I possibly can, just out of spite, and also laziness. (May 10)

On “Troy”:
It was reported that Brad Pitt tore his Achilles tendon while playing Achilles in the film “Troy.” You don’t even want to KNOW what happened to the guy who plays Buttocks. (May 17)

On my filthy South American roommate:
Has news of the existence of bacteria not reached Argentina? Or has it simply not reached Raoul? The most alarming thing is that Raoul loves to cook and hopes to become a chef one day. Obviously, I will not be dining at Raoul’s House of Botulism, or whatever he calls his restaurant. It will probably only be able to open at all because the health officials who inspect it will have died before they could file their reports. (May 24)

On futons:
I don’t know who invented the futon, but it was obviously someone who has never slept and who hates people. An insomniac Nazi, maybe. The futon that sits in the guest bedroom at my parents’ house has a gridwork of steel bars for a foundation, with a paper-thin mattress on top of it. It is a poor idea to begin with, and it is poorly executed. Bed : futon :: La-Z-Boy recliner : electric chair. (June 14)

On sharing a bathroom with my two sisters:
I have two sisters living at home, and they both have very long hair, almost down to their respective butts. I regard their hair as beautiful; however, I have discovered that its beauty is limited to the time that it is affixed to their heads. Once it has been jettisoned, the individual hair strands become ghastly and terrifying, and a den of them occupies the upstairs shower. They are willful, eel-like creatures that lurk quietly on the wall of the shower, waiting to attach themselves to any passing object. I find myself showering gingerly, trying not to disturb the hairs’ slumber, similar to how one would tiptoe through a cave full of bats. But inevitably I arouse their fury and become entangled, lost in the grip of two-foot strands of discarded hair. (June 14)

On moving from Orem to Salt Lake City:
Out-of-state readers may not recognize the significance in this move, so I will explain it in clear, lucid terms: Orem is in a place called “Utah Valley,” and Utah Valley does a thing called “suck.” (June 28)

On my DSL service:
Thanks to further advancements in Qwest’s ongoing commitment to incompetence, I was recently without DSL service for three days. Qwest’s explanation for the disruption was, “we r dum we dont no how 2 do stuf cuz we are 2 stupd lololololol w00t!,” followed by a fart noise. And that was after I asked to speak to a supervisor. (July 19)

On the ubiquitousness of the Internet:
Reuters reports that 75 percent of Americans above the age of 2 who live in homes with phone lines have Internet access. (Infants and hillbillies remain the two toughest demographics to reach.) (July 19)

On a county fair entertainer called Toot Toot the Karaoke Clown:
I am not certain what drives a man to become a karaoke clown, given that everyone hates karaoke and everyone also hates clowns. Did Toot Toot sit in his mobile home thinking, “I don’t just want to be something people hate; I want to be TWO things people hate”? What other combinations did he consider before arriving at karaoke clown? Tax-collector mime? Redheaded Nazi? Telemarketer John Mayer? (Aug. 23)

On being asked to come up with a bedtime story for my friend’s children:
Claire told me they like their bedtime stories to center around pirates and, if possible, bubble gum. These seemed like reasonable demands; Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote “The Scarlet Letter” under precisely the same strictures. And if I’m not as able a storyteller as Nathaniel Hawthorne, then I don’t know what I am. (Aug. 30)

On Madonna’s children’s book:
While at the library, I noticed a book called “Mr. Peabody’s Apples,” written by Madonna. At first I assumed it was a dirty book, since it was written by Madonna and since it was called “Mr. Peabody’s Apples.” (Aug. 30)

On the summer’s comic-book movies:
The two highest-profile ones were “Spider-Man 2” and “Catwoman.” One featured a campy hero in tight-fitting clothing who appealed to gay men, while the other featured a campy hero in tight-fitting clothing who appealed to gay men AND lesbians. “Spider-Man 2” was hailed for its humanity and universal themes, serving as a cautionary tale against the dangers of fusing mechanical arms to your spine as a means of creating fusion. “Catwoman,” meanwhile, sucked. (Sept. 6)

On my new roommate:
Greg does not have the word “stuff” in his vocabulary. Instead, he has the word “s***.” He tosses “s***” around very casually, in sentences such as, “I’ve been here two weeks, and I’m still unpacking my s***,” and “No, this seat’s not taken, let me just move my s***.” Normally, I dislike that word a lot, but I’ve discovered it doesn’t bother me so much when it’s used non-swearingly. The best usage came when I told him about Josh Hartnett’s unsettling unibrow in “Wicker Park,” and Greg said, “Geez, someone should have told him to pluck that s***.” (Note: I assume Greg does have “stuff” in his vocabulary when used as a verb. That is, I’m pretty sure he would say, “We need to stuff the turkey for Thanksgiving” rather than “We need to s*** the turkey for Thanksgiving.” But I’ll let you know for sure in November.) (Sept. 13)

The Least Funny Things in the World:
1. Bazooka Joe comics
2. birth defects
3. Jay Leno
4. your mom dying
5. Al Franken
6. one-legged puppies
7. award-show jokes
8. Bob Hope (pre-death)
9. Bob Hope (post-death)
10. your dad dying
(Sept. 20)

On UVSC’s speaking invitation to Michael Moore:
Now that the student government has made the commitment, UVSC authorities are scrambling to put a good spin on it, all the while cursing themselves for letting students — UVSC students, at that! — be in charge of booking speakers. Apparently, last year’s visit from SpongeBob SquarePants taught them nothing. (Sept. 27)

On Michael Moore’s appearance:
Do you suppose Moore will dress nicely, or shave his big sweaty face when he shows up to address UVSC for $50,000? No, he’ll probably look like he always does, like one of those sweepstakes winners you see on TV who were caught off-guard by the Prize Patrol van. He always looks like he didn’t know he was going to be out in public that day, like he only wore his grubbies because he thought he would just be out working in the yard, and then somehow he accidentally wound up at the Academy Awards. I swear, he makes Peter Jackson look like Cary Grant. (Sept. 27)

On Las Vegas:
When you think of Las Vegas, you think of garish lights, smoky casinos, and mid-priced whores. But Las Vegas is so much more than that. It is also unreasonable heat, big-haired trailer trash and over-hyped shows featuring fey, tiger-loving magicians, creepy French acrobats or men who are painted blue. (Oct. 4)

On British slang:
“Ten Little Indians” was originally called “Ten Little N******,” “n*****” being what the British called people from India in those days. How a nation of snaggle-toothed inbreds gets off slurring other races is beyond me. (Oct. 4)

On parking:
I hate paying for parking. You give money to someone, and what do you get in return? Nothing. You hand the money over, park your car, and leave the scene, usually to go spend more money somewhere else. All you’re paying for is the right to not drive your car for a while. Well, it’s your car! You should be able to not drive it whenever you want. (Oct. 11)

On greeting people:
I think it would be fun to greet everyone the way you greet a dog, rubbing the person’s head and saying (if his name is Bob), “Who’s a good boy?! Is Bob a good boy?! Yes he is! Yes he is! Who’s a good boy?!” Let’s start this trend. You first. (Oct. 18)

On “Saving Private Ryan”:
At first I thought all the uproar last week wasn’t because ABC aired “Saving Private Ryan,” but because it aired “Shaving Ryan’s Privates.” Then I realized I didn’t really think that, and I just wanted to make that joke. Then I was deeply ashamed. (Nov. 22)

Welcome back to The Delilah Show. I hope you’re enjoying the holiday season. Maybe you’re rushing around getting some last-minute shopping done. Or maybe you’re relaxing at home with the kids. Or maybe you’re getting ready to have some friends over for an evening of caroling and binge eating. Whatever you’re doing, I’m glad you’re sharing it with us tonight.

I know Christmas can be a hectic time of year. It seems like every year, my pride and joy, my special daughter Ruth, just wants more and more toys! Isn’t that how it always is? Parents, you know what I’m talking about. But still, we love the little angels, even though they cause us so many headaches, because they’re all so special. Every one of those headaches is like a special gift from heaven.

This week I got a special letter from a listener named Samantha in Dallas. She writes, “Dear Delilah, I’m hoping you will play a special song for me during your show because I am going through a rough time. My father recently passed away after a long illness, and I’m afraid this holiday season just won’t be the same without him. Can you lift my spirits, Delilah? Signed, Samantha.”

Samantha, I would be glad to play a special song for you during this time of sadness.

[plays song]

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful!
And since we’ve no place to go,
Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!”

You’re listening to Delilah, on [pre-recorded tape of Delilah saying local station’s name]!

[commercial break]

Welcome back to Delilah. I’m glad you’ve joined us tonight. Maybe there’s someone you love who can’t be with you this Christmas season. Maybe you’ve recently lost someone. Maybe, like me, you’ve been drinking since 3 o’clock this afternoon and everything just seems a little fuzzy. Whatever the case, I’m glad you’ve tuned in so we can all spend this special time of year together.

Carol is on the phone from Knoxville, Tennessee. Carol, tell us your story.

Well, Delilah, the light and joy in my life is my little boy Rodney. He’s 5 years old, and he was born without a neck. His little head just attaches right to his little shoulders. He’s so special, and he absolutely means the world to me!

Carol, I know just how you feel. My precious little sweet angel Ruth is the love of my life, except when she doesn’t mind me when I tell her to clean up her room or to pour Mommy another drink. Then I just want to take her little neck, which she does have, and — but anyway, we’ll play a special song for you and your special little neck-less boy.

[plays song]

“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock,
Jingle bell swing and jingle bells ring.
Snowin’ and blowin’ up bushels of fun;
Now the jingle hop has begun!”

You’re listening to Deloolah, on [pre-recorded tape of Delilah saying local station’s name]!

[commercial break]

Welcome shmack to the shmow. If you’re joining us tonight, thanks. Maybe Christmas is a sad time for you. Maybe you don’t have any family nearby. Maybe your dad died while climbing down the chimney, like that girl’s dad in “Gremlins” did. Maybe you’re some kind of Jew or something. Whatever the reason for being sad, I’m glad you’re sad, and I’m glad you’re here tonight, to get all cozy with the Christmas songs and to hear everybody’s special stories and to roll around naked. Wheee! I don’t have any clothes on right now, because I’m Delilah, and I’m listening to Delilah, on [“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock”].

I have a special listener named special Ruth on the special phone. Ruth, go ahead and say what’s on your mind.

Mommy, it’s me, Ruth. Daddy called and said you sound funny on the radio again, and he’s glad he gets me for Christmas and not you, and I’m glad too, because Daddy and new mommy Amber are more fun, and plus you never get out of bed, even on Christmas, and–

[pre-recorded tape of Delilah saying local station’s name]

Ruth, thanks for your call. I’ll play a special song for you and your special father and his special thunder-tramp of a girlfriend.

[plays song]

“Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and child,
Holy infant, so tender and mild.
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.”

Sorry, that was the wrong song. That should have been for Susan in Oklahoma City, a single mother who just had a baby. I can’t find the song for my ex-husband, because I think maybe Amber ate it. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha cough cough cough. Man, I’m thirsty.

[commercial break]

— and so I said, “Why don’t you show me YOUR license and registration, OFFICER?!” What? Oh! Welcome back to the Delilah Show. Maybe you’re sitting at home by a nice, warm dog. Or maybe you’re in your car, upside-down in a ditch, waiting for help to come. Or maybe you’re in the emergency room, giving birth to an ungrateful child and wanting more morphine. Whatever your deal is, I’m glad you’re sharing it with us. And if you have any vodka, I hope you’ll share that with us, too. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha cough cough vomit.

I have a note here from my producer, and it says, “Glarble geesh gookle gookle.” John, that’s crazy! What is that? Oh, that’s not a note from my producer, that’s my grocery list. John, where’s the note you gave me? John…? John, I love you, wherever you are. You’re a great producer, really, I mean it. Sigh. I’m sleepy. Here’s a special special special about a lady whose husband went away, and it’s called “Amber the Red-Nosed Reinwhore.” You’re listening to Delilah, and I’m gonna go lie down for a while.

This is the story of how I made a bank deposit and consequently almost died.

Late one Saturday night, past midnight, I returned to downtown Salt Lake City after an evening of diversion and, still feeling peppy, decided I’d stop by the ATM to deposit some money I’d had cluttering my wallet for several days. It was a cold winter night, the mercury hovering at around 20 degrees. I parked my car in front of a fire hydrant and left it running as I dashed to the ATM not 15 feet away. I completed my transaction quickly and hurried back to the car, only to find my hurrying had been useless, as my car doors were closed and locked. The keys were in the ignition; the car was running; and my cell phone was in there, too.

The enormity of the situation did not reveal itself to me all at once. For several moments I just stood next to the car, looking around dazedly, semi-consciously hoping someone who could help me would come along. I’m not sure what I expected. A benevolent locksmith? A kindly tow-truck driver who roams the city looking for poor souls to help? Either way, it was going to cost me money. I thought I had heard that cops sometimes carried slim jims with them to help in this sort of crisis — I mean the slim jims that are thin metal rods used to unlock cars, not the Slim Jims that are beef jerky, though I suppose those probably come in handy sometimes, too — but since it was late on a weekend night, all the cops in the city were loitering near the dance clubs, waiting to pop drunken drivers or break up fights.

I have free roadside assistance through the Kia Motor Company; however, not having used the service before, I did not have the phone number. For all I knew, the roadside assistance did not actually exist. For all I knew, the man at the Kia dealership had invented it out of bitterness at having to sell sub-par Korean automobiles for a living. Whether it existed or not, and whether I had a right to use it or not, I didn’t know how to contact them anyway. Besides, even if I did, it would probably be 45 minutes or more before someone arrived, and Lady Winter was already beginning to whisper her icy breath across my tender ears.

I thought immediately of two friends who lived mere blocks from where I was, either of whom could be summoned to come pick me up, or to stay with the car while I walked home to retrieve the spare key that I knew was somewhere in my bedroom. But because I live in the era of cell phones, I don’t know anyone’s phone number. I only know their location in my speed-dial registry. And knowing that Shane is #9 and Michael is #70 (to name two nearby friends) would be irrelevant if I were at a pay phone, like the time Mr. Burns tried to call Smithers by dialing S-M-I-T-H-E-R-S.

Eventually I decided my best bet was to walk home — a distance of approximately half a mile — and get the spare key. I had to hope my roommate was home, since my key to our apartment was currently incarcerated with my car key, but since it was now nearly 1 a.m., I figured he must be home. His life is interesting, but not THAT interesting.

Or so I thought. When I knocked on our door, no one answered. Either he was still out, or he was fast asleep. I knocked louder, hoping I could be heard over the din being caused by our Mexican neighbors across the hall, who were again having one dickens of a fiesta, as they are wont to do. No response. I had walked home for nothing, braved the arctic perils of Lady Winter’s frosty handiwork for naught, and goodness knows what was being done to my car in my absence. I didn’t care if it got stolen, as my insurance would cover it and I would at last be rid of the Kia-shaped albatross with the unaffordable monthly payment that had been hanging from my neck in recent months. I was more worried about the car being ticketed or towed, since it was, you’ll recall, parked in front of a fire hydrant.

At any rate, I walked back to the car, still hoping to find a police officer. I located one, sitting in his car and doing, from what I could tell, nothing. I asked him if he had a slim jim, the tone of my voice indicating the lower-case kind, and he said Salt Lake’s finest don’t carry them anymore, but that some cab companies do. His concern for my plight did not seem to extend beyond the warm confines of his police cruiser. Or maybe he misunderstood me and thought I just wanted some beef jerky.

I returned to the car to find it unstolen, unticketed and untowed. After a minute or two, a taxi happened by and I flagged him down. He told me he didn’t have a slim jim, but that a certain other cab company does offer that service, for which they charge $35. I thanked him and sent him on his way. I was certainly not going to pay $35 to have my car unlocked when there was a perfectly good spare key back in my apartment, or when I had theoretical access to roadside assistance, for that matter.

I weighed my options. I could gain access to my car by smashing a window. The insurance would cover it (at least, they would if I told them I didn’t know how it happened, which would add “insurance fraud” to the list of crimes I have committed in my life), but then I would have to drive around with a busted window until it got fixed. It would get me out of the cold right NOW, but it would put me back in the cold for an indefinite length of time after that. In a rare case of not choosing the short-term solution, I opted not to smash a window.

My only choice, really, was to get that spare key. Roommate or not, I had to get into my apartment. I gave my car one last look and headed home again, resolute this time because I had a backup plan.

As I walked through the crisp, frigid air, my nose and hands now raw with the chilled reminders of Lady Winter’s splendid yield, the clubs began to close and young people in various states of inebriation and undress spilled out onto the sidewalks, filling the night with a melange of slurred profanities and sweat-mingled cologne. These people all had a way to get home. I was completely sober and adequately clothed, and yet I had locked my keys in a car that was still running. You tell me who’s the idiot.

By now the fact that my car was unattended and vulnerable to attack at 1:30 a.m. in the downtown area of a major city had settled into a comfortable place in my mind, next to unalarming facts like “I have some leftover pizza in the fridge” and “I should probably do laundry tomorrow.” That my car was currently running, locked, and parked next to a fire hydrant had become nothing more than a bit of information. I fully expected it to remain true forever, that from now on, I would simply always own a car that was unprotected and illegally parked next to a bank. It had become part of who I was.

I reached my apartment to find the Mexicans still engaged in high-octane merry-making and my roommate still either not home or completely unconscious. As late as it was, I knew it HAD to be the latter. The guy simply doesn’t have friends who can stay out this late, I’m sorry. I pounded extra-hard on the door, but to no avail. So I left the building, went outside, and threw rocks at his bedroom window. I was unconcerned about breaking the window, not just because the renter’s insurance would cover it (again, perhaps requiring fraud on my part), but because we live on the third floor and my pitching arm is less than what it used to be, and what it used to be is nothing. Still, despite the pelting of stones against the walls 10 feet below his window, my roommate did not wake up.

And so it came time for Plan B, my backup plan for accessing my apartment. I was going to have to climb up to the balcony.

I believe I mentioned our apartment’s status as a third-floor dwelling. Standing on the ground, I could just barely reach the second-story apartment’s balcony. I would have to hoist myself up onto it, then stand on that balcony’s railing and do the same thing to get to mine. At any point in the process, I could fall and break my neck, an event that would be covered by my health insurance with no fraud necessary, if I had health insurance, which I do not, which means in actual fact an extreme amount of fraud would be necessary. But I had no other choice. Even if I gave up on my car and decided to just be a pedestrian from now on, I would still need to get into my apartment and out of the stinging, polar night that Lady Winter in her gorgeous wrath had bestowed upon us. The balcony — and its access to the sliding-glass door, which is never locked — was my only hope.

So I climbed, carefully and as nimbly as an out-of-shape 30-year-old man in a heavy winter coat can climb. I looked like a retarded sloth, the one the rest of the sloths leave behind when predators attack. I envisioned a number of scenarios in which a police officer drove up, or another tenant walked by, or the people whose balconies I was standing on emerged with shotguns. But I did not imagine them very vividly, because the majority of my attention had to be paid to the matter at hand, the matter of not dying.

I reached my balcony and found the sliding-glass door unlocked, the first thing in several hours that had happened according to my expectations. The key was where I thought it was, and after pausing a moment to defrost and rest my legs — I had walked 1 1/2 miles tonight, which is more than I had walked over the course of my entire life — I headed BACK to the car (make that two miles, now). It was still there, unmolested since the last time I’d seen it. I was kind of disappointed, actually. Part of me was hoping to find it on the back of a tow truck, or being spirited away by hoodlums, or on fire — you know, just to keep the night entertaining. But no, it was there, unscathed, and still running. (That it might have run out of gas while I was gone had crossed my mind as one hilarious possible outcome.) I unlocked it with the spare key, got in, and drove home. My ordeal was over. But my door-ignoring, sleep-through-anything roommate’s ordeal was just beginning.

One downside to my new apartment is that I miss the neighbors I had when I lived in a condo. This isn’t because I actually KNEW them, of course, being hermitical and frightened of people. Typically, my only association with neighbors is hearing the sounds they make through the walls, floors and ceilings we share. And the fact is, I liked the sounds my condo neighbors made more than I like the sounds my apartment neighbors make.

At the condo, the master bedroom of the unit behind me was on the other side of my bedroom wall. That other unit housed an amorous couple who were not, shall we say, quiet in their appreciation for one another. I believe their bed must have been exactly on the other side of the wall from my bed, as I was able to hear them without wanting to, one time even being awakened in the middle of the night by their fervor.

I gathered from the frequency and duration of their episodes that they were newlyweds, and the fact that it was always after 2 a.m. when they commenced led me to conclude that they were not just newlyweds, but unemployed, too. Even if a couple were still this spirited in their second year of marriage, surely they would at least get to it earlier.

One night two of my friends and I were sitting in my room, talking and laughing, and the sex neighbors banged on the wall and yelled, “Keep it down!” Keep it down?! ME?! These unemployed newlyweds had a lot of nerve, let me tell you.

The near-nightly romps went on for a few weeks, to the point that I became bored with it. I’d be getting ready for bed, and I’d hear them start up, and I’d think, “Well, there they go again.” And then suddenly they stopped. Several nights passed with no commotion from the other side of the wall. I became morbidly curious. Were there problems in the marriage? Was one of them sick? Was one of them pregnant (the wife, probably)? I wanted to stop by their condo in a neighborly fashion and make small talk, just to see if I could determine what had quenched their passion.

But I couldn’t do this, of course, because I didn’t know them. I had never seen them — at least, not that I knew of. Anytime I saw a couple around the complex whose specific dwelling place I did not know, I would eye them suspiciously, trying to determine if they might be my sex neighbors. Part of me didn’t really want to know what they looked like, of course. What if it turned out they were old and/or hideous and/or immense? That would make my overhearing them horrifying, rather than mildly diverting.

Now I live in an apartment building. Due to the vagaries of construction and planning, there are no tenants on either side of me. Across the hall, though, is a Mexican family who on a recent Saturday night had one dickens of a fiesta that lasted loudly until well past 3 a.m. I couldn’t hear the noise from my bedroom, but in the living room it was noticeable, and in the hall it was deafening. Apparently it was extremely loud in the Mexicans’ next-door neighbor’s apartment, too, because a pajama-clad young woman emerged from there and began banging on the Mexicans’ door at around 2:30. I heard this banging and went to my peephole to see what drama would unfold. What I saw was the poor woman’s banging fall on deaf ears: The music inside the apartment was so raucous, they could not even hear their neighbor pounding on their door. Eventually she gave up and went back to her apartment, perhaps afraid, as so many Utahns are, of even quiet Mexicans, let alone boisterous ones.

The noise of the Mexicans is not a problem for me, but the noise of the people directly above me is. There are at least three persons living up there, possibly a family and possibly just a loose confederation of people who shout at each other a lot. Shouting seems to be their only method of communication, and there are no hours of the day or night when shouting is deemed inappropriate in their home. I imagine even wakes or prayer services, if held in apartment 411, would be ear-splitting.

The woman in the bedroom above mine has her alarm clock set to play CDs to wake her up in the morning, so loudly that it often wakes ME up in the morning, too, which is very considerate of her but wholly unnecessary, as I have my own alarm clock, thank you, not to mention better taste in music. Plus, she gets up at obscene hours like 9 a.m. or even 8 a.m., if you can imagine.

When she is home, she is always a) yelling and b) in her bedroom. I picture her as an 800-pound woman who is confined to her bed but must maintain a household, so she barks orders to and has shouted conversations with her children/staff/nurses, who are invariably in other rooms of the apartment. Her shouting seldom takes an argumentative or angry tone; it is simply the way she communicates.

One time it was 3 in the morning and I heard the TV on up there, and I heard children’s voices. So the 800-pound shouter is evidently a bad mother, too.

The oddest thing about the people above me is that they are, by the sound of their voices, an African-American family (or commune, whichever), and yet I have frequently heard the sounds of Depeche Mode and the Cure coming from their stereo. Far be it from me to generalize, but do black people listen to ’80s synth-pop? I am fascinated by the diverse and interesting people who make up this crazy world of ours. Maybe someday I’ll actually meet one of them.

We are now into December, which means whoever’s in charge of getting me in the Christmas spirit had better get crackin’!

I used to rely on the radio to do this, because there is always at least one station that plays holiday music around the clock in December. But I got confused this year when KOSY 106.5 started playing carols on Nov. 1, with FM 100 right on its heels. I got all Christmas spirit-y for a few minutes, and then I realized how shameful and degrading it is to listen to Christmas music when there’s still Halloween candy in the dish next to the front door. So I put those stations away until the day after Thanksgiving, the day long ago sanctioned by the Christian church as the earliest appropriate moment to begin celebrating Christmas.

I actually like the stores this time of year, with all the hustle and bustle and decorations and such. The stores are crowded, but they’re crowded with people who are generally good-natured and who aren’t likely to murder you over the last Tickle-Me SpongeBob doll or whatever, the way they do in less-godly places such as New York and Miami.

But this year I’m afraid the stores are ruined for me, too, because I made the mistake of going to one at 5:30 a.m. last Friday for its massive day-after-Thanksgiving sale. Why this appealed to me, I don’t know. It combines two of my least-favorite things in the world — getting up early and standing in line — and all just so I could save a few dollars (OK, many, many dollars) on some DVDs.

My mom and one of my brothers are veterans of the Best Buy post-Thanksgiving-sale wars, having served tours of duty in that arena for several years. Before they had cell phones, they used walkie-talkies to communicate with each other in the store, combining their efforts to snatch up the merchandise and get in line as quickly as possible. I had never been tempted to join them until this year, when the Best Buy near my California hometown, where I was visiting, was offering merchandise at prices so low I simply couldn’t afford not to buy it.

Alas, Mom and Jeff retired from combat this year and left me to fend for myself, and I confess that I, a casual shopper at best, am no match for the vicious, predatory warriors who descend upon retail stores on the fourth Friday in November. One woman mentioned having been in line since 3 o’clock the previous afternoon, which means she spent her Thanksgiving Day sitting outside of a Best Buy, a devotion to bargain-hunting that I find both impressive and sad. Sleep-deprived, unshowered, jostled and harried, I made it out of the store at 7:30 a.m., two hours after I arrived. And now I don’t know if the usual tinsel and trees with which Target and its retail brethren are festooned from now till Christmas will be enough to counteract that one un-Christmaslike experience.

I already know not to bother going to the movies for Christmas cheer. “The Polar Express” is based on a 30-page picture book, and watching it is like reading that picture book, except instead of only taking five minutes, it takes 90. Plus it is filled to an unhealthy degree with Tom Hanks. “Surviving Christmas,” released in October, didn’t even survive Thanksgiving. And “Christmas with the Kranks”? is so awful that the Lord has filed suit to have the title changed to “Holidays with the Kranks”? to protect His good name.

So things are looking a bit grim in the Christmas spirit department, but I hold out hope that someone or something will have me feeling festive before it’s too late. Maybe that DVD of “Bad Santa”? that I bought for $5.99 will help.

We almost always had a dog in my family when I was growing up. The first one I remember was named Ticky-Tac (I believe I named him), and he was with us until my parents had to send him off to live with a family who had a bigger yard and higher fences so he wouldn’t run away all the time. I believe this was code for “we had him killed.” I got suspicious when they said Grandma had gone to live with the same family.

I would love to have a dog now. I live in an apartment, though, and while dogs are permitted here, I don’t think he’d be happy being cooped up all day with no yard to frolic and romp in. So I have a dog-substitute, Junko, the life-sized plastic Labrador that I bought at a furniture store. I happened to visit the home of a wealthy family in a gated community in Draper, Utah, recently, and saw the exact same fake dog in their foyer, so I know it’s tasteful.

I got to visit a real dog recently, while visiting my friends Rob and Curtis in Portland. They have a beagle named Demi. He is not named after Demi Moore, though he and Ms. Moore do both enjoy the company of young men and often drink from the toilet. But Demi the beagle is named after the young priest in “The Exorcist,” the one named Damien whose mother calls him Demi. (It’s more like “Dimmy,” but OK. I’m just impressed Rob and Curtis knew the reference.)

They got a beagle because when Rob was a child, he had a beagle who eventually died. Demi is sort of a replacement then, which, yes, is creepy.

Demi the beagle is a hyper little fellow, 4 years old and as dumb as a sack of cheerleaders. When he sees you, he is thrilled beyond comprehension and shows this by jumping on you. When you tell him “No!” or “Down!,” he will obey you for one second, and then forget everything, forget he’s already seen you, get excited to see you, and start the process all over again. I believe that inside his head, manning the controls, is a 4-year-old boy with A.D.D.

I adore Demi, and for the same reason I adore children: He makes no sense. He does exactly what he wants to, without regard for protocol or logic or hygiene, and he doesn’t criticize my driving. This makes him more bearable than most of my friends.

(You know how you can tell that dogs don’t judge? Because so many homeless people have them for pets. The dog thinks, “OK, so he can’t feed me all that often, but he feeds me when he can, and he’s always nice to me. So I stick with him.” A cat wouldn’t last 24 hours as the pet of a homeless person. “No food today? Eff that.”)

My role while visiting Demi and his owners was to be the doting grandmother who wants to spoil the kids. “Oh, let him sit on the couch with me!” I’d say. Or: “Heavens, let me give him some food off my plate, since he begged so adorably!” What mild progress Rob and Curtis had made in training him was surely undone by my indulgence of him.

One day we took Demi to a dog park. Portland has a lot of nature-oriented places like this, because Portland is full of trees and the people who hug them. This particular park has a large enclosed area where you can take your dog off its leash and let it (the dog) run around and scamper and fraternize with other dogs while the owners keep an eye on them. It’s like a junior high school dance, where the kids are on their own but closely guarded by dozens of chaperones who will put a stop to any extreme cases of making out or butt-sniffing.

Anyway, Demi had a grand time at the park, as it’s the one place he can bark without his owners telling him to shut up. (Grandma Eric: “Oh, mercy, let the dog bark if he wants to! He’s just sayin’ hi!”) He gamboled and cavorted with dogs up to three times his size, with no apparent class distinctions among them. You don’t see that with people. For one thing, you rarely see anyone who’s three times your size. But even if you did encounter an 18-foot, 600-pound man, there’s no way he’d hang out with you. He’d be with the other giants, knocking over trees and making fun of you.

We got a kick out of Demi’s enthusiasm and trouble-making. Any time two dogs would tussle, he would be there to bark his encouragement, like the weaselly teens in the ’50s biker movies who would dance around the perimeters of the fistfights and say, “Yeah, Johnny! Give it to ‘im good, Johnny! Show ‘im who’s boss!” I have to assume that if dogs were capable of negative emotions, they would consider Demi a nerd. But it’s impossible for any species to put on airs when that species spends more than 50 percent of its time licking itself. Which, again, is why Demi Moore is so down-to-earth.

At first I thought all the uproar last week wasn’t because ABC aired “Saving Private Ryan,” but because it aired “Shaving Ryan’s Privates.” Then I realized I didn’t really think that, and I just wanted to make that joke. Then I was deeply ashamed.

Ever since Janet Jackson showed her off-putting, talentless breast to the nation during the Super Bowl and got CBS fined hundreds of thousands of dollars by the Federal Communications Commission, all the broadcasters have been skittish. Everyone’s afraid of getting in trouble with the FCC. Shots of naked butts are down 80 percent on “NYPD Blue,” PBS made Big Bird put some pants on, and Ted Koppel is no longer permitted to end “Nightline” by saying, “Good night, m*****-f*****s!” Even BBC-America had to cover up the faces of the ugly, ugly British people it shows. It’s crazy, I tells you! Crazy!

So in this atmosphere of paranoia, it is no surprise that some ABC affiliates were afraid to go along with the network’s planned broadcast of “Saving Private Ryan” on Veterans Day. The film contains a good many cuss words, not to mention its legendary opening sequence in which dozens of soldiers are killed in a variety of ways that are funny when Freddy Krueger does it but not when the Germans do it (which is sort of a double standard, but what can you do?).

ABC aired the film, also unedited, in 2001 and 2002 and got no trouble from the FCC. But things have changed now. Some things that used to be OK are no longer OK, thanks to Ms. Jackson’s mammilla, and the network affiliates were a-feared. The FCC, helpful as always, refused to say beforehand whether or not showing the film would be punishable, apparently unable to know what it thinks until outraged members of the community tell it what it thinks.

So about one-third of ABC affiliates chickened out and refused to show the film. When I read this, I thought, “That’s silly. They’re being paranoid for nothing! Who’s going to complain about showing ‘Saving Private Ryan’ on Veterans Day? And even if people did complain, there’s no way the FCC would take them seriously!”

Well, as usual, I had no idea what I was talking about. The very next morning, the uber-ultra-mega-conservative American Family Association complained to the FCC about the previous night’s “indecent” broadcast and called for fines to be levied against the offending stations. The FCC dutifully listened, and seems to be giving the complaints more credence than usual, all because of this new atmosphere of over-cautiousness.

Now, it’s not that I, as some people do, consider “Saving Private Ryan” to be totally the most bestest and awesomest movie ever. I recall my thoughts upon first watching it to be about like this:

“Man, war sure is awful…. OK, I get it, war is terrible…. OK! I believe you! KNOCK IT OFF!!… Oh, for heaven’s sake, there’s NO CALL FOR DECAPITATIONS! I GET IT! I’M SORRY! I’LL NEVER START ANOTHER WAR AS LONG AS I LIVE!!… FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY, MAKE IT STOP!!”

(Also, I was on a date, and we were holding hands, so it was kind of weird.)

Anyway, it’s the sort of movie I “respect” more than I “enjoy,” and I am in no hurry to watch it again. Which is why, when it aired on Veterans Day, I didn’t watch it. I didn’t mind that ABC was showing it; I just chose not to patronize ABC that particular night. There are six other nights of the week on which I can watch ABC.

Of course, I don’t have children, so I can’t exactly relate to how parents’ groups feel. Their position is that such things should not be broadcast over the public (i.e., non-cable) airwaves during prime-time hours because children might see them. They have a point: TV isn’t like a cineplex, where children can theoretically be barred from entering certain films. If it’s on broadcast television, it’s available to everyone. But while I get that it’s impossible to monitor your kids 24 hours a day, at the same time, I think it should be fairly easy to detect if they’re watching a movie on TV that is THREE HOURS LONG. They might be able to sneak a five-minute peek at Cinemax when your back is turned, but a three-hour film? And one that would probably be boring to them anyway? I think most parents are competent enough to get a handle on that.

Even if “Saving Private Ryan” were indecent — that is, if the violence and language were completely gratuitous and the film’s social value did not outweigh its harsh content — airing it on ABC would be a victimless crime. No one has to watch it, and parents can keep their kids away from it. And even if children do tune into ABC and get an eyeful of severed limbs, what’s the result? They cry? They have nightmares? One airing of “Saving Private Ryan” on Veterans Day will not turn our nation’s children into desensitized sociopaths. That’s what video games are for.

If the FCC does impose fines against the stations that aired the film, it will be the signal that the FCC as it is currently configured has ceased to be useful. It will be in good company, of course; the MPAA, which determines movie ratings, reached that point years ago. But I’m hopeful that the FCC will dismiss the complaints of the activist groups and use a little common sense when it decides what’s decent and what’s not. The fact that Paris Hilton is allowed to cavort and bray on public airwaves without censure is surely an indication that the FCC and I have very different ideas of what constitutes “obscenity.”

Today’s topic: Are all Christians crazy? Short answer: No. (Long answer follows.)

As you know from being a human and living on Earth, some people are mentally unsound. Normally, this is not a problem. They’ll spout weird opinions or do eccentric things, but they don’t hurt anyone, and they provide society with entertainment. Whether it’s the ranting hobo who lives in the park, or Angelina Jolie, these harmless lunatics are part of what makes life interesting.

When mental instability is combined with religious fervor, however, it can lead to trouble, as evidenced by two men who recently found themselves in the news for being 1) Christian and 2) insane.

First we have the widely reported story from last month of a man who leapt into the lion’s den at the Taipei (Taiwan) Zoo in an attempt to convert the lions to Christianity. The man is reported to have shouted, “Jesus will save you!” to the two lions who lived there. He seemed to believe Jesus would save him, too, because he dared the lions to “Come bite me!,” whereupon one of the lions did in fact bite him, an outcome the man apparently did not foresee. Lucky for him, the lion didn’t like Chinese food. (KA-ZING!)

Now, any fool can tell you that lions eat Christians regularly. (Hello? A little place called the Colosseum? Ring any bells?) I suppose the man’s minimal thought process centered around the Old Testament story of Daniel, who also broke into a zoo in Taiwan and attempted to convert lions. I hope the man’s faith is not shattered now that he realizes that when you do insane things, sometimes God just lets you do them. He’s not Superman, for crying out loud, flying around rescuing people from their own idiocy. If He were, He’d never get anything done.

Next we come to evangelist Jimmy Swaggart, a man so crazy and so full of himself that every few years, he says something repulsive just to get himself back into the public eye. Somehow, these repulsive things translate into dollars for him and his ministry. The preachers who have been relying on tired old messages of hope and peace should take note.

Swaggart was a minister for the Assemblies of God Church for decades, and has been a TV preacher since the ’80s. But he didn’t come to the attention of people who don’t live in trailer parks until 1987, when, as you’ll recall, all the TV evangelists were working full-time at committing adultery, taking only the occasional break to accuse their fellow TV evangelists of it.

Was Jimmy Swaggart the one with the wife who wore all the makeup? No, that was Jim Bakker. Was he the one who said if he didn’t raise $10 million by a certain time, God would kill him? No that was Oral Roberts. Jimmy Swaggart was the one who, in March 1987, called Jim Bakker “a cancer in the body of Christ” for committing adultery. A year later, Swaggart was sobbing on TV, begging forgiveness because he had — you guessed it — committed adultery. “I have sinned against you” was his famous catchphrase, “you” in this case being pretty much everybody, but mostly God.

When the Assemblies of God sought to punish him by banning him from preaching on TV for two years, he said, “If I do not return to the pulpit this weekend, millions of people will go to hell.”

In 1984, he said, “Sex education classes in our public schools are promoting incest,” a statement so absurd that even the guy who jumped into the lion pit was like, “Man, that’s crazy.”

In his TV broadcast of Nov. 10, 2002, Swaggart called the prophet Muhammad a “sex deviant,” “pervert” and “pedophile.” He added that airports ought to keep an eye on all airline passengers “with a diaper on their head and a fan-belt around their waist.”

I give you this background so you will know the sort of ignorant buffoon we’re dealing with here. (Hint: If you make your living telling people how to be righteous, don’t do unrighteous things like commit adultery and spread hate.) In his show on Sept. 12 of this year, he made these very insightful comments about gay marriage:

“This utter, absolute, asinine, idiotic stupidity of men marrying men. (Pause for purposes of comedic timing.) I’ve never seen a man in my life I wanted to marry. (Laughs and cheers from the audience; whistling sounds caused by air rushing past missing teeth.) … And I’m going to be blunt and plain: If one ever looks at me like that I’m gonna kill him and tell God he died.” (More laughs and cheers; sound of tobacco being spit; pistols firing.)

Now, I get that he’s joking. I know that in the unlikely event that a gay man ever did look lustfully upon Jimmy Swaggart — they’re gay, Jim, not blind — he wouldn’t ACTUALLY kill him. A man like Swaggart has millions of God’s dollars. He could hire someone to do it. But he probably wouldn’t even do that. It’s a joke, that’s all.

The trouble is, Swaggart preaches to a lot of people who are, how shall I say it, stupid. And even among his really, really smart viewers, both of them, there are surely some who are prone to bigotry and violence who do not need subtle nudgings in that direction. Even if your conscious mind gets that it’s only a joke, your subconscious picks up the underlying idea, which in this case is that Jimmy Swaggart is not gay and doesn’t have any respect for people who are. It’s the sort of joke you can make in a small group, among people you know, where it’s OK to be appalling because they know you don’t mean it. But on TV? To millions of people? When you supposedly represent the Lord? Not a good idea.

Confused by all the uproar surrounding his “kill-any-gay-who-leers-at-me” comment, Swaggart eventually sort of offered a quasi-apology, kind of. He said, “If it’s an insult — I certainly didn’t think it was, but if they are offended, then I certainly offer an apology.” So with that heartfelt message, the gays got over it and went back to their full-time job of threatening marriage and destroying the family. (They thank Britney Spears for her help, by the way.)

It’s not fair to blame Christianity itself for the lunacy of men like Lion Guy and Jimmy Swaggart. Many misdeeds have been done in the NAME of Christianity over the years, but they run contrary to what Christianity actually represents, which is love and forgiveness. Religion doesn’t make these people crazy; it merely gives their craziness an avenue to express itself. Lion Guy probably just needs medication. And the best thing Jimmy Swaggart could do is convert to Judaism, because at least then there’d be the chance something could go wrong during the circumcision, and he’d never have to worry about committing adultery again.

My fellow Americans, I am honored to stand before you today as your newly elected president. I accept the concessions of President George W. Bush and Senator John Kerry. It was a hard-fought, divisive election, often marked by bloodshed, and I am proud to have emerged victorious and, for want of a better word, alive. I, Roger Hunsaker, vow to live up to the enormous expectations placed upon me as the first zombie president of the United States.

I know the prejudice I had to overcome to get to this point. Many Americans opposed the idea of having a president who was undead. They feared I would take my orders directly from the leaders of the zombie community and ignore the needs of the average, delicious American. Words like “monster” and “brain-eater” were bandied about — hate speech, pure and simple — and I won’t try to tell you it didn’t sting a little. And the torches carried by mobs of angry townspeople as I was chased from city to city on my campaign tour? Those stung even more.

But I remained confident in the essential goodness of the American people. I knew that when it came down to it, just the citizens and their ballots alone in the voting booth, my legions of undead waiting outside the polling locations to summarily devour all who opposed me, that the votes would be cast for me. And sure enough, when the votes were tallied, more than 80 percent of those cast by persons who were still alive and that were not smeared in blood had my name on them. Roger Hunsaker, first Zombie Party president of the United States!

My opponents wondered if a zombie ought to lead this nation. Senator Kerry said, and I quote, “I do not believe a zombie can do the job, except for the times when I do believe he can do the job.” And President Bush said, “Zombies is bad, real bad, and we doesn’t need none of them no how,” and then he fired pistols into the air. I respect both of these men, but I believe they underestimate my leadership abilities. Who leads a massive army of reanimated corpses that were brought back to life after a nuclear accident five years ago? Who has single-handedly torn the flesh from literally dozens of humans and devoured said flesh without wavering or second-guessing or seeking U.N. approval? I have, my friends. I have. I defy Kerry or Bush to point to anything in their individual records that even approaches my accomplishments in the areas of organ-harvesting or brain-sucking.

Do I have flaws? Of course I do. I am only human, or at least I was when I was alive. Sometimes my temper is quick, as when, during the second televised debate, Senator Kerry criticized my domestic policy and I tore his arm off with my teeth. Do I regret this? Yes. I ought to have done him the courtesy of removing his non-writing arm. And I ought to have at least waited until a commercial break before I began feasting on the severed limb. Dipping it in ranch dressing may have also been gratuitous.

But I believe swift, unambiguous action is sometimes called for in politics. Now that I have been elected, I will follow through on my promise to find, capture and devour Osama bin Laden. I will personally eat him, that is my pledge to you. I will also eat anyone we find in his immediate vicinity, as well as, possibly, members of the outgoing cabinet and certain members of Congress. The insurgents in Iraq who have rebelled against our presence there? They, too, will soon find themselves brain-less and blood-less, as U.S. military personnel are already being replaced with zombies — zombies who can get the job done. As you know, my fellow zombies and I have been in control of the U.S. military for several months already, following the pitiful attack the government made on my zombie compound outside of Denver.

I won’t lie to you, my fellow Americans. Hard times are upon us, and sacrifices must be made. Many of you did not survive the campaign, and many more will not survive my inauguration party. The handful of you who made it to the polls — stalwart, brave Americans, all — are to be commended for doing your civic duty in the face of terror and despite urgent warnings that citizens not leave their homes. The people of America have spoken in the most powerful way possible: with large-scale bombs and munitions. And that failed to destroy me and my fellow zombies. So then the people of America spoke in the second-most powerful way possible: by screaming and crying in fear while begging for their lives. And then they voted.

President Bush called me this morning from his secret underground hideout at Fox News headquarters, a heavily fortified lair in front of which the corpse of Bill O’Reilly has been placed as a means of warding off evil. (So far it has worked.) He conceded the election to me, even offering me the disputed electoral votes of Ohio, since there are no known survivors in that state anyhow. I appreciate his grace under fire, his cool manner in times of stress, and I remind him that my necromancers are even now researching ways to get around the O’Reilly curse so that I may invade the fortress and slay him.

Senator Kerry called me, too, from his home in Massachusetts. Much of what he said was unintelligible, as he was undergoing the transformation process from zombie-like human to actual zombie, the result of my biting him during the debate. He is being cared for around the clock by a team of doctors and scientists, most of whom, I presume, will not survive when the change is complete and Senator Kerry begins viciously attacking them with the sudden horrible strength of 10 men. At that point, I will extend a hand of fellowship — a left hand, of course, owing to Senator Kerry’s disability — and welcome him into my cabinet, should he desire a post there.

The time for partisanship is past. It is time to rebuild, and to unite all Americans against our common enemy: non-zombie humans. Join us now as we lurch and stagger into the future.

I’m not very good at budgeting money anyway, but I’m particularly bad when it comes to planning for the outrageous fees required to renew my car registration. I pay it one year, then immediately forget about it, the way trauma victims block out their experiences, and am caught off-guard the next year when the renewal notice comes. I’ll be going over my finances, determining whether I can afford to blow $100 at Old Navy, deciding that I not only can but SHOULD blow $100 at Old Navy — and then the notice will arrive in the mail, like an unwelcome houseguest or a bout with syphilis, showing up and ruining everything.

As a consequence of my lack of planning this year, I couldn’t come up with the cash before the registration expired on Sept. 30. It doesn’t help that my car is fairly new, which means registering it costs $150 for the “age-based uniform fee,”? plus $25.50 for the actual registration. By the time you factor in the safety and emissions inspections and replacing the windshield (don’t ask), we’re looking at $400 just to be allowed to drive my car, a car which already costs plenty, thank you very much.

And let me just say, it makes no sense that the newer your car is, the more it costs to register it. The fees should be the same for everyone, since we’re all driving on the same roads and causing the same wear and tear on them. I see no reason to penalize new-car buyers. Many of them, like me, have purchased Korean cars. Haven’t we suffered enough?

Anyway, I didn’t have the money right away, and so there was a space of a few weeks where I was a fugitive from the law. I was careful not to drive more than I had to during my lamming period, as I knew driving with expired plates was a ticketable offense, and goodness knows if I couldn’t afford to register the car, I couldn’t afford to pay tickets, either. And so the car remained parked for days at a time.

So imagine my surprise when I strolled past my parked car one day during the Unregistered Era and discovered a parking ticket on the windshield. “This must be a mistake,” I thought, complete with quotation marks. “I am parked perfectly legally, and in an unrestricted zone. What is the meaning of this outrage?”?

Sure enough: It was a ticket for having expired registration.

Now, I do not pretend to comprehend the intricate workings of the local government. I am but a humble, well-dressed wordsmith. And so I cannot fathom how having expired tags constitutes a “parking violation.” The condition of my license plate, and the dates indicated by the stickers on it, in no way affect the manner or location of my parking. They are entirely separate issues. Even if my car were on fire, it would not be a parking violation, so long as the flames did not extend beyond the boundaries of the parking space.

The greater issue, though, is the Catch-22-ness of my situation. I understand that you’re not supposed to drive with expired tags. That happens to be WHY I WASN’T DRIVING. But apparently, you’re not supposed to park, either. So what are you supposed to do when you can’t afford to renew your registration the very minute it’s due? Make your car invisible? Levitate it? Dig a ditch, drop it in, and put a tarp over it? I’m open to suggestions, DMV. Submit them to me before Nov. 30, or else severe penalties will be assessed.

It is amazing to see humans persevere even in the face of insurmountable odds. You see it a lot during election years, when third-party candidates run for president without a hope of winning, without a hope of gaining more than even a few thousand votes, without a hope of even becoming footnotes in American history. You also saw it, for the past 85 years, when Red Sox fans would root for their team even though they knew they weren’t going to win, simply because they were the Red Sox, and the Red Sox always choke like a fat kid in the ninth round of a pie-eating contest.

But the Red Sox’ victory in last week’s World Series gives hope to all the losers in the world, all the people who keep on trying even though there’s no realistic chance of succeeding. Because even the impossible can happen sometimes. Every 86 years or so, anyway.

The Red Sox’ success must have been especially encouraging to Michael Peroutka. Who is Michael Peroutka, you ask? Oh, man, I bet he wishes you already knew. He’s a Maryland man running for president on the Constitution Party ticket, primarily as an alternative for people who consider George W. Bush too liberal. His platform is: “God, Family, Republic,” and isn’t it sad that whenever a politician has those principles as the foundation of his platform, he is always a nutcase? God, family and republic are all great things, and we would do well to focus on them a little more. Yet whenever someone DOES focus on them, he tends to be a lunatic. Sad, really.

Anyway, it should not surprise you that Peroutka has followers in Utah, where I live. Peroutka’s Web site indicates he was “called to public service at an early age” — yes, “called,” apparently, though by whom the site does not say — and that he provides “leadership in support of the right to life, the right to keep and bear arms, and other Constitutional causes.” I note that people whose platforms rest on “God, Family, Republic” are usually big on guns, too.

The one note in Peroutka’s one-note campaign is the Constitution. All of his policies have their root in his reading of it. It’s his Bible, which is awkward, since the Bible is his Bible, too. If it’s not in the Constitution, he’s opposed to it. “The Federal Government should do nothing that is not specifically authorized by the Constitution,” he writes. This means, he says, that Medicare and the Department of Education are both out, since the Constitution says nothing about the federal government being involved in health care or education.

The amendments, he seems to take on a case-by-case basis. They’re not part of the original Constitution, of course, but some of them are OK. The Second Amendment, for example (the one about the guns), is God-given, but the 16th (establishing income tax) is pernicious.

On abortion, he says this: “I am so pro-life, that if elected I promise that abortion will end my first day in office.” His first day! I believe he plans to achieve this through the use of magic.

Peroutka’s major liability, aside from being crazy, is that he’s not a Republican or a Democrat. Like it or not, we have a two-party system in this country, and have had for nearly 200 years. The last time we had three viable candidates was in 1992, when an insane diminutive businessman named Ross Perot gave Bush Sr. and Clinton a run for their money. By 1996, he had skittered back into the woodpile and now works full-time as a historical footnote. No third-party candidate since then has even made a dent, but that doesn’t stop people like Peroutka and Ralph Nader from trying, if you can really call what Nader does “trying.”

Does Peroutka think he can win? Certainly not. At least, I hope not. I’d hate to think he’s delusional, too, on top of everything else. He probably runs in order to Make A Statement, as a Matter Of Principle. And people who vote for him might as well take their ballots and set them on fire, but at least they’re “voting their conscience,” as they say, as opposed to simply choosing the lesser of two evils, which is often what the two-party race comes down to. This year, it’s a choice between the hillbilly cowboy and the creepy-looking snob. Given that choice, I’d be tempted to vote for an obscure third-party candidate, too — or to not vote at all, which might actually be a more sensible thing. No sense wasting a ballot, after all.

But back to the Red Sox. I don’t even follow sports, and the powerful antidepressants have flatlined my emotions, but this was exciting for me. My interest was piqued early on because my roommate, Greg, is from Boston and is thus required by Massachusetts law to be an ardent Red Sox fan. (Michael Peroutka would have this law repealed immediately.) A few weeks ago, Greg said, “This is the year.” I said, “Don’t you people say that every year?” And he replied, “Yeah, but THIS is the year FOR REAL.”

And I shook my head sadly, dreading the day the Sox would be eliminated from the playoffs and Greg would become forlorn and despondent. Already he was glued to the TV every evening, watching the late-season games and occasionally muttering, “[Swear word]-ing Red Sox.” His love-hate relationship with his team was fascinating, not to mention vulgar.

Greg said he didn’t believe in superstitions or curses, and I tend to agree with him. Babe Ruth was a lot of things — obese, alcoholic, lecherous, etc. — but he wasn’t a shaman. He didn’t curse the Red Sox, nor did anyone else. The Red Sox cursed themselves by being crappy, and by letting that guy play who let that ball go through his legs during that one game.

But last Wednesday night, while TiVo was recording “Law & Order” for me, the Red Sox did the impossible and won the World Series. The people of Boston went on a beer-fueled city-wide rampage, overturning cars and dumping tea into the harbor with wild abandon. It had been 86 years since their beloved-behated Sox had won the World Series — or “86 [swear word]-ing years,” as Greg put it — and their celebration was well-deserved, not that the people of Boston really need an excuse to drink.

And so perhaps there is hope for the Peroutkas of the world. If the Red Sox can win the World Series, maybe anything is possible. Of course, the Constitution doesn’t say specifically that Peroutka CAN be president, so it will continue to be an uphill battle for him.

Well, lookee here! It’s time for another installment of “Ask Eric Stuff,” the fantastically popular feature wherein — follow me here — people ask Eric stuff. He’s Eric D. Snider, and he approves this column.

What should you do if you have a question you want Eric to sidestep in a future edition of “Ask Eric Stuff”? You should go to this page and submit it! After all the questions are submitted, one lucky person will be chosen at random to receive a valuable prize! This prize is so valuable we cannot even tell you what it is. We can tell you this, though: We’re totally lying about there being a prize.

Dear Eric: How do you sell a house that’s near the airport? It’s not in the flight path, and it’s not too noisy, but potential buyers always say they don’t want to live so close to the airport. What can we do? — Baffled in Buffalo
Dear Baffalo: Yikes, selling a house near the airport is hard. I recommend getting rid of that one and getting a different one, one that’s NOT near the airport, to sell instead.

Dear Eric: Does a Nader vote help Kerry or Bush more? — Politically Curious in the USA
Dear Polly: Now, how would I know who Nader’s voting for? You’d have to ask him.

Dear Eric: Why is it so hard to get peanuts on airplanes these days? — Nutty in Nantucket
Dear Nanny: I never really “got” that comic strip anywhere, let alone on an airplane.

Dear Eric: If you could be any plant, what would you be? — Horticulturally Inclined
Dear Hor: Robert Plant.

Dear Eric: My roommate and her boyfriend have been dating a long time, and I’m tired of them hanging out over here. How can I get them to hurry up and get married or break up already? — Missing My Couch
Dear Miss: Tell your roommate you have a crush on her boyfriend and are thinking of asking him out yourself.

Dear Eric: How can I get my wife to stop drinking Coke? — Addict Hubby in Herriman
Dear Herry: She drinks Coke? That’s crazy. It’s much more powerful if you snort it.

Dear Eric: Do you get angry letters now that you’re published only on the internet? — Offended in Suburbia
Dear Sub: No, I mostly just get letters from people asking if I get angry letters.

Dear Eric: I’m debating over joining the U.S. Air Force. What should I do? — Patriotic to the Max
Dear Max: Well, get someone else to fill out the essay portion of the application for you, Mr. “Debating Over.”

Dear Eric: How do you keep drips to a minimum when painting? — Lead on the Brain
Dear Brainiac: NyQuil is good for drips anytime. I don’t know what painting has to do with it.

Dear Eric: Why won’t my baby sleep through the night? — Sleepless in Tucson
Dear Tusc: Because your baby hates you.

Dear Eric: If you hadn’t gone to college, what do you think you’d be doing right now? — Nosey Neighbor
Dear Neigh: Probably working as a freelance writer on the Internet and doing occasional comedy shows.

Dear Eric: If you could be any fictional character from a book, who would you be? — In Love with Aragorn
Dear Sir: George Washington.

Dear Eric: Have you ever had a stalker? Alternatively, have you ever been a stalker? — Uninterested; Don’t Worry
Dear Interested: There’s a fine line between “stalking” and “being attentive.” Or at least that’s what I told the judge. The judge I was stalking. Don’t ever stalk a judge, by the way. They’re mean.

The English language is very efficient. Complex ideas can be expressed in so few words that detailed, explicit conversations are often unnecessary. For example, if your wife says, “Does this dress make me look fat?,” you can convey the message of “Well, it’s not a very flattering dress because it doesn’t bring out your beautiful eyes or your gorgeous smile” simply by saying, “Yes.”

Or take what happened at the bank last week. I said this to the teller: “You’ll notice my account became overdrawn a few days ago, by $4.72, and that I made a deposit to rectify the problem less than 24 hours later. I wonder if you could possibly reverse the $25 overdraft fee you charged me, considering that I’ve been a loyal Washington Mutual customer for six years, and that it was only $4.72 and for less than 24 hours, and that I’ve never asked for such consideration before.” And the teller responded: “No.” Thus in one word she summed up her company’s entire philosophy, which is, “We will greet you warmly by name when you enter your local branch because we want you to feel comfortable and appreciated, but don’t think that means we like you or want to help you or that we have any human feelings such as ‘compassion’ or ‘understanding,’ you miserable b******.” (Hey, don’t look at me, I’m just quoting the corporate handbook.)

Probably the most efficient part of English is in the way we greet each other. In the 1800s, acquaintances would have conversations like this when they happened to pass each other in the street:

WOMAN: Good morning to you, Mr. Harkenfarken.
MAN: And a good morning to you as well, Mrs. Hooganfloogan.
WOMAN: How does the day find you, sir?
MAN: It finds me very well, thank you so much indeed for asking. How are you, madam?
WOMAN: I am most superbly well, thank you.

I don’t know how anything ever got done in those days, what with all the time consumed by being cordial. No wonder nothing good got invented until the 20th century. Today, the preceding conversation might be condensed into this:

WOMAN: Hey.
MAN: Hey.

And with the right inflection and body language, all the same information can be expressed, without all the wordiness and curtsying and hat-tipping and what-have-you.

So it’s important to choose your standard greeting, the one you use all the time when you run into acquaintances, very carefully. It has to be something you can say automatically and effortlessly, so tongue-twisters are a bad idea. Also, since you’ll be using it in a wide variety of circumstances, it should not be obscene.

Some other standard greetings you should avoid:

“Howdy do?”
“What’s cookin’, Smokey?”
“Whaddup, G?”
“There he is!”
“Ahoy, wench.”

I think it would be fun to greet everyone the way you greet a dog, rubbing the person’s head and saying (if his name is Bob), “Who’s a good boy?! Is Bob a good boy?! Yes he is! Yes he is! Who’s a good boy?!” Let’s start this trend. You first.

My standard salutation is “Hey, how’s it going?,” though sometimes it is abbreviated to just “Hey.” Either way, it’s very simple, and it requires no thinking on the other person’s part, because he can just respond with his own standard greeting, whatever it may be. Even though mine ends with a question mark, an answer is not necessarily required. In fact, in modern society, this is a perfectly valid conversation:

“Hey, how’s it going?”
“Hey.”

“Hey” doesn’t really answer the question of how it’s going, but “How’s it going?” doesn’t really mean I want to know how it’s going, either. If I REALLY want to know how it’s going, I’ll say, “How ARE you?” — quite different from “How are YOU?,” which is the same as “How’s it going?” — and stop and talk to the person. But for just passing by, I deliver the “How’s it going?” and continue on about my business.

My roommate Greg has one that throws me off every time. I don’t believe he grasps the philosophy behind casual greetings, because his requires an actual ANSWER. He always says: “What’s going on?” Now, he says it in the same tone of voice that you’d say “Hello” or “Hey there” or whatever. But it’s a question, and it’s a very open-ended question at that. “Pretty good” or “fine” would not be appropriate responses to this, nor would the delivery of a standard greeting. “What’s going on?” seems to demand a considered response.

And so every time he says it — which, since we live together, can be three or four times a day — I fumble for an answer. Does he actually want to know what’s going on, like what I’m DOING? Well, I don’t always know what I’m doing. Maybe I’m not doing anything. But I hate to just say “Nothing,” because then it sounds like I’m a slacker who’s not doing anything. So I’ve started responding, “WHY THE THIRD DEGREE, GREG?!?” He thinks I’m joking, and that saves me from answering the question. Still, it’s a lot of work for what’s supposed to be casual conversation. See the problems I have to put up with?

I hate paying for parking. You give money to someone, and what do you get in return? Nothing. You hand the money over, park your car, and leave the scene, usually to go spend more money somewhere else. All you’re paying for is the right to not drive your car for a while. Well, it’s your car! You should be able to not drive it whenever you want!

Even worse than paying for parking, of course, is paying for parking tickets, not just because they cost more, but because they indicate you were thwarted. You didn’t want to pay to park, so you found an illegal spot and gambled you’d be back before anyone noticed, and you failed, caught by The Man (who in this case is usually a woman, but still).

Having read the preceding paragraphs, it will not surprise you to learn that I am the recipient of parking tickets. If you are a longtime reader, it may not even surprise you to learn that these tickets were issued by BYU.

I wrote a column about getting parking tickets at BYU way back in 1997, when as a student there I single-handedly funded the new library with my parking tickets. If you get enough tickets, even if you pay them all, BYU eventually bans you from parking on campus anymore. This seems counter-intuitive, since the whole purpose of parking tickets is to make money, and why not let frequent recipients keep racking them up? I suppose it’s similar to how bartenders are required to stop selling you alcohol after a certain point, even though it would be more profitable for them to let you buy drinks until you pass out. At some point, if you can’t take care of yourself, someone has to take care of you for you.

Anyway, I was banned from parking in 1997, but was subsequently forgiven and permitted on campus again. I kept my nose clean, at least metaphorically, until I graduated in 1999. Then, in the early part of 2000, when I had to visit campus often for Garrens Comedy Troupe rehearsals, I racked up another eight tickets in rapid succession. This clearly was not my fault, however. We were rehearsing in a building that was not adjacent to any public parking, so I had two choices: walk a great distance, or park right next to the building in a faculty spot. Obviously, the decision was made for me.

So I got these tickets, and as is always the case when I am given a bill for something, my first thought was: How can I get out of paying this? (You should see me at tithing settlement.) Then it occurred to me that since I was no longer a student there, BYU had no power over me. All their usual threats — withholding transcripts, preventing class registration, damning to hell — held no sway when I wasn’t under their tutelage. So I decided not to pay the tickets at all, to see what, if anything, they would do.

And here’s what they do: They send a polite bill every month asking me to pay them.

It isn’t even a letter. It’s on green paper, with the heading “ACCOUNT STATEMENT,” followed by a list of my outstanding “transactions” with the Student Financial Services office. The total amount owed is $190. There is a part of the bill that can be detached and mailed in with my payment. An addressed envelope is enclosed.

I have received this document every month for the past four years. When I have moved, BYU has found my new address and the monthly bills have followed me. The bills never change; they never become more threatening or demanding, the way they would if a collection agency or even a human being were involved, rather than just a computer; there’s never even a letter enclosed. It’s just a statement of my “account.”

But here’s the thing — and BYU, if you are reading this, please pay close attention — I AM NEVER GOING TO PAY YOU. As long as I live, I will never pay those parking tickets, and my next of kin will be instructed not to pay them, either, and so on, through all eternity. It’s not that I dispute having earned them, or that I feel you are not deserving of my money. It’s that you’ve given me no incentive to pay them. A simple green-papered bill sent in the mail every month? Come on, BYU. You’ll have to do better than that. People who REALLY want to collect money from me send reminder letters and assign late fees and dispatch goons to confront me at my home. Frankly, I’m a little offended that you’d think you could get $190 from me just by ASKING. What sort of fool do you take me for?

(Note to BYU: If this column inspires you to send me a real letter and begin actively trying to get the money from me, I’m still not paying it. Like I have $190 lying around!)