Wal-Mart is perceived as a place for white trash to shop, a low-cost, no-class, generic warehouse frequented by people with no sense of style, taste or hygiene. And yet Wal-Mart is ALSO perceived as a major threat to American society, a ruthless conglomerate that is destroying small businesses while taking over the world.

Which is it? Is it a barn for mullet-headed dimbulbs and their dumpy, spandex-clad mistresses and snotty-nosed filthy children to tromp through in search of truck tires and beer? Or is it a shrewd corporation so thorough in its scheming that it has managed to become loved by ALL types of consumers?

It’s both, apparently. The Los Angeles Times ran a series of articles in January examining Wal-Mart’s power and influence and how it affects middle America. Regular people shop at Wal-Mart, too, apparently — lots of them. The store’s prices are often unbeatable, and with the advent of the Wal-Mart Supercenter — which combines traditional Wal-Mart merchandise with a fully stocked grocery store — it has become possible to do ALL your shopping in one location. Some of these Supercenters also have a McDonald’s, an optometrist and a family portrait studio. I understand plans are underway to install trauma centers, slaughterhouses and roller coasters in some of them.

Do you need a loaf of bread, a Bible and a lawnmower? Head to a Wal-Mart Supercenter. Does your shopping list include batteries, a typewriter and pants? Wal-Mart is the place for you. Need a bookcase, some potted plants and a Big Mac? The Supercenter awaits!

I can do this all day, folks. Want a gallon of ice cream, an engagement ring and a fishing pole? Wal-Mart! A scented candle, three aprons and a pair of dice? Wal-Mart! A gun, a muffin pan and a Ouija board? Wal-Mart!

So what’s the problem? Well, some people question Wal-Mart’s tactics. Any time a new store goes up, the competition generally forces nearby businesses to go under, with the Supercenters having that effect on grocery stores, too. Employees from those ruined businesses have to look elsewhere for jobs, and many of them wind up at Wal-Mart — where the pay is generally much lower than it was at the now-defunct stores. In addition, Wal-Mart executives have been known to eat the flesh of sacrificed virgins at their board meetings, and company founder Sam Walton was behind a plot to blow up the moon.

Wal-Mart also won’t let its employees join unions, so they can never go on strike for better wages. (Which reminds me of a tangent: The grocery workers in California went on strike a while back, and while visiting family there, we went to one of the affected grocery stores to cross the picket line and gawk at the strikers. I was disappointed to discover they were just standing there. They had signs, but they weren’t marching around or chanting catchy slogans, much less slogans that rhymed. They didn’t even seem to care that people were shopping at the store. They were just standing around, talking. Well, sometimes I stand around and talk, and I certainly don’t have a job. Does that mean I’m on strike, too?)

On the Wal-Mart issue, I am torn. For one thing, I have a hard time believing Wal-Mart can be some kind of evil genius mastermind when its headquarters are in ARKANSAS, for crying out loud, a state where people sometimes go to football games wearing fake pig noses but no shoes.

But more importantly, the Wal-Mart Supercenter near my house is convenient and cheap. I suspect many people feel that way. Yeah, Wal-Mart might be bad for America in the long run, but darned if it’s not inexpensive to shop there now! The average American loves its low prices and its extremely loose dress code.

But on the other hand, capitalism is like striking slow-moving pedestrians with your car: fine in general, but it should not be taken to extremes. Some have predicted a scenario in which Wal-Mart establishes a de-facto monopoly on retail merchandise by forcing all its competitors out of business with its low prices. Then, having no one to compete with anymore, Wal-Mart is free to raise its prices, and customers — whose loyalty to Wal-Mart helped it become a monopoly in the first place — have no alternatives.

That is a dark future indeed. My head swimming with conflicting thoughts, I went to my local Wal-Mart Supercenter in search of resolution, hoping to find peace. I often go there for sanctuary anyway, but today it seemed especially appropriate. As I wandered the aisles, occasionally pausing to reflect or to shoplift a small piece of merchandise, I drafted a mental list of Wal-Mart pros and cons on the notepad of my brain.

PRO: Between Wal-Mart and NASCAR, at least we always know where the white trash are, should we ever want to destroy or imprison them all at once.
CON: Having places such as Wal-Mart for white trash to congregate might serve only to encourage them to reproduce.
PRO: If it weren’t for the success of Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club, Sam Walton’s heirs would be ragged, pitiful millionaires, not the highly polished billionaires they are today.
CON: Wal-Mart prices always end in strange numbers like .84 or .96, instead of the traditional .98 or .99 we’re used to. Surely this is un-American in some way.

What I saw at Wal-Mart during my fact-finding mission were hundreds of shoppers of all sorts, mostly middle-class, but a few who clearly felt they were shopping “beneath” themselves, which they probably were, but hey, when you need a laundry basket, live bait and a thong, only Wal-Mart will do. People don’t think about the Wal-Mart corporation’s long-term plans while they’re shopping. They’re just living their lives, getting their errands run as efficiently as possible before scurrying back to their homes.

And that’s why the whole argument of whether Wal-Mart is good or bad for America is moot. Even if continued patronage of the store would lead to the slow, lingering death of every man, woman and child in America tomorrow, people would still shop there today. Humans in general aren’t good at modifying their current behavior in order to make the future better, and Americans, with their I-want-it-NOW philosophy, are even less good at it. So despite the protests from certain groups, Wal-Mart will continue on whatever path it’s on, and only time will tell whether that path is beneficial or detrimental. Only one thing is certain: sunblock, Cheerios and a pocketknife. (Sorry, I just wanted to get one more in.)

The old saying is, “You can’t go home again.” But why not? Did you offend someone? Did you break something? Personally, I am comforted to know that I CAN go home, even if all my parents have for me to sleep on is a futon, which means I’d be just as comfortable sleeping on the driveway. But hey, at least I’m home.

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.

But I should not complain about the sleeping arrangements, because the Snider manor in Lake Elsinore, Calif., is a warm, inviting place that I enjoy visiting. I also should not complain about the sleeping arrangements because I need to complain about the shower for a while instead. I might come back to complaining about the sleeping arrangements later.

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.

Two feet is not an appropriate length for something that has been cast off from one’s body anyway. Most things that long need to be kept, not thrown away in bunches, much less strategically placed to attack innocent bystanders as they shower.

But I should not complain about the hairful showers, because goodness knows there are starving children in Africa who don’t have showers at all, nor food. My point is, any time you attempt to return to the past, you will find things are not as you left them. When I lived at home, I had my own room with an actual, honest-to-goodness BED in it, and I don’t recall ever being victimized by someone else’s hair while showering. But circumstances change, people alter their habits, and life evolves.

While in California recently, I went to Six Flags Magic Mountain with my friend Rob. I had been to this amusement park only once before, in high school, and found the rides very fun and the general ambiance, if not exactly Disney-esque, at least well-maintained and clean.

That was then. Now, Magic Mountain is a dump, just an absolute ghetto. There’s graffiti on the walls, and most of the TV monitors that are supposed to keep you entertained when you’re in line don’t work, and the ones that do work are covered in dirt. The employees are not courteous or friendly, like Disney folk; instead, they’re just typical teen-age laborers, i.e., surly, unhelpful and apathetic. The park is brimming with trash and debris, and gangs roam it freely, like bison in the Old West. The whole place looks post-apocalyptic, like the neighborhood Adrian Brody hides in near the end of “The Pianist.”

The rides themselves are enjoyable, though they’re all just roller coasters, which means they’re all sort of the same. They call one “Batman: The Ride,” but it has nothing to do with Batman. It’s just a roller coaster that they named after Batman. I could call my car “Batman: The Ride,” but that doesn’t make it Batman-related. In fact, I AM going to call my car “Batman: The Ride.” Let’s see if people want to pay $40 to ride in it.

Batman: The Ride

Anyway, the good thing is, the important things never change. Home is still home, no matter what, and a beautiful summer day spent in Southern California with a friend is still that, even if it’s spent at a thrashed amusement park. It’s the people who make our memories special, not the things. Even if my parents and sisters lived in a shack with beds made of broken glass, they’d still want me to visit, and I’d still want to visit them. Hey, anything would be better than the futon.

What the–?! It’s time for another installment of “Ask Eric Stuff,” a regular feature that is so absurdly popular that the government asked us to stop doing it for a couple years. In this feature, people ask Eric questions, and he answers them as best as can be expected under the circumstances (the circumstances being that Eric is a snarky jerk). You, too, can submit questions to “Ask Eric Stuff” by going here.

And now, let the questioning and answering commence! Huzzah!

Dear Eric: What’s up with this crazy weather on the east coast? One minute it’s freezing and the next we’re all sweating through our shirts. — Nutty in New England
Dear NINE: Really? Through your shirts? Most people sweat through their armpits.

Dear Eric: Is your condo BYU-approved? — Wondering in Washington
Dear Washy:. No, but I did manage to get it UVSC-approved, by putting a sign on the front door that says “push,” with a picture next to it.

Dear Eric: Why did milk get so expensive all of a sudden? — Cowless
Dear Cowl: Because of the ongoing war against terror being fought in Iowa. The Iowan hardliners are refusing to do business with the United States, and this has driven up milk prices.

Dear Eric: Have you ever tried online dating? I’m thinking that at the old-maidenly age of 27 it’s about time I give it a go. But will I meet anyone as special as you? — Sweetly Single
Dear Single: Depends on how you mean “special.” If you mean “retarded,” then yeah, you’ll definitely meet people as “special” as me. Almost everyone on the Internet, in fact.

Dear Eric: I am a very nice dentist. Why do people always tell me, “No offense, Doc, but I hate dentists”? Should I keep trying to be nice or just give up and be as hateful as they expect me to be? — Dr. Really Nice
Dear Dr. Feelgood: You’ll have to bear with people. It’s not that they actually hate dentists; it’s that they associate visits to the dentist with discomfort, blood, drool and being charged $150 to scrape gunk off their teeth when they could have gotten a sharp piece of metal and done it themselves for free. Win their trust by trying not to be such an evil sadist.

Dear Eric: In your last column, you had a fictional character named Ivan Drbckz. How is that pronounced? — Hooked on Phonics
Dear Phony: EYE-van.

Dear Eric: Do you have any tattoos? — Inked up in Indiana
Dear Inky: Yes. I had all of my internal organs tattooed with my name so that if they were ever stolen, they’d be useless on the black market.

Dear Eric: My sister says that guys “don’t think.” Is that true? — Wondering Woman
Dear Woman: What was the question? Sorry, I was busy playing a video game and saying “dude.”

Dear Eric: My friends work at a local movie theater, so it has been around a year since I have had to pay for a movie. Do you think this is unethical? — Stealin’ in Santa Cruz
Dear Santa: I haven’t paid for a movie in several years, nor for magazines, books or groceries. Not because of perks of my job, but because I’m really, really good at shoplifting.

Dear Eric: I’m in California for the summer and I don’t have any friends out here and I was wondering if you’d come out here and be my friend. — Friendless in Santa Barbara
Dear Santa: No.

Dear Eric: My son’s tennis shoes really, really stink. I don’t even let him keep the shoes in the house. We’ve tried foot odor spray, but that hasn’t helped at all. What do you suggest? — Pinching My Nose
Dear Pinchy: Tell your son if his feet don’t stop stinking, you’ll stop loving him. Then follow through. Good parenting sometimes requires tough love.

Since it’s summer blockbuster season — “the most wonderful time of the year,” as the old summer blockbuster carol goes — I thought I’d share with you some of my ideas for summer blockbuster movies. Please do not steal these ideas, or I will hunt you down, restrain you, reveal my diabolical plan for killing you, and then permit you to escape.

“Cool Breeze”

A disaster film that truly “blows” … you away! Windologist Jack Weatherman discovers that his worst nightmare/fondest dream is about to come true: Cool breezes from the Atlantic Ocean are heading for the East Coast at a deadly, leisurely pace! If people don’t act quickly, they’ll find themselves refreshed and killed within a matter of days.

Jack rushes to Washington to warn the president, only to discover that there are TWO Washingtons, and the president is in the one surnamed D.C. So he rushes to that Washington to warn the president, but his advisers tell him not to worry about the rantings of a crazy windologist. Evacuating coastal citizens to the midsection of America would be both costly and boring.

Fortunately, an insane old professor named Winston Stodgy believes Jack’s foretelling of doom, and the two set about finding a way to stop the cool breeze from reaching the coast. But they are too late: Before they know it, the breezes have hit New York City, which is soon in rubble, the State of Liberty lying face down in the gutter with her dress up around her waist. Other cities on the East Coast may or may not be as unlucky; cities other than important ones (i.e., New York) are not shown. People panic, and there is mayhem. Cats and dogs live together. It is mass hysteria. The president, now aware of the danger, goes on television with with an impassioned, concerned look on his face and tells America to brace itself and be brave. When his handlers insist on whisking him away to a breeze-proof bunker, he refuses, saying he won’t hide while the people he serves live in terror. He rushes out into the breeze and is stoically killed instantly. His handlers drag his corpse into the bunker and find a look-alike to take his place (but we leave that for a different movie).

Meanwhile, an alcoholic former fighter pilot named Slushy has an idea: Fly his plane directly into the breeze as a means of diverting it away from the mainland and back out to sea. Even though this plan makes absolutely no sense from a scientific standpoint, Jack and Winston tell him to do it, even though it is deadly (and impossible). Slushy says goodbye to his estranged children, flies into the breeze, and America is safe … for now. Every character who has a name survives, except for the aforementioned Slushy, who dies nobly; those without names die.

“Intense Deadly Murder of Death”

An action film like nothing you’ve ever seen before! (Note: Assumes you’ve never seen an action movie before.) Joe Gruffton is a homicide detective who doesn’t play by the rules. He’s a one-man wrecking crew, and he’s surly and sometimes he beats up perps, but he’s a good cop and he gets results. So what if he’s a bit of a “loose cannon” or a “borderline sociopath”? He gets the job done!

But Joe’s life and career are on the line when he stumbles into a ring of international drug smugglers/kidnappers/terrorists, run by Ivan Drbckz, a darkly handsome man with a vague European accent who commands a squadron of ugly, foreign-looking henchmen. When Joe’s partner is killed by Drbckz for getting too close to the truth — the truth was really hot, and it burned him when he approached it — Joe vows to the man’s widow that he will find the killers and bring them to justice, or possibly just kill them. His sergeant tells him he’s too personally involved with the case and suspends him, but that just makes Joe angrier and more personally involved.

This leads to a deadly game of cat-and-mouse in which all bets are off and the stakes are high, which makes it even more disappointing that all bets are off. After a high-speed chase through the city in which fruit stands are knocked over and many non-fatal accidents are caused, Drbckz leads Joe to an abandoned warehouse in which all the machinery still functions. As they grapple, Drbckz explains his motives to Joe, somehow finding the strength to speak despite being repeatedly punched in the face and whacked with a crowbar. Levers are pulled and switches are switched, and it ends with Drbckz hanging by one hand over a vat of molten lava (this was a molten lava factory). Joe briefly considers letting him die, but remembers his job is to uphold and protect the law, and part of the law is not killing people, so he pulls Drbckz to safety instead. Then, when he turns his back, Drbckz — in a move that surprises everyone, because we all thought this was a drug lord who had scruples — tries to push Joe into the vat, but Joe darts out of the way and Drbckz goes in instead. As the old saying goes, he who lives by the vat dies by the vat.

“Comic Book Man”

A super-exciting superhero movie based on the comic book “Comic Book Man.” Kent Parkerson is an ordinary man, until one day he’s in an accident involving some kind of science-y thing, and he wakes up the next day to find himself … Comic Book Man! He has all the powers of a movie hero who’s based on a comic book! (In the comic book, Comic Book Man has all the powers of a guy who’s about to be made into a movie.) He must keep his identity a secret as he pursues the evil Dr. Comic Book Man Hater and attempts to thwart his plan of destroying Comic Book Man. A must-see for all fans of Comic Book Man! Ask your mom for some money and a ride to the theater!

“It Head to Be You”

A light-hearted, unpredictable romantic comedy about a stuffy, uptight man and a carefree, irresponsible woman who meet — and don’t like each other! Except then eventually they do. But at first they don’t!

It starts when Jenna McTramp meets a man in the elevator on the way up to the trendy magazine where she works and insults the man’s taste in neckties, before accidentally spilling her hot coffee all over him, resulting in third-degree burns. (You knew this romance would be red-hot, but you probably didn’t expect me to take it so literally, didja?!) To make matters more hilarious, it turns out he’s her new boss! His name is Gavin Straightly, and he does NOT like Jenna or her attitude, nor she him or his. Jenna’s chubby, dateless friend thinks they should get together, though, and so does Gavin’s less-attractive, wisecracking roommate. But they can’t! Jenna already HAS a surly boyfriend who doesn’t love her, and Gavin already has a ditzy girlfriend who cheats on him. So they’re already taken.

Anyway, then Gavin and Jenna have to work on a project together, redesigning their magazine to make it filthier, and they totally start to like each other, in spite of their many differences, her immaturity, his prison record, and their fiery hatred for each other. Trouble is, Gavin’s been lying to Jenna about something: He doesn’t have a head! The “head” she sees atop his shoulders every day is an elaborate prosthesis, complete with mechanical mouth and furrowing eyebrow action. He lost his real head in a car accident a few years back, and he’s ashamed to tell her. Now, he’s in too deep: What will she say when she learns the truth, and that their love is predicated upon a lie, i.e., the lie that he has a head?

Well, sure enough, the truth comes out like a debutante at cotillion when Gavin’s fake head falls off in the street and is crushed by a truck. Jenna’s feelings are crushed, too, though this is more a figurative crushing. She breaks up with Gavin, and they miss each other while it rains and while a Norah Jones song plays on the soundtrack. Then, while Jenna is addressing Congress on an important magazine-related issue, Gavin shows up and apologizes to her — and this all goes out LIVE on television! Jenna takes Gavin back, and they all live happily ever after and have little headless babies.

The other day I cleaned the dickens out of my bathroom. The very dickens, I tell you! It wasn’t especially untidy, as I do generally run a tight ship. But it was legitimately in need of a good scouring, top to bottom, and I was suddenly struck with a passion for doing it. However, this passion occurred at 3 a.m., just as I was preparing to go to bed.

So I was about to clean the bathroom then and there, but I thought, If I am to stave off the onset of obsessive-compulsiveness, I need to NOT clean the bathroom at 3 a.m., for that way lies madness. If the bathroom truly needs cleaning, and if I truly want to clean it, it still will and I still will after I wake up in the morning.

Next morning, sure enough, the bathroom was still dirty and I still had a hankerin’ to clean it. But after about 10 minutes of scrubbing and scouring, my back hurt like the aforementioned dickens and I had to lie down and read a magazine for a while. I concluded that obsessive-compulsiveness is not really a danger for me, as I am not in good enough shape to maintain it.

I try not to be abnormally fastidious. I generally like things tidy, but mostly I like them CLEAN. “Clutter” is not an issue with me as long as the items comprising the clutter are individually clean. But DIRTY things — dishes, food wrappers, corpses — lying around the house, THAT I cannot tolerate, even if they are neatly stacked.

All of which is necessary to explain to you why Raoul must die.

Raoul (names have been changed), of course, is the Argentine fellow renting a room here at Condo de Eric. Now, I have never been to Argentina — I am only vaguely aware that it is an actual country, not a fictional place like Narnia or Chechnya — and what little I know of it was gleaned from “Evita.” So I don’t know if there are local customs that would explain Raoul’s behavior, or whether he would be considered a freak in his homeland, too.

For example, let us discuss the issue of raw meat. If you or I intended to thaw a piece of frozen meat — well, let’s say you, because I never buy food that needs to be prepared — you MIGHT leave it sitting on the counter, though you know it’s a bit safer to put it in the refrigerator. But either way, once it was thawed, you would wrap it in something, or cover it with something, and put it in the refrigerator until it came time to use it, that day or maybe the next.

Not Raoul. Raoul recently thawed a three-pound chunk of raw beef, put it on a plate, and deposited it in the fridge, uncovered and unseparated from the other, non-beef products. Hence, my milk began to smell and taste like raw beef, an unpleasant reminder of its bovine source. Additionally, every time the refrigerator was opened, the smell would burst from its arctic cage and distribute itself through the house like an exceptionally offensive poltergeist.

Issues of taste and odor aside, it is not healthy to eat meat that has been left unprotected in a refrigerator, especially not when it has been in that condition for four days, which is how long it was before Raoul got around to cooking it. Meat that has been treated with such disrespect is liable to turn on you, the way a roommate might turn on you after you tainted his milk.

And so I wondered: 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.

Anyway, because Raoul is scary and ill-tempered, I prefer not to engage him in conversations that are potentially incendiary or that I fear he will not understand. (Like Frankenstein’s monster, he gets angry when he does not comprehend things.) So I avoided a conflict, bought some Saran Wrap, and took care of the problem myself, in true passive-aggressive fashion. Better to be an unpunched passive-aggressive than a punched obsessive-compulsive, that’s what I say.

And then there was the Dishtowel Incident.

One good thing about Raoul is that while he loves to cook and make messes, he also generally cleans up after himself. It might take a day or so, but he does it. Unfortunately, one Saturday afternoon I made the mistake of WATCHING him clean. Where you or I would use a dishtowel for drying a) dishes or b) our hands, Raoul uses the dishtowel to clean the countertops. He sprays the Formula 409 or whatever, and then instead of using oh, say, a sponge to do the wiping, he uses the dishtowel. What then becomes of the dishtowel? Why, he hangs it right back up, of course, so that an unsuspecting person might use it to dry dishes, and in the process transfer deadly chemicals to said dishes.

(So what does he dry dishes with? He doesn’t. When he washes a dish by hand, he simply puts it back in the cupboard wet. I am not making this up.)

More appalling abuse of the dishtowel came to my attention when I saw Raoul making a meatloaf of some kind. This involved fondling and manipulating ground beef with his bare hands, after which he “washed” his hands by wiping them on the dishtowel. No soap or water was involved; just wiping. On the dishtowel. Which he then hung up again, so that someone could use it to dry their hands, because who doesn’t enjoy drying their hands with a meaty towel?

I am fearful of even entering Raoul’s bathroom. Given the way he treats objects that he has to eat, I can only imagine what goes on at the other end of things, as it were. I suspect that if I entered his lavatory, I would feel compelled to clean it, and I’m pretty sure my back is not up to the task.

I was thinking about Helen of Troy, and then I began thinking about the underpants of Troy. This occurred when I was watching the movie “Troy,” which is not about a guy named Troy, but about a city (or possibly a country) named Troy, which stole Greece’s queen and then had to defend itself when Greece came looking for her. I always pictured Greece storming up in a wife-beater T-shirt, like Marlon Brando in “A Streetcar Named Desire,” standing outside the walls of Troy yelling, “HELLLLL-ENNNN!,” but this is not the way the movie portrays it.

Anyway, all the men in this movie wear tiny skirts, as news of pant technology had not yet reached Greece in 1200 B.C. Beneath the tiny skirts, they wear even tinier underpants, necessary for purposes of modesty, particularly in battle, when the men spend a lot of time in mid-air or upside-down. And it occurred to me that the underpants of the ancient Greeks cannot have been very comfortable. Heck, I’m not thrilled with the underpants of the modern Americans, and we’re light years ahead of the ancients in most ways. (We speak English, for example.)

As the movie wore on — it is well over a million hours long — I began to wonder more and more about ancient customs, fashions and practices. Did the women wear lacy, pretty underclothing, or was it the same as the men’s? What about brassieres? How often did all this stuff get washed? Did people have more than one set?

By the time the movie ended, several days later, I was consumed with a desire to learn about the unmentionables of the ancients. So I went to our friend the Internet, which knows everything. I told Google to look for “underwear,” but this brought up quite an alarming number of alarming sites, so I narrowed it down to “ancient Greek underwear.”

Ancient Greek fashion in general is covered quite thoroughly on the Internet (as are most subjects, I suppose). I was delighted to read this story, at the Web site for the Hellenic Museum [direct link now defunct], by the historian Herodotus, that explains why Greek fashion changed from Doric to Ionic:

“Herodotus explains, after a disastrous military campaign by the Athenian army, all the forces were put to death except one man who managed to escape, return to Athens and tell the women about their husbands’ fate. Devastated, the women took the huge pins from their Doric peplos and butchered the man in anger and contempt. The remaining men of Athens were so horrified that they declared that only closed pins would be worn on clothing and that the Ionic dress should be worn by everyone in the future, as it required only two pins. Whether the story is true is uncertain, but there was a period when open pins went out of favor.”

The closest parallels to this that I can think of in modern life are the sudden unpopularity of the narrow, square mustache circa 1939 and the pillbox hat post-1963.

Information on ancient Greek underwear specifically is a bit harder to come by, and if the Internet doesn’t have ample information on something, I feel like I must be a complete weirdo for wanting it. One source says the Greeks didn’t wear underwear per se but that the Romans did. There is a discussion group at Yahoo! (enthusiasm theirs) called Male Underwear History whose moderators found it necessary to note, “This is NOT a gay fetish list!” (sure it isn’t), but the folks there don’t go back as far as ancient Greece. Other sites indicate the basic triangle-shaped loincloth was worn by all peoples and cultures for hundreds of years, except that the Greeks were fond of being utterly naked, even during their Olympics (which gave new meaning to the term “freestyle”).

So at this point, my findings are inconclusive. And the trouble with ancient history is that even if you read all the books on the subject, you still might not have a consensus on how things actually went down, since most of the books were written thousands of years later by people who weren’t there. (I’ve already heard from one person telling me the film “Troy” is inaccurate because the warriors in those days went into battle wearing NOTHING below the waist, either to intimidate the enemy, or to make him laugh, whichever worked, and I’m sure now I’ll hear from historians who believe the opposite.) Nonetheless, I shall continue to research until I’ve gained a greater understanding of Greek underpants, or until I get tired of it, whichever comes first. The important thing is, if you search for “Greek underpants” on Google, my Web site will hereafter be among the hits. So I’ll be attracting a pretty interesting clientele from now on, I think.

By the way, 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.

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.

My beef (har!) with the fat discussion is that we’re lying when we say it’s about health. The issue is really that most Americans don’t like to LOOK at fat people, particularly when those people wear revealing clothing, and particularly when it’s women wearing belly shirts and low-rise jeans who have tattoos on their lower backs and who are in line in front of us at 7-Eleven buying what must be, by the looks of them, their twelfth pack of Ding Dongs TODAY.

We all know people who are larger than average who nonetheless wear it well, comport themselves with dignity, don’t make public appearances in the nude, and so on. It doesn’t bother us that those people are fat, because their fat doesn’t offend our sense of decorum. It’s when they go on a daytime talk show, scantily clad and spewing ignorance as they bounce around the stage, that we think, “Look at that fat idiot!”

Author Paul Campos has just published a book on this very subject, entitled, “The Obesity Myth: Why America’s Obsession with Weight Is Hazardous to Your Health.” Campos basically says that the statistics suggesting that obesity causes health problems are suspect — that fat people can be just as healthy as thin people.

Furthermore, he says our definition of “obesity” is messed up anyway. We use the “body mass index,” a mathematical formula that tells you, in one easy number, how fat you are. (You can find out your BMI here.) To determine your BMI, you simply multiply your height by itself, then divide it by your weight, then multiply it by twice your pants size, then add the loudness, in decibels, of the sound you make when you have to bend over to pick up something off the floor. If that number is less than 25, you’re OK. If it’s 25-29, you’re what the government calls a “fatty,” and the government is permitted to make taunting remarks such as, “Hey, Fatty!” or “Get a load of that fatty!” If it’s 30 or higher, you’re a “lardo,” and the government is required by the Constitution to say things like, “Geez, Lardo, go easy on the pie!”

Campos says this is all wrong. He points out that the BMIs of noted hotties Brad Pitt, Michael Jordan and Mel Gibson put them all in the “overweight” category, while Russell Crowe, George Clooney and Sammy Sosa are “obese.” Also, he points out the difference between our standards of “thinness” for women and men: If Jennifer Aniston had the same BMI as her husband, she would weigh 50 pounds more than she does, and everyone would talk about how fat she is, and they’d say it’s a good thing Ross convinced her to get off the plane, because it never would have gotten off the ground anyway. (She currently weighs 18 pounds and can fit in your jacket pocket.)

I think Campos has a point, despite the fact that, with the exception of athletes, it’s pretty difficult to find out how much celebrities weigh and thus determine their BMIs. (According to the best info I can find on the Internet, he’s right about the ones he listed, except Sammy Sosa, who at 6’0″ and 220 lbs. has a BMI of 29, which only makes him “overweight.”) There are cultures where being fat does not carry the stigma it does in America, where people have no problem with largeness, and where the people aren’t falling over dead from being fat, either.

For example, let us consider the island nations of Tonga and Samoa. One of the things I have always admired about these cultures is that they like their men to be both fat and shirtless. Being fat, sure, you see that some places. Or shirtless, that’s pretty common in some of your more tropical regions. But fat AND shirtless! Not just obese, but semi-nude, too! As if to say, “Yeah, we prefer our men super-sized — and we’re NOT ASHAMED OF IT! You Americans can take your image issues and go the hell back home!” (Note: Pacific Islanders are generally more friendly than that.)

You know how most countries hide their more peculiar or offensive traditions when they host the Olympics, so the rest of the world won’t think they’re insane? Well, if Tonga or Samoa had the Olympics, they’d send their fattest, most shirtless men to the airport to greet the visitors. The runway would be lined with enormous, topless men, their flapjack-sized nipples proudly displayed as they waved to their newly arrived guests, their pendulous arm fat flapping vigorously from the effort. Fat isn’t such a bad thing over there. And is it a coincidence that the OTHER thing those cultures are known for is being happy?

Which brings us to the subject of the fat people who got kicked out of the buffet for eating too much.

I’m proud to say this event, which was widely reported in the national media last month, occurred in Utah, a place where nothing is so innocuous that it will not offend someone. Sui Amaama and Isabelle Leota, a married Samoan couple, were asked to leave a Chuck-A-Rama buffet restaurant because they were eating too much roast beef. Specifically, Amaama was going back for his 12th slice when the manager cut him off, citing concerns that there would not be enough roast beef for the other customers. When Amaama and Leota asked for a refund, then, if they weren’t going to be allowed to eat all they could at this all-you-can-eat restaurant, the manager refused, and the police were eventually called to escort them out of the place.

The reason Amaama was eating 12 slices of roast beef was not, ironically, because he’s a fat guy (though he is a fat guy). It was because he was on a diet — the Atkins Diet, obviously, a perfect diet for gluttons because it allows you to eat all the fat you want as long as you avoid carbohydrates, and as long as you tell everyone you encounter, including strangers and infants, that you are on the Atkins Diet. He and his wife were both on this program, and they ate at Chuck-A-Rama at least twice a week, taking advantage of the plentiful Atkins-approved meats they have there.

Leota and Amaama later told The Salt Lake Tribune that they felt they were “targeted” because they were Pacific Islanders. Their lawyer said, “When people ask for a refund, do they normally call the police?” Leota said, “We want to end the stereotypes that Pacific Islanders eat more than your average customer.” She said this as she hefted an entire pit-roasted pig to her mouth and gnawed off one of its hooves.

No, I kid. But this is a complex issue, and I have a number of half-developed thoughts to share about it.

1. How much sympathy can we really have for people who admit to eating at Chuck-A-Rama twice a week? Good grief, have some dignity. At least go to Golden Corral, where they have those delicious fresh rolls. Chuck-A-Rama is a bland, mediocre buffet chain frequented by the elderly and the people who have to dine with the elderly. It has the word “Chuck” right there in the name. How many red flags do you need?

2. On the other hand, Chuck-A-Rama is understood to be an all-you-can-eat restaurant. That’s why people go, because it seems like a bargain. Amaama should therefore have been permitted to eat roast beef until the supply was depleted or until he exploded, whichever came first. The Chuck-A-Rama manager is not a bartender, required by law to cut you off when you’ve had too much. He can’t say, “Whoa, buddy, no more protein for you! You driving tonight? Lemme call you a cab.” No, instead he needs to keep serving you until you sweat au jus and fall into a coma.

3. On the other hand, 12 slices of roast beef is not part of any diet plan. I don’t care what Atkins says, 12 slices of roast beef might be OK according to the letter of the law, but surely it violates the spirit. I’m not saying you shouldn’t eat 12 slices of roast beef; I’m just saying that if you do, you shouldn’t pretend you’re trying to lose weight.

4. Leota said, “We want to end the stereotypes that Pacific Islanders eat more than your average customer,” even though her husband was going back for his 12TH SLICE OF ROAST BEEF. Guess what, Isabelle. That’s more than your average customer. That’s more than your average four customers combined, I’d wager. If you don’t want people to think you eat too much, then stopping eating too much.

To its credit, Chuck-A-Rama eventually apologized to the couple for the brouhaha and offered them some free meals, though I think you’ll agree it’s a sad state of affairs when a free meal at Chuck-A-Rama is considered fair compensation for anything. The whole problem could have been avoided if some of that fat-love from Samoa had made its way into American culture, because then Amaama and Leota wouldn’t have been trying to lose weight by eating at Chuck-A-Rama in the first place. Of course, if the customs of the Pacific Islands had ALL made it to America, they’d have been kicked out for being shirtless, so maybe we do need to draw the line somewhere.

Having waxed the excess portions of my eyebrows a year ago, I found it necessary recently to do so again. It’s a slippery slope, eyebrow maintenance. You can’t do it once and forget about it for the rest of your life. You have to tweeze and pluck and groom quite vigilantly, and still visit a trained professional on occasion for a tune-up. It’s like joining a religion.

So it was that I went to a place that is very near the bottom of my list of favorite places, the mall. This was University Mall in Orem, Utah, a mall containing no fewer than five hair and/or beauty salons, yet a mall also containing no more than zero bookstores. (I do not consider Deseret Book a bookstore, as it is primarily an outlet for Mormon publications. Many of these are books, yes, but that does not make Deseret Book a “bookstore” in the traditional sense of that word, just as kids selling brownies on the street corner do not comprise a “bakery.”)

I chose which beauty establishment to patronize based on which one had among its employees a friend of mine who would give me a discount. Only one salon met this requirement, and thus the decision was easy.

Fig. A

The waxing went as smoothly as can be expected, given that it is a procedure in which abject pain and humiliation are inherent factors. My brow was red afterward, but that’s to be expected when you’ve applied scalding hot wax to your flesh and torn hairs from their roots. I would have been alarmed if my brow had NOT seemed a little abused.

What did alarm me, though, was when I arose the next morning to find my left eye and both earlobes swollen, accompanied by a scaly, leaky rash along my forehead. (See Fig. A) I’d awoken in various unsettling conditions before — nauseated; blind; upside-down; in Arkansas; etc. — but few as visually disturbing as this. It was a toss-up whom I resembled most: Sloth the monster from “The Goonies,” Jared Leto after he gets beaten up in “Fight Club,” John Hurt in “The Elephant Man,” or Eric Stoltz in “Mask.” (Whoever I resembled, it was definitely someone from a movie.)

I wasn’t panicked, though. Somehow I knew the situation wouldn’t be permanent, perhaps because everyone I’d ever encountered who looked like this had either been born that way, or had gotten that way through some obvious, violent means. If there were instances on record of spontaneous deformation, I was unaware of them.

Fig. B

Since the symptoms were localized to the areas that had come in contact with the wax (yes, I had my earlobes waxed, too — WHAT OF IT?!), I figured the wax, or perhaps the cleanser used to remove it afterward, was to blame. I’d had allergic reactions to things before, including to makeup I wore for a stage play in 1999, and to the vinyl wristband on my watch in 2003. So basically, I don’t like it when anything touches me.

I thought that if this was an allergic reaction, Benadryl might help stop it. However, I could not go to the store and buy some, because I was embarrassed by my appearance, more so than usual. So I made my brother Jeff bring me some, and I ensconced myself in the house, prepared to live the life of a hermit until the symptoms had faded.

This plan was aborted the next day, when I woke up to find BOTH eyes swollen, and additional swelling in the sideburns region of my face. (See Fig. B) I cursed the name of Benadryl (which is actually the name of a far-Eastern god, so I think I might be in trouble now) and drove myself to the nearby urgent care center, where I was given a prescription for some steroids, and then to the pharmacy, where I filled the prescription.

Fig. C

In both places, I relished the opportunity to be a monster, hoping to scare children and horrify adults. Sadly, no one looked at me. People were very good about not noticing my appearance, and they went about their business merrily. I ask you, what kind of country is this, where we’re afraid to stare at freaks? We’ve become so politically correct that when someone with puffy features and a lubricious forehead lurches toward us in a crowded drug store, we pretend nothing is amiss, when in fact something IS amiss: There is a person with puffy features and a lubricious forehead lurching toward us! Geez, you people!

Fig. D

Anyway, those steroids worked wonders. Within an hour, there was noticeable improvement in my swollenness, and I was 90 percent back to normal by the next morning. (See Fig. C) In addition, I was able to lift an automobile over my head. (See Fig. D) So, point of the story, hooray for waxing and hooray for drugs!

As a column-writing, piano-playing, condo-owning man who doesn’t enjoy sports or drive a truck or work at a slaughterhouse, it’s not often that I get to do real GUY things. Most of my activities are genteel and sedentary, and seldom involve equipment any more complicated than a pillow. So when an opportunity arises to build, fix or destroy something, I seize it with manly gusto. Of course, even the seizing process often causes my back to go out, but this is the price you must pay for manliness. The Rock’s back is probably out all the time.

When I first moved into my condo, I found it necessary to put bookshelves into some of the walls. I did this myself, thank you very much, obtaining the necessary materials from Home Depot and doing all the measuring and stud-locating and hammering without help from anyone.

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.

Another incident of manliness that occurred in my home was when I wanted to simplify the living room arrangement by getting a smaller entertainment center. The one I had occupied most of an entire wall, and was filled with videotapes and DVDs and multiple VCRs, which the Laotian kids who worked in my sweatshop used in conjunction with my video-pirating racket. I purchased a smaller, more tasteful unit at Wal-Mart and planned to put some of the videotapes in storage, since it is not often that I need ready access to a collection of “Golden Girls” episodes anyway (though it is more often than you’d think).

All that remained was for me to assemble the new unit. It came with instructions, of course, some of which were in coherent English and some of which I could not decipher without the aid of divine revelation. They seemed to have been written for the target audience of people who do nothing but put together entertainment units all day. There were pictures of each of the individual pieces of wood, labeled “A,” “B,” “C,” etc., but this was unhelpful, as there were several pieces that looked identical on paper but which were different sizes in real life.

I thought, Is this what it’s like to be a Guy? To be constantly uncertain that what you’re doing is going to make any sense when you’re done? Or do true Guys not worry about such things, proceeding vigorously without regard for the consequences? I think it’s the latter, actually. Which means being a real Guy isn’t for me. I have too much respect for the notion of “consequences.”

So it was a game of chance, assembling this entertainment center, but when it was done, it more or less resembled the display model at Wal-Mart, except without all the white trash wandering around fingering it.

The third incident of manliness that I wish to share concerns my car, which of course is the manliest thing a man owns, except when, as in my case, it’s a Kia Spectra. Then it’s the womanliest thing he owns, even womanlier than the mascara he bought once for a Halloween costume.

During the Sundance Film Festival this past January, I had to drive every night from Park City back to Heber City, where I was staying, a trip of about 25 minutes through rural Wasatch County. During one of these drives, I was pulled over by a county sheriff’s deputy, who told me that I had a non-functioning headlight. (Well, that my car had one. Mine were fine.) At first I assumed Robert Redford had smashed it in retaliation for the time I called him a leathery midget in a newspaper article, or that perhaps I had actually run him over, accidentally, not being able to see him as he skittered out in front of me. However, the officer informed me that the light was not broken; it had merely burnt out.

It made no sense to me that one headlight could burn out while the other remained active, considering they tend to operate in unison, always either both on or both off. How does one wear out faster than the other? Cars baffle me, as you see.

Anyway, the next night, while driving the same route, a different cop stopped me, as I hadn’t had time to fix the headlight in the intervening 24 hours. I realized that with the dearth of crime in Heber City, I would probably get stopped every night until the end of the festival, and so I’d better replace the headlight immediately.

I thought, A headlight is just a light bulb. I’ve changed light bulbs in my home before, and it only takes one of me, despite the jokes you may have heard. I can do this myself. So I visited an auto-parts store and told the man, whose name of course was Steve, what I needed, and he sold me the replacement bulb for $15. This seemed excessive, but I am not in the custom of haggling with auto-parts Steves over the prices of their wares. Don’t anger the Steves, that’s what I’ve learned.

My efforts to change my own light bulb were thwarted, however, when I realized access to the headlight in question was blocked by the car’s battery. This seemed like poor planning to me, but I’m not the Korean gentleman who designed the car. I’m not Korean at all, in fact, despite the jokes you may have heard. I realized that even my manly manliness has its limits, and there was NO WAY I was going to remove the battery from its stronghold. It would require wrenches and whatnot, plus I would probably get my hands extremely dirty, and then I’d have to lift the battery, too, and I know how heavy those things are.

So the next time I had the oil changed at Jiffy Lube, I had them replace the headlight. They normally charge $12 for this, but since I was supplying the new bulb, they only charged me $9. Which means I paid $24 for a new headlight when, if I had just gone to Jiffy Lube in the first place, I’d have only paid $12. If poor planning and over-spending don’t make me a Guy, then I don’t know what does.

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.

Yet women have babies every day. Not the same women, obviously, but different women. And EVERY DAY. Somehow they endure it. Some of them endure it better than others, though, and that brings us to this week’s subject matter, which is: CRAZY CHILDBIRTH STORIES.

A couple childbirth stories have been in the news recently, both involving Caesarean sections, a procedure named after the first person known to have been born that way, one Thaddeus Section. From Utah comes the dreadful story of Melissa Ann Rowland, who refused to have a C-section and thus lost one of the twins she was carrying. She was charged with “depraved indifference to human life,” and eventually pled guilty to the lesser charges of “child endangerment” and “extreme skankiness.”

Noted fashion icon Melissa Ann Rowland

Rowland, who also took drugs during her pregnancy and was smoking cigarettes minutes before she delivered, was told repeatedly that a C-section was necessary to save the lives of her unborn babies. She refused, however, allegedly because she didn’t want the scars that such a procedure would produce. According to a nurse who spoke with police, Rowland said she “would rather lose one of the babies than be cut like that,” and if you’ve seen Rowland (her picture is posted to the left), you know she’s someone who takes great pride in her appearance.

So she refused the C-section for several weeks, even though she was unable to deliver them, er, the normal way. (The term is “vaginally,” but I refuse to say it, except in parentheses.) Finally, after major complications had set in and she realized there was no other way to get the babies out of her, she allowed the procedure to be performed, but it was too late. One baby was stillborn. The surviving twin has been placed with a non-insane family.

You look at someone like Rowland and you think: How did she even GET pregnant? I mean, I know HOW. But HOW did SHE get pregnant? Despite the unpleasantness of the story, it does serve as a reminder to those of us who are average-looking, or even grossly unattractive, that willing romantic partners may indeed be out there, somewhere, provided you have access to liquor. At any rate, she will be locked up for a while in a women’s facility, so there is not much risk of her reproducing again anytime soon, at least not the traditional way.

From Mexico comes a story at the far opposite end of the spectrum, and by spectrum I mean continent. No, I mean spectrum. A 40-year-old woman in rural Mexico took extreme measures to ensure the safety of her unborn baby. What did she do, exactly?

(Warning: If you are disturbed by the thought of a woman performing a C-section on herself with a kitchen knife, do not read the next sentence.)

She performed a C-section on herself with a kitchen knife, that’s what!!!

As reported by CNN.com, the woman lives eight hours from the nearest hospital and has no running water or electricity. She lost a previous baby due to labor complications, and when this one proved impossible to deliver, er, the normal way (you know the word I mean), she took matters into her own hands, as it were.

Dr. R.F. Valle of the Dr. Manuel Velasco Suarez Hospital in San Pablo, Mexico, said: “She took three small glasses of hard liquor and, using a kitchen knife, sliced her abdomen in three attempts … and delivered a male infant that breathed immediately and cried.” (Well, you’d cry, too, if the first thing you saw upon waking was your intoxicated mother coming at you with a kitchen knife. Believe me, I know!)

I am both horrified and touched by this story. It speaks to a mother’s natural instinct to protect her child at all costs. And it is also a sobering reminder that we should consider ourselves lucky that we do not live in Mexico (although, even with accessible hospitals in most of the United States, the kitchen knife method of childbearing still might be easier than dealing with an HMO).

Finally, we come to the story of my friend Pants (names have been changed) and his wife, Mrs. Pants, who delivered their fourth child AT HOME, without ANY ASSISTANCE, while sitting IN THE BATHROOM!

Now, the crazy thing about Mrs. Pants — well, among the crazy things about Mrs. Pants — is that she prefers to give birth at home, with midwives, as opposed to in a hospital, with drugs. She is also home-schooling her children. My conclusion? She just doesn’t like leaving the house.

Anyway, early one Saturday morning last fall, she found herself, as she often does, nine months pregnant and on the verge of delivery. Her contractions had begun, but they were relatively mild and widely spaced. She and Pants decided the midwife, Margie, did not need to be called just yet.

But after a while, the contractions began to be longer and closer together, and so Pants called Margie. “Why don’t you come on over for the party?” he told Margie. “Her contractions, though not really hard yet, are pretty close, and I’m sure we’re on our way”

“OK,” Margie said, “I’m going to throw some clothes on and I’ll jump in the car.” (Pants adds, “I appreciated knowing she would be dressed when she arrived.”)

At this point, Mrs. Pants ventured into the bathroom to do a little business, but found that things were progressing faster than expected. She bellowed loudly, and Pants rushed to her aid. “I have to push,” she told him. He reports: “I called Margie back and said, ‘She needs to push.’ I suppose I was hoping that Margie had a ‘Back to the Future’-type car and would be able to arrive immediately, if not five minutes ago. Margie shot back, ‘Oh, tell her not to push.’

“Thanks, Margie. My wife’s on the brink of delivering, and I’m going back in with ‘Margie says not to push.’

“‘Margie says not to push,’ I told Mrs. Pants. She looked up at me like she was wondering when I had started drinking in the mornings. Then there was a large gush of water. Her water had broken. The expression on her face was telling me this was IT. I had seen it before and I knew this was it. I knelt down and had her scoot to the edge of the toilet and lean back. There was the baby’s head. Not just a sliver of it, but the entire top of the head. At this point, it didn’t matter if she pushed or not, the baby was coming out.

“Mrs. Pants seemed calm, and I think more than anything, that is what helped me be calm. I told her I was ready and that she could push when she was ready. She pushed once and the head came right out, no problem. It was facing to the side, correctly. I put my hand on it to guide it out, and waited for her to push again. She sort of panted and reevaluated the situation. She stood up and hunched over my shoulder, and pushed again. The baby came right out into my arms.”

Margie called from the road to see how things were going, and she instructed Pants on how to cut the umbilical cord. Everything turned out just fine, though baby Roxanna may one day face taunting when her classmates find out she was a toilet baby. I’ve advised the Pantses to tell her that early, so she doesn’t have to hear it from someone else first. It would be especially cruel in her case, since her classmates would be her siblings, being home-schooled at all.

So here’s to you, responsible mothers of the world! My hat’s off to you. And to you, Melissa Ann Rowland, I say this: What are you doing Friday night?

The people of Portland, Ore., love their city. And why shouldn’t they? It’s a fine city, surrounded by beautiful trees for tree-huggers to hug, and rivers for river-huggers to hug (unless there is no such thing as a river-hugger, in which case the rivers are just for looking).

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.)

Due, I’m sure, to the tsunami of Portland propaganda that washes over me when I visit, I’ve actually considered moving there. “Simpsons” creator Matt Groening is from Portland, and so is “Fight Club” author Chuck Palahniuk. Who’s from Orem, Utah, where I live? Those nerdy, nerdy Osmonds. Who’s from Lake Elsinore, Calif., where I grew up? Felons. Portland is definitely the best of the three locales.

Some of Portland’s pluses, which you will hear mentioned repeatedly if you go there: No sales tax; lovely scenery; a thriving cultural community; it’s not Seattle.

Some of Portland’s minuses, which locals are forbidden to speak of in the presence of outsiders: It has never stopped raining, not even for one minute, ever, not even during the most severe droughts in all of recorded history; no Del Taco.

One thing that some people believe is a plus but which I insist is a minus is that you are not allowed to pump your own gas in Portland, nor anywhere in Oregon. You have to let an attendant do it for you. New Jersey has the same law; in the other 48 states, regular citizens are permitted to perform this simple, mindless task unassisted. I myself have done it well over 1,000,000,000 times, and I say that without the least degree of exaggeration.

At first, I liked the idea of someone pumping my gas for me. It reminded me of my childhood, when full-service gas stations were the rule and not the exception, when cheerful attendants would fill the tank, check the oil, clean the windshield, rotate the tires, install a new stereo, and give you a back rub, all while making small talk about the weather. In our modern world of impersonal automation, the idea of full-service gas stations seems refreshing and quaint, like a cool glass of lemonade or vodka on a hot summer day.

I also liked the idea of Oregon’s arrangement because it jibes with my general philosophy that the fewer duties I am obligated to perform, the better. But after experiencing it for myself, the other part of my philosophy kicked in. It’s the part that says, “If you want something done right, and fast, and if you don’t want to sit in your car while some kid runs from one vehicle to another, forgetting where he left off and letting an idle gas nozzle sit in your gas tank forever, the pump having stopped long ago, DO IT YOURSELF.”

Imagine standing there, watching helplessly as the tank reaches its capacity and the pump clicks off. All that’s left is to remove the nozzle, replace it on the pump, and leave. You could reach over and do it yourself. But to do so would incur the wrath of the Oregon State Gasoline Board, or whoever, because average citizens are NOT ALLOWED to engage in any part of the gas-pumping process. So you must stand there and wait for the kid to come back and do it for you, like you’re some kind of swear-word invalid who can’t even pump his own swear-word gas.

In short, I don’t understand the reason for Oregon’s law. In New Jersey, it makes sense, as many New Jerseyans are mentally dim and/or morally shady enough to warrant not trusting them with flammable liquids. But the people of Oregon are generally decent, educated, non-Mafia-affiliated folks. Why the mistrust? What is Oregon afraid will happen? Do they think motorists will drink the gasoline? Spray it all over their cars? Use it as cologne? Are they afraid people will fill up their gas tanks, then insert the nozzle in the back seat and fill up the rest of the car, too? Is there a chance irresponsible Oregonians will use the gas pumps like guns and playfully engage in “shootouts” with one another? Why is Oregon so terrified of gasoline, when most other states — EVEN SOUTHERN STATES — let average citizens handle it routinely with few problems?

In search of answers, I located the portion of the Oregon state code that establishes the no-gas-pumping rule. You may read it in its entirety here. Specifically, paragraph 480.330 says this:

“An owner, operator or employee of a filling station, service station, garage or other dispensary where Class 1 flammable liquids [that includes gasoline] … are dispensed at retail may not permit any person other than the owner, operator or employee to use or manipulate any pump, hose, pipe or other device for dispensing the liquids into the fuel tank of a motor vehicle or other retail container.”

So that’s the law. Paragraph 480.315 gives 17 reasons for it, each dumber than the last. I quote some of them:

“Exposure to toxic fumes represents a health hazard to customers dispensing Class 1 flammable liquids.” (But apparently, toxic fumes have no effect on owners, operators and employees.)

“Self-service dispensing at retail contributes to unemployment, particularly among young people.” (In other words, we need to create jobs for our teenagers, and if those jobs can involve constant exposure to gasoline fumes, all the better.)

“Self-service dispensing at retail presents a health hazard and unreasonable discomfort to the handicapped, to elderly persons, small children and those susceptible to respiratory diseases.” (They make a good point about handicapped people, who may be able to drive but not to pump their own gas, and people susceptible to respiratory diseases, who may be harmed by the gas fumes. The thing about small children, I don’t get. It’s not like they’d be the ones pumping the gas, unless their parents are especially lazy. As for elderly people, I think we can all agree they shouldn’t be driving anyway.)

But aside from the gas situation, Portland is indeed a magical wonderland of bliss and euphoria, if only because of all the pot that gets smoked there. If I do move there someday, I’ll have to make occasional trips across the river to Washington to pump my own gas and to get out of the rain for a few minutes.

I’ve had very poor luck with the tenants-slash-housemates I’ve lived with since buying a condo three years ago. 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.

And yet despite these characters, it wasn’t until last month that I ever had to visit a roommate in jail.

Raoul (names have been changed) moved to Utah from his native Argentina three years ago to pursue the American dream, which evidently consists of working at a call center and watching a lot of the E! Channel. He’s a pleasant, harmless, law-abiding fellow, so you can imagine my shock when he was arrested on DRUG CHARGES!!!!!

Man, I was excited. I got a collect call from the Utah County Jail at about midnight on a Monday night. It was Raoul, but as soon as I accepted the charges, the call disconnected. So I found the number for the jail and called back, asking if I could talk to the inmate who was unfamiliar with American collect-calling systems and who had just tried to reach me. Raoul came to the phone, and this conversation ensued:

ME: Raoul, it’s Eric.
RAOUL: Aaron?
ME: No, Eric. Eric Snider.
RAOUL: Eric Essnider?
ME: Eric your ROOMMATE!
RAOUL: Oh, Eric, listen, I am in jail.

I don’t know how many of his friends Raoul thought would be calling him in jail, nor do I know why he felt it necessary to tell someone who had called him in jail that he was, in fact, in jail. But I suppose he was probably not in his best frame of mind. He told me he’d been pulled over for a traffic violation and that an outstanding warrant for his arrest had been discovered, a warrant issued in Wyoming (which state Raoul has never visited) and including several drug-related charges. He assured me it was a mistake, which I tended to believe — Raoul exhibited none of the usual signs of drug-dealerness, such as having expensive things or paying his rent on time — but nonetheless it would take time to sort it out. I told him I would call my lawyer friend the next day and determine what we needed to do.

Well, I was worried now, let me tell you. They were talking about extraditing Raoul to Wyoming. There’s no justice in Wyoming! That’s frontier country up there, with posses and lynchings and saloons and country stores and town meetings and old Indian chiefs who live on the outskirts and offer terse advice to cowboys who pass through as they search the territory for the outlaw who shot their brother. This was no place for a domesticated Argentine!

But I was also excited, as I mentioned. All those hours of watching “Law & Order” were finally paying off, because I knew how things were going to work. Raoul had said on the phone that he couldn’t afford a lawyer, and I’d said, “Well, you have the right to an attorney, and if you can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” I could have told him the rest of his rights, too, if so required. And I knew that if they were serious about these charges, they’d probably send detectives — ooh, real detectives! — to the house to search his room. The search warrant would only cover his bedroom and the common areas, though, and would not include my room, which I was relieved to realize, not because I have anything to hide, but because they always make such a big mess when they conduct those searches. I don’t want detectives rifling through my stuff.

So I was a little disappointed the next day when Raoul appeared before a judge who quickly realized, as did the stormtroopers in “Star Wars,” that Raoul was not the fugitive they were looking for, that he could go about his business, and that he could move along. The actual bad guy, it turns out, has four names to Raoul’s three, and only two of them match. I’d rather not believe that Utah police officers see a “WANTED” poster for a Mexican fugitive and then arrest the next Latino they happen to stumble across, but I guess it’s possible.

At any rate, no charges were filed, but Raoul’s troubles were not over. It seems he had allowed his visa to expire, which fact the immigration department was not pleased to learn when the Orem Police Department helpfully informed them of it. Consequently, Raoul remained in jail for another two weeks while he accumulated the necessary bail money, which I assume he did by making license plates.

In the meantime, he became very bored and lonely. State prison is probably thrilling, what with the constant shankings and shivvings. But county jail is dull. No one’s there for the long haul; it’s mostly just drunks and speeding-ticket non-payers, staying for no longer than one night. So there’s no chance to bond or join gangs or whatever.

Being a decent roommate, and wanting Raoul to be in good spirits so he’d let me access his checkbook and write a draft to myself to cover his rent, I headed for the hoosegow one afternoon to visit him. I had never visited anyone in jail before, and I was fascinated to see the waiting area full of people assembled to visit their loved ones. What an assortment of folks from all walks of life! There was old white trash, young white trash, white trash men, white trash women, white trash people of indeterminate gender, white trash in stretch pants, and white trash with mullets. Oh, and a few bishops. We all sat quietly until a surly, burly policeman called us, one by one, and told us how to access our inmates. (I guess we can’t all visit at once, or we might stage an uprising.)

When it was my turn, I walked down a long, yellow, fluorescently lit corridor to where Raoul was. Here I learned the Utah County Jail names its sections after Utah ski resorts. Raoul was in Alta; I could also see a Snowbird and a Sundance. Is this to taunt the prisoners? (“Hey, jailbirds, people are out skiing right now, but not you! You’re in jail. You were naughty. You suck.”) If so, I LIKE IT!

Just like in the movies, Raoul and I were separated by glass, and we had to talk on telephones. I was grateful for this, as it eliminated the awkward question of whether I’d be expected to shake hands with, or possibly even hug, Raoul. Unfortunately, due to the language and cultural barriers that separate us like a figurative glass window, Raoul did not fully appreciate the humor of my asking, “Can I get an outside line on this phone?”

Raoul was eager to hear news of the outside world, and I was eager to help him regain some of the dignity and humanity that was lost when he became part of “The System.” So I told him about the Oscars for 20 minutes or so. Then I made up an excuse about why I had to get going. (I believe it involved lunch.)

After a first-hand encounter with a correctional facility, I am left with many questions. Does jail rehabilitate people, or does it merely humiliate them into deeper scofflaw attitudes? Does our penal system work, or is it impossible for it to be effective when it’s known as the “penal system”? Why keep a law-abiding person in jail for an expired visa? Seems like if you let him out, the worst he might do is flee the country, which is sorta what you wanted him to do in the first place.

I don’t know the answers to these questions, and I’m too tired to see if Google has them. But I will reflect on them the next time a roommate of mine is arrested, which I suspect will occur regularly from now on. Essnider out.

I frequently must call my DSL provider to alert them to the fact that my DSL has stopped working. Typically, their plan is to keep me on hold for so long that by the time they answer me, the problem has fixed itself and I no longer have anything to say to them. But occasionally, a customer service representative accidentally picks up the phone when I have been on hold only a few minutes — an error for which he or she is probably fired — and after a brief confirmation of user info, this exchange occurs:

TECH SUPPORT: What is the account holder’s name?
ME: Eric Snider
TECH SUPPORT: And is this Eric Snider?
ME: Yes.
TECH SUPPORT: Is it OK if I call you Eric?

And I wonder, Why does he have to call me ANYTHING? This is a telephone conversation in which only two parties are participating. If I hear him say something, I’ll assume he’s addressing me. It’s not like we’re in a crowded train station and he has to shout my name to get my attention.

Customer service types are trained to use the customer’s name, because psychological studies show that people like to hear their names spoken aloud. This is apparently true even when people have unpleasant names, like Griselda or Amber. If someone, especially a loved one, says our name, it reassures us that we are important to them, that we are more than just “buddy” or “dude” (unless our name IS Buddy or Dude) (which it isn’t).

At Sam’s Club, there are signs posted at the checkout stands indicating that if the checker fails to thank you by name at some point during the transaction, you get a dollar. Of course, if they were really serious about it, the prize would be more like $50; they obviously don’t have much faith in their employees to get this right, offering a measly dollar every time they screw up.

But the whole thing is silly anyway, because the signs are posted right there for the customer to see. Are we really going to feel special when the clerk says our name, knowing that he only did it to avoid having to give us a dollar? And how special can you really feel when you’re at Sam’s Club, anyway? Throw me a surprise party and a “This Is Your Life”-style celebration of my past achievements, I’m still going to feel like I’m in a dingy warehouse, surrounded by people who shop at Sam’s Club.

But back to the DSL situation. He asks if he can call me Eric, and I tell him yes. Unfortunately, this means that each subsequent thing he says will end with “Eric.”

TECH SUPPORT: OK, what system are you using, Eric?
ME: Macintosh OS X.
TECH SUPPORT: Have you experienced trouble before, Eric?
ME: Yes.
TECH SUPPORT: I see, Eric.
ME: Do you?
TECH SUPPORT: (sneezes) Ah-CHOO! Eric.

The name thing loses its effectiveness when it’s repeated incessantly because it starts to sound insincere, insincerity being another thing in which customer service people are trained.

During my last phone call to DSL customer service, I attempted to explain that having me try the same fixes on my computer that we tried the last time, even though they didn’t work then and indeed had never worked, was the very definition of insanity. I told him the only thing that ever worked was leaving me on hold for 45 minutes. I told him no amount of human intervention can fix a downed DSL connection. My logic fell on deaf ears, however; this, coupled with the rampant overuse of my name, agitated me into a peevish state in which I began to contemplate the “May I call you Eric?” strategy.

Do people ever say no? Does someone ever say, “No, I’d prefer Mr. Snider”? If so, what a jerk THAT guy is!

Does anyone ever say, “I’d prefer you call me Doctor Snider” as opposed to “Mister Snider”? Those people are jerks, too. I agree a person who is a doctor ought to be called a doctor in situations where his being a doctor is relevant, such as when he is doctoring something. (“I notice you have altered the birth date on your driver’s license, Dr. Farnsworth.”) But when he’s just calling to report his Internet service is down, the number of years he went to college is of little consequence. (For that matter, the number of years you went to college is usually of little consequence. For example, I went for five years, and I’m no smarter than I would be if I’d gone for four.)

I decided that from now on, when the DSL guy says, “May I call you Eric?,” I’ll reply, “Actually, I’d prefer you call me His Eminence and Grace, the Lord Master Snider, Earl of Shatston, Most Noble Protector of the Realm and Defender of Truth.” If he has to repeat that after everything he says, before you know it 45 minutes will have passed and the DSL gods will again smile upon us.

Sometimes for fun I browse through eBay, the world’s largest online garage sale, to see what odd things people are selling and what odd prices other people are willing to pay for them. One day I happened upon a couple of brand-new DVD sets going for cheap that I knew I could resell at a profit elsewhere. So I bought them, but upon receiving them discovered they were not in the condition described on the eBay listing. I e-mailed the seller, a girl whose first name was “Christal” (which should have been an immediate indication of trouble), and explained the situation:

Hello —

I bought “X-Files” season 7 and “Deep Space Nine” season 7 from you, item #[item number] and #[item number]. There are some problems with the items, which I received today.

Your description of the “X-Files” set said, “has been opened but never viewed in great perfect shape.” In fact, it has not been opened — which would be a plus, except that instead, it has been scratched on the back cover, about two inches long, through the shrink wrap and into the case itself. It looks like a box cutter did the damage. This is not the same as “has been opened”; this is “has been damaged.”

Your description of the “DSN” set said, “new but has been opened but never viewed.” I can see it has been opened; the outer shell has also been sliced open, perhaps by the same box cutter as before, and taped up. The slice got through to the inner case, too, making it impossible to resell the item as “new,” or even “like new.”

I see that you sell a lot of things, so I’m guessing these were just oversights, where things were accidentally listed in the wrong condition. An honest mistake, I’m sure. But I can’t resell them, which was my intent, so they are of no use to me. Please indicate how quickly you can refund my money, and give me the address to mail them back to.

Thanks,
Eric D. Snider

A fairly polite letter, I believe, and you’ll notice I gave her the benefit of the doubt when I pretended to think it was an honest mistake, when in fact I believe she did it on purpose because she is evil and stupid.

Christal’s reply was thus:

AIM SORRY ALL I CAN DO IS GIVE YOU A DISCOUNT THE ITEMS WHERE LISTED AS OPEN AND I BELIEVE I SAID IN DISRIPTION JUST LET ME NO WHAT YOU THINK IS FAR DISCOUNT THANKS

Right. Well. I immediately realized I was dealing with a foreigner, and by foreigner I mean a person from a different planet, one where written language exists only in its most primitive, all-caps form.

Since she appeared not to have grasped what I was telling her — that the items were not the way she said they were — I replied and explained it again:

No, see, that’s the problem. The items were NOT as described.

I’ll repeat myself: You said of the “X-Files” set, “has been opened but never viewed in great perfect shape.” But it is NOT in “great perfect shape”; it has been sliced with a box cutter. My imagination is not fertile enough to envision a situation where an item that has been lacerated with sharp implements is still considered in “great perfect shape.”

You said of the “DSN” set only that it was “has been opened but never viewed.” That may be true, but you omitted the fact that it, too, has been sliced and taped up. The fact that it has never been viewed seems disquietingly beside the point.

Both items are damaged. Your descriptions of them on eBay gave no indication that they were damaged. Quite the opposite: You said they were in like-new condition.

Your descriptions were misleading. Therefore, I am entitled to a full refund, including shipping. Please don’t make me go to eBay with this, because I will. Avoid negative feedback and eBay on your back by doing the fair thing and giving me a refund.

Thank you,
Eric D. Snider

Here I employed the most powerful tool you have against a dodgy eBay trader: the threat of Negative Feedback. The way it works is after each transaction, whether you were the buyer or seller, you are invited to post feedback on the other person, letting others know how smoothly or unsmoothly the sale went. Positive feedback boosts your overall rating, which enhances your reputation and lets others know you are reliable. The more positive feedback you have, the more people like you, the more confident and relaxed you feel in your daily business, the more you’re the envy of your friends and colleagues. A high feedback rating gives your skin a healthy glow and can lengthen your life by several years. Your positive feedback can testify as a character witness in your behalf in a criminal trial. In the afterlife, positive feedback can be redeemed for the absolution of your sins.

Negative feedback, on the other hand, is the bane of all eBayers’ existence. It is a curse, a pox, a brand, a scarlet letter, the mark of Cain, a big giant “666” on your figurative forehead. EBay traders will do ANYTHING, up to and including murder, to avoid receiving negative feedback. To threaten negative feedback is like using Hitler as an example in an argument: You won the fight, but you fought dirty.

By the time Christal replied to my last e-mail, she had drunk enough whiskey to render herself unconscious, at which point she fell face-forward onto her keyboard and deactivated the caps lock key:

ill give you the refund but please dont bid on any more of my items you need to send a invoice requestion a refund for my records thanks and iam sorry you wornt happy

I’m entertained to know that she thought she had to TELL me not to bid on her auctions anymore, as if I had been likely to do so otherwise. I sent her the invoice requestion a refund, even though I don’t know what “requestion” means. My best guess is it means “to ask a second time,” which I suppose is what I did when I demanded a refund twice.

Out of curiosity, I checked her feedback to see what others had said. What I learned told me I ought to have checked BEFORE I bought from her, not after. I found this item, a complaint from someone a few weeks before I had my run-in with her: “Item listed as opened, not cut with a razor blade. Seller not willing to refund.”

Christal posted this response: “payed for item quick but never read item discreption complained”

I THINK what she means is, “The buyer paid for this item quickly, without having read the item description, then complained when the item wasn’t what he thought it would be.” This is a reasonable defense, until you look at the actual item description, which says, “has been opened but never viewed in new condition!!” I can’t imagine why Christal would claim the description noted the damage when all you have to do is click on the link to SEE what the description said. Obviously, Christal is more stupid than I previously thought, which is saying something, because I believed her to be the most stupid person who had ever lived.

Another buyer says this: “Seller represented that the game was ‘new and never opened’. Seal was cut!”

And another: “DVD sets were to be XMAS Presents! Can’t Give with RAZOR BLADE DAMAGE TO BOXES!”

And another: “Seller came to my house and cut me with razor blade! Not willing to call 911!”

OK, I made up the last one. Anyway, apparently Christal sits around with her brand-new merchandise and slices it with razor blades. Why does she do this? I don’t know. Maybe it is the custom on her home planet. In fact, that is my conclusion. I’m sure you wornt going to offer any better theories.

Voting Americans will soon be faced with an important and difficult decision, and of course I don’t mean the presidential election, because that decision is easy: Don’t vote for anyone who looks like an evil clown, which means John Kerry is OUT.

The important and difficult decision that looms large on the horizon like a large, looming thing is the one where we select our next American Idol. Do not treat this lightly! We have the power, with our touch-tone phones and our fingers, to change people’s lives forever. (You with rotary phones and/or no fingers are powerless.) Why, first-season winner Kelly Clarkson is now so famous that her face is being used on currency in the Southern states, and second-season idol Ruben Studdard can’t even leave the house anymore, and I mean he CAN’T leave the house, at least not without greasing the doorway first. Even Clay Aiken, who was runner-up in the second competition, is absurdly famous — and he’s NOT EVEN HUMAN!

So we must use our votes carefully. Unfortunately, “American Idol” is in its dull semi-finalist phase right now, as each week several half-talented losers are trotted out, paraded around like ponies, and then sent packing. (Again, you may draw your own comparisons to the presidential primaries.) The terrible singers highlighted during the early audition episodes are entertaining because of their badness and arrogance, and the excellent singers we hear in the final weeks are entertaining because, um, they’re good, and good stuff is entertaining. But the mediocre ones? BORING. If I wanted to see talent that was merely average, I’d start attending community theater.

Now, not everyone supports “American Idol” and its democratically elected objects of worship. I refer you to a letter to the editor printed in the March 4 edition of The Daily Universe, the student newspaper at Brigham Young University, written by one Sarah Phelps:

“Isn’t the word ‘idol’ in ‘American Idol’ the same word used in the scriptures? [Very good, Sarah! Now find two more words that are the same! No, ‘there’ and ‘their’ only SOUND the same. Try again, sweetie!] Isn’t idol worship still a bad thing? [Meh. Idol worship is sooo Old Testament.] I’ll admit that I’ve seen a few episodes of last season’s contest, but only so that I can personally attest to both the extreme idiocy and addictiveness of this TV show. [What, you watched the show as part of a science experiment?] What sounds more stupid to you: kneeling before a golden cow, or sitting before a glowing TV screen with a phone in hand, ready at a moment’s notice to mash trembling fingers into cell phone buttons as soon as Ryan Seacrest winks and says the lines are open? [Mormon ‘Idol’ contestant] John Preator says, ‘The Mormon community, for some reason, has a huge draw to “American Idol.”‘ I say that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” [Avoid reading the news out of Bosnia or Ethiopia, then.]

So, just as America has communists and anarchists living within its borders, “American Idol” has its detractors, too. And I confess I’m having a hard time dealing with something created by “American Idol,” and that something is William Hung.

William Hung is an engineering student at Berkeley whose dreadful, arrhythmic rendition of Ricky Martin’s “She Bangs” was played over and over again during the early weeks of the current “American Idol” season, precisely because it was so bad that it was hysterically funny to watch. William is from Hong Kong, speaks with an accent, is not what you’d call “handsome” (I am being charitable; in parentheses I can tell you that he is altogether strange-looking), and possesses not an ounce of musical talent or even basic charisma. If he were an ice cream, he would be vanilla with nerdberries.

But after his audition was shown, William went on to capture the heart of all America with his pluck and indomitable spirit! By which I mean, America has rallied together to mock him. He was asked to appear on talk shows and radio programs, all with the unstated goal of ridiculing him further. Here is a guy with no discernible talent who nonetheless appeared on a televised talent show; laughing at his laughable performance is a perfectly reasonable thing to do, especially if he is so clueless as to continue performing for audiences who are only snickering at him.

“American Idol” even invited him back for a special show, called “Uncut, Uncensored and Untalented,” where rejected contestants were reunited and given another chance to suck, which they all did, marking the first time in their careers that they’d met anyone’s expectations. During this show, audience members were permitted to ask questions that they had clearly rehearsed with producers beforehand, and which perhaps the producers had written for them. One girl asked William, “Do you have a girlfriend?,” in a lame, quasi-sexy manner that she was obviously uneasy with. She and the show were making more jokes at William’s expense, pretending to suggest that now he was some kind of sex symbol, sort of like inviting the least-popular girl in school to the prom just so you can pour pig’s blood on her. Except William didn’t know it was pig’s blood, because he thinks pig’s blood and genuine praise are the same thing. (I am speaking metaphorically. In practical terms, I’m sure he can differentiate between swine gore and a compliment.)

And now it’s gone too far, people. TOO FAR! William Hung has a recording contract. The Associated Press reports that the Fuse Music Network and Koch Records have signed him to record an album, “The True Idol,” to be released April 6, and to produce a video in connection with it.

Fuse president Marc Juris says, “He may not be the next American Idol, but he is definitely a star and inspiration to everyone who sings in the shower,” which may be true, but I don’t think most shower-singers would expect anyone to buy their albums. That’s why they sing in the shower, not in the recording studio.

But Koch Records general manager Alan Grunblatt, displaying a remarkable lack of common sense, declared, “(William Hung) is the new Elvis!” That’s right, the new Elvis. They do have a lot in common, in the sense that both William and Elvis are carbon-based life forms, and in the sense that neither one will ever record another album.

This needs to stop. The joke’s over. We saw the audition, we made him do it again and again for our amusement, like when you tell the town drunk you’ll give him some whisky if he’ll dance for you, and now it’s just getting sad. (With William, I mean. The town drunk thing will ALWAYS be funny.) If you buy his CD, not only will you be encouraging him to continue performing EVEN THOUGH HE IS UNTALENTED, but face it, within six months, you’ll be embarrassed you bought it. Again, sort of like the election.

In the latter half of 2003, my status as a gainfully employed citizen of this country became sporadic, which is to say I got fired. I won’t rehash the details — you show up to the office pantsless ONE TIME…! — but I will say that I’m glad I’d been dumped in romantic situations before — many times, often by the same person, occasionally through the use of strongly worded restraining orders — because this prepared me for the experience of being fired.

That’s what being fired is, really. It’s your job breaking up with you. Your boss says, “You’ve been nice, but I think it would be best if I saw other employees.” And you try to remind your boss of all the good times you’ve had, and how you’ve been great for each other, but to no avail. Really, the only difference between being fired and being dumped is that at least people who fire you have the honesty to say, “It’s not me; it’s you,” instead of the other way around.

There are some benefits to being unemployed. Not having to go to work every day comes to mind. But the downside is that no job means no income, and without an income, it’s difficult to buy things. And when I had a job, buying things was one of my favorite pastimes, up there with making purchases, shopping for items, and obtaining products by exchanging money for them. I was extravagant with money! I’d go out to eat every single day for lunch, and often for dinner, too, and sometimes I would stop by a modestly priced restaurant between lunch and dinner, pay for some food, and then just throw it in the bushes. When approached by people on the street asking for spare change, I would frequently buy them automobiles. There was no limit to my spending habits.

When I lost my job, though, 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. The lavish lifestyle had to stop, at least until I found another source of income. And so for the first time since college, I had to start finding ways of conserving money.

Coincidentally, one of the last things I wrote for the newspaper I was dismissed from was a brief, humorous item on a book I’d discovered called “The Tightwad Gazette,” a compilation of newsletters by Amy Dacyczyn in which she and her readers offer helpful hints on living as though you were as poor as a Kentuckian.

For example, Amy suggests using scrap paper to make your own envelopes, rather than buying them. Of course, you could also go to Wal-Mart and buy 100 envelopes for 79 cents, YOU CHEAPSKATE! To me, saving 79 cents a year is the same as saving zero cents a year. The figures are too close to be distinguished from one another. But maybe it was precisely that attitude that had put my finances into such dire straits.

(By the way, you can buy “The Complete Tightwad Gazette,” an even more thorough volume than the one I found, at Amazon.com for $13.99, making it the only self-help book in history whose philosophies prohibit buying it.)

So taking the principles behind “The Tightwad Gazette” to heart, I began looking for ways to spend less money. I started visiting grocery stores regularly, not just to buy ice cream or to steal magazines, but to buy actual groceries, things I could use at home in preparing meals. I canceled a few subscriptions and memberships that I didn’t need. I told the Laotian kids who worked in my sweatshop that I couldn’t afford their salaries anymore, and I released them back to their parents’ custody. Tough times call for drastic measures.

Within a few months, I noticed something: I was living on a vastly smaller income, yet I was not starving or doing desperate, crazy things like canceling my TiVo service. I had learned to live within my means, something I’d never been able to do even when I had larger, more spacious means. If I had lived this cheaply back when I HAD money, I’d be rich now, and I wouldn’t have to live like this.

Probably the most pitiful thing I did in all my cutbacks involved RC Willey, a Utah-based chain of furniture stores. Most Saturdays, they offer free hot dogs and sodas out behind the store, to encourage families to come shopping together. And so what I did was, I went to RC Willey just to eat the free hot dogs, drink the free soda, and therefore not have to pay for lunch that day.

It’s not like there are signs saying, “Hot dogs are for customers only,” and you do have to walk through the store to get to the hot dogs, so there’s always the chance something will catch your eye and you’ll make an impulse purchase, like an armoire or something. Plus, I have bought things there before, including two beds, a couch, a loveseat, a kitchen table, four chairs, a car stereo and a life-size plastic dog named Junko. I think I’m entitled to a few free hot dogs, thank you very much!

OK, I’m rationalizing. In truth, I’d have gone there even if the hot dogs were right out front, and even if I’d never shopped there before. They were free, and I wanted them. But as I was eating my free, ethically questionable frankfurters, I cast my eyes about and observed that I was clearly not the first person to think of doing this. There were many hot dog eaters in attendance who clearly were not shopping at RC Willey that day or any day. I noticed five or six mentally challenged adults from a group home, brought there by a supervisor to enjoy the free wieners. There was also a non-mentally challenged woman who was wearing pajama pants, and I figure someone who cannot afford to buy pants to wear when she leaves the house surely cannot afford to buy furniture, either. There were numerous unsupervised children. I wondered if parents dropped their kids off at the hot dog store while they dashed over to Home Depot or Sears or something.

I suppose RC Willey probably knows that people are mooching off them. They know they’re running a soup kitchen, and I applaud them for doing it. One free lunch every now and then helps, especially when you’re on a tight budget. (For the record, I fed those Laotian kids lunch EVERY DAY.)