Occasionally, I feel sorry for strangers. I see something tragic, and my heart goes out to some nameless face in the crowd. And when my heart comes back, it’s got lint and dirt all over it. It sucks.

Anyway, I was at Albertson’s to buy a card for a friend who was graduating from college. You should know that nothing brings me greater delight in this world than giving cards that are not appropriate for the situation — condolence cards when someone has a birthday, graduation cards for an engagement, and so on. I figure, the “appropriate” cards never say what I actually feel (not enough swearing), so I might as well get something that’s completely wrong altogether. The more specific the card is, the better. “To my wife on our 20th anniversary”? Perfect for a friend’s promotion at work. “Wishing you the best in your new apartment”? Great for birthday greetings sent to distant relatives. “On the loss of your cocker spaniel”? Ideal for Easter. I’ve been known to spend a half-hour or more browsing in a Hallmark store, looking for exactly the wrong card.

Anyway, I was at Albertson’s, and it was 11 p.m. on April 15. A man came in, looking very rumpled and disheveled, and asked the clerk whether they had tax forms there.

To this man, my heart went out. I wanted to take him aside, maybe buy him a sandwich, and sit down and talk.

“Sir,” I would say, “are you able to figure out where, exactly, your life went so wrong that 1) you still needed tax forms at 11 p.m. on April 15, and 2) you thought Albertson’s would have them? Please share. Let’s work this out, you and I.”

But, distracted by a card intended for one’s grandfather (!) and written in Spanish (!!), I said nothing. Nothing except, “¡Que bueno!”

Someone else I feel sorry for is Sally Fosse Morikawa of Jamestown, N.D. She wrote a letter that was published in Heloise’s “Helpful Hints” column, which appears six days a week on the Daily Herald comics page. (This is a good place for it, because Heloise looks like “The Little Mermaid’s” Ursula the sea witch.)

Heloise’s column is full of household tips sent in by readers, designed to save time and resources and to make our lives easier and nerdier. I’m looking right now at a column where someone suggests alternate uses for Q-Tips. For example: “Use them to clean crevices in electronic equipment and radios.” No more filthy crevices in your equipment, thanks to Q-Tips!

Anyway, Sally Fosse Morikawa’s letter says, “I have a TV practice that friends admire and appreciate. [I suspect the terms “friends,” “admire” and “appreciate” are all relative.] We all set the VCR for programs we do not expect to be on hand to watch. I do better. I keep it set for my daily favorites, whether I expect to be there or not. [See how much better I am?]

“If I am just getting settled in front of the screen and the doorbell rings, I can quickly switch off the TV and greet my visitor with enthusiasm. [As opposed to greeting them with an axe.] I can always watch the program later…. [Or you could watch it not at all. I’m just sayin’.]

“You can face dozens of minor interruptions with serenity [instead of murderous rage], knowing that your favorite TV programs will be there waiting for you! [No TV = no serenity.]

“All this is a kindness to friends, who no longer must worry about whether or not they are interrupting Sally’s favorite programs!”

And apparently, Sally has about 500 favorite programs, and her basement is littered with the bodies of friends who interrupted her before she got a VCR. Good heavens, woman, how much TV do you watch? If you are getting “DOZENS of minor interruptions” during the day in the form of visitors and phone calls, you are obviously too busy and/or popular to be watching TV.

I feel sorry for Sally Fosse Morikawa, not because she has no life and has to watch TV all day, but because she apparently DOES have a life, and yet STILL watches TV all day. Perhaps I will send her a greeting card that expresses my thoughts: “Wishing you a joyous Rosh Hashanah.”

My friends Monty and Claire have been exiled to England. Monty is participating in a theater program at Exeter College, learning how to direct Shakespeare. (Shakespeare plays, I mean. Shakespeare himself is probably very unresponsive to direction.) Claire, meanwhile, stays at home with their two little boys — her and Monty’s, I mean, not her and Shakespeare’s — trying to keep them from being run over by the tiny Matchbox cars the Brits drive.

The young lads, Miles and Owen, are 4 and 2, respectively. Miles is inquisitive and smart. Owen, meanwhile, is a force of nature. He toddles around ferociously, raging and hollering like a madman. He appears to be speaking, but the words are not from any discernible language. If he weren’t so adorable, I’d assume he was evil. My best guess: He has bees in his head, and the bees are crazy.

Claire always insisted she would not be one of those mothers who put harnesses on their kids in public, but that was before she tried to navigate the tiny sidewalks of Dawlish, England, with mild-mannered Miles holding one hand and bee-headed Owen tugging at the other. And so Owen has a leash. He doesn’t mind it, but he does walk at a 45-degree angle, constantly pulling against the harness as hard as he can. Dawlish is a quaint sea-side town designed by elves for use in their postcards. Everything is small and picturesque. There is a fish-and-chips shop on every corner. And the place is CRAWLING with English people, most of whom are too reserved to be entertained by Owen the unmedicated lunatic toddler.

With Monty off at school, Claire and I took the boys for a walk to the center of town, where one finds a pond infested with ducks, two of which Miles has named Table and Singlepot. (You might wonder why, but you should remember that Miles is 4, and “Why?” is not a question he can answer with any degree of accuracy.) We fed the ducks and tried to kick the seagulls, because they are belligerent and demanding.

Claire and Monty find England amusing, but they are fed up with certain aspects of it. For example, over there, ugly people are allowed on television. This bothers Claire and Monty, who believe, as Americans, that only attractive people should be televised. (“If I wanted to see ugly people, I’d go outside!” Claire says.)

Also, there’s no real peanut butter in England. (Even if they did have it, they’d spell it peanut buttre.) Claire had me smuggle them a few jars from the States, along with some other American treats like Fruit Roll-ups, cinnamon candy and Ecstasy. I worried about getting it all through customs. This being my first visit to a foreign country, I didn’t realize customs works on the honor system: They ask if you have any food items, and you say no, regardless of what the true answer is. (Actually, in England, they put the people with the thickest, most unreasonable accents at the customs checkpoint as a means of frightening off foreigners. So what the woman said was, “D’yer ‘ave innithin t’ diclah?” And I said, “No,” as in, “No, that can’t really be how you talk.” But she took it to mean, “No, I don’t have anything to declare.”)

We found store signs confusing, too. One at a grocery store said, “Reduced to clear,” instead of the more common American terminology, “Cra-ZEE Sale!!!!!!” And the Dawlish post office — located in the back of the grocery store, I might add — had a sign reading, “Please note: As from Saturday 2nd March, we will be closing at 1:00 p.m. on Saturdays.” Why wasn’t it hand-written? Why didn’t it get the date wrong? Why were all the words spelled correctly? I missed America.

It was certainly good to see Monty, Claire and the kids in their elfin village of Dawlish. As Shakespeare would say, “I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good friends” (Richard II). And as he might add, “That kid is nuts, yo” (Bill’s Party Mixx III).

You have no alternative but to fly. It’s too far away to drive. You have to fly.

So you call the airline and find out the fare is outrageously inflated. Knowing that airlines operate on principles of random number selection, you call back five minutes later. The fare has dropped $300. You take a gamble. You call back five minutes later, and it’s down again. Pushing your luck, you call back in another five minutes, only to find it has gone back up again, higher than when you started 15 minutes ago. You should have quit while you were ahead. But that’s the chance you take when you enter the stock market-like world of airline ticketing.

The day of the trip arrives. You know how much you hate taking people to the airport — why do THEY get to go on a trip and you’re stuck being their shuttle service? — so you spare your friends this torment by driving yourself and leaving your car in long-term parking. You discover it is called long-term parking because of the amount of time it takes to find a parking space.

Eventually, you’re on a shuttle bus being whisked to the terminal, and it’s a “terminal” because it’s the last place you’d ever want to spend time. Friends in other cities brag about how nice their airports are, and you think: Yeah. But it’s an AIRPORT. It’s sterile and crowded and everything in all the shops costs twice what it ought to and every time you’re there you’re either apprehensive about flying or groggy from just having flown. Gussy it up with trees and fountains — heck, put in a circus, a Super Target and a slaughterhouse — and it’s still an airport.

After waiting in line long enough to have evolved a third foot, you get to the check-in counter. But actually, before you get to the actual counter, you have to meet with the people who are working triage for the counter, rubbing a weird wand over your hands and your luggage. The triage wand people have appallingly feathered hairstyles, you note; surely our first line of defense could avail itself of a stylist whose skills are not mired in 1986.

The weird wanding complete, you advance to the check-in counter, where you are asked whether you’ve had your baggage shackled to your neck since the moment you packed it, or whether there’s a chance terrorists stopped by this morning and dropped a missile into your duffel bag while you weren’t looking. While you were having breakfast, perhaps.

You proceed to the security checkpoint. The going is slow. People trudge wearily, longing for the sweet release of death. The line is never-ending. People have been randomly pulled aside and are being searched, probed and molested. Men and women dressed in snappy business-travel clothes have been reduced to sitting on metal folding chairs and taking off their shoes so that minimum-waged people in ill-fitting uniforms can look for fuses. You used to stare at people who were being harassed by airport security, but now it’s become so commonplace that you barely give it a second thought. It’s all part of living under the regime.

At last it is your turn to pass through the metal detector. Your carry-on baggage goes on the conveyor belt, as does your jacket, due to the high number of jackets these days that are made entirely of explosive, deadly cotton. You put your keys and cell phone in the plastic bin and walk through the detector. It beeps. The look on the attendant’s face says, “You and I both know you’re hiding some metal. You should just confess now.” You consider making a joke about how it must be your stainless-steel kidney, but you stop yourself, remembering that jokes are not funny anymore.

You are prodded, fondled, investigated, caressed and groped. The findings? No metal. They eye you suspiciously, but they reluctantly let you proceed. You stumble away, feeling slightly dirty and disheartened to realize your journey technically has not even started yet.

You wish you could have driven.

Enough diddling around! We have important civic issues to discuss, such as Satanism and rabbits. We will address the more vital issue first, so Satanists, wait your turn.

The rabbits became news a couple weeks ago, when The Daily Herald reported on a Provo family whose neighbors turned them in for having a pet rabbit. It turns out — and who knew? — that you can’t keep a rabbit as a pet in Provo. This is in keeping with Provo’s ongoing effort to be the dumbest city in the world.

No, actually, it’s due to a city ordinance. Well, allegedly, anyway. Rabbits are not mentioned anywhere in the Provo City Code, which is called a “code” for a very good reason. Title 8 discusses animals, and chapter 8.02.010 defines what a “pet” is: “A domesticated animal kept for pleasure rather than utility, including, but not limited to, birds, cats, dogs, fish, hamsters, mice, and other animals associated with man’s environment.” (I disagree with the notion that cats are kept for “pleasure,” but that is not the issue here.)

Note that rabbits are not mentioned — but the phrase “including but not limited to” is. So there might be other perfectly reasonable pets that simply didn’t get mentioned. Pet rabbits seem pretty domesticated to me, and they are associated with man’s environment. Why not consider them pets?

Well, someone doesn’t, and whether the code says so or not, rabbits have become de facto non-allowable animals. The anti-rabbit faction points out that rabbits, if let loose, may destroy neighbors’ gardens. They point to the horrifying cautionary tale “Peter Rabbit” as an example. But children will destroy property, too, if you let them loose, and children carry a lot more diseases and are noisier and smellier than rabbits. Yet, the city lets people keep children as pets.

Well, not as pets, I guess, but as children. Still.

Anyway, if rabbits are outlawed, only outlaws will have rabbits. Thank you. The other hot issue is Springville High School’s mascot, the Red Devil. Though the school has had this mascot for decades, it recently came to the attention of one of Utah County’s busybodies, of which we have several million, that the devil — and who knew? — is a figure normally associated with evil. If the students use the devil as their mascot, the logic goes, then surely one day they will begin worshipping said mascot.

Already you, as a clear-thinking individual with all your own teeth, have recognized the absurdity of this notion. Schools have mascots like tigers, bears and raccoons, and no one worships them. Some schools are Vikings, and the real Vikings raped and pillaged a lot. At my high school, we were the Hitlers, and nothing bad ever came of that. Your high school mascot has little bearing on how you behave in real life. In fact, high school in general has little bearing on real life.

Some people have pointed out that Springville High School got the name not from the Satan of the Bible, but from the a cement company called Red Devil. I think this is actually more offensive than if they’d named themselves after Lucifer. Since when do we name our high school mascots after businesses? What’s next, the Orem Burger Kings? The Timpview Reeboks? The Payson Percocets? I would say Springville should change its mascot to the rabbit, but that would only be a transparent attempt to tie together two unrelated topics.

With an average humidity index of 150,000 percent, Florida is by far our sweatiest state. That is why it is so attractive to old people, as the elderly, much like the dolphins they sound like, need to be kept moist in order to survive.

And there is no shortage of moistness in Florida. Sweet deadly monkeys in the fiery heavens above me, Florida is a moist, moist place. Immediately upon stepping off the airplane, one is engulfed in moistness. Even your retinas sweat. The driest a Floridian ever gets is when he is under water.

Fortunately, Florida is almost completely surrounded by oceans, gulfs and bays. This allows humans some respite from the relentless and punishing heat and dampness that permeate the air, tormenting the damned souls who find it their lot to live in that weather-forsaken wasteland.

But my point is, I had fun in Florida. I was in Clearwater, adjacent to Tampa Bay. If you drive around Clearwater for 10 minutes, you will find yourself unsurprised when you learn that it is the site of the first Hooters restaurant. It’s that kind of place. It is also home to a strip club called Mugs ‘n’ Jugs, which I initially wanted to visit only so I could tell people I’d been to a place called Mugs ‘n’ Jugs. (Fortunately, I learned after eating at Pancho & Lefty’s in St. George, Utah, that I should not patronize businesses simply because I think their names are funny. Besides, telling people I had been to Mugs ‘n’ Jugs probably would have raised more questions than it answered.)

The stereotype about Florida is that it is full of senior citizens. Having spent a few happy days in The Moistness State, I would now like to shed some light on this myth: It’s true. My friends and I were the youngest people there, by a good five decades. Everything in Florida is designed to be convenient for use by old people. For example, all the street signs are in large print, and city ordinances require that for every one T.G.I. Friday’s, there must be 11 Sizzlers. Clerks and salespersons have nametags that read “Honey” or “Young Man,” and the cars’ speedometers don’t go above 45.

I did not personally see any alligators in Florida, though I’m told they abound. In fact, it is not uncommon for them to dwell in small ponds near people’s houses, and old ladies’ pet dogs are often eaten by them. This makes me think of what will surely be a chapter title in my autobiography: “Alligators Eating Old Ladies’ Dogs: HOW GREAT IS THAT??!!” There is no amount of money I would not pay to see this happen. In fact, note to Mom (if she still reads this column): Next time I visit Florida, I’m taking your imbecilic chihuahuas with me.

At the opposite end of the things-I-want-to-see spectrum, we went to the beach. (I don’t mean “we” as in “the chihuahuas and I.” I mean it as in “my friends and I.”) It was a warm, moist day, so the beach was packed with people who, like me, were practicing the theory of attractiveness relativism. Basically, this means that no matter how unattractive you are in a swimsuit, you may feel comfortable as long as there is someone nearby who looks worse.

Now, since my shirtless torso looks like a hairy, jaundiced marshmallow, I tend to be self-conscious when surrounded by toned, tanned individuals. Fortunately, such were not to be found at the beach that day. It was Hairy Jaundiced Marshmallow Day, apparently, and many of the participants were in far worse condition than I. Thus, I strolled around proudly, confident in the knowledge that relatively speaking, I was gorgeous. (I’m not sure how the person who actually IS the worst-looking person on the beach feels. I wanted to ask her — she was the pot-bellied, gelatinous woman who wore a string bikini, thus bringing shame and degradation to all mankind — but I couldn’t work up the nerve.)

So for dank, sultry fun in the sun, visit the retirement community of Florida. Don’t forget to bring your towel and your gator-beatin’ stick.

From the makers of “The Singles Ward” comes a hilarious new Mormon comedy called “It’s Funny Because It’s True.” We have obtained a top-secret copy of the script, which we thought was strange, since “The Singles Ward” didn’t even HAVE a script.

SCENE: BYU CAMPUS

McKAY: Hey, Spencer, want some Jell-O?
SPENCER: Only if it’s green and has shredded carrots in it.
McKAY: We Mormons sure eat a lot of Jell-O!
SPENCER: It’s funny because it’s true!
GORDON JUMP: I played a child molester on “Diff’rent Strokes.”
McKAY: Hey, here comes that girl I like.
SPENCER: She sure is pretty. She’s an eight-cow woman, for sure.
McKAY: I’ll say! Her friend, though, is not as pretty.
SPENCER: You might say she has a “sweet spirit”!
McKAY: Ha ha!
SPENCER: It’s funny because it’s true!
PORTER ROCKWELL: I do not approve of violence.
CLOWN: (honks nose as he cartwheels past) PRETTY GIRL: Hello, guys.
UGLY GIRL: Hi!
SPENCER: Hey.
McKAY: The four of us ought to go on a double date. We should hike the Y, or go to Hogi Yogi, or eat Jell-O.
SPENCER: Dude, you already talked about Jell-O.
McKAY: Fetch!
J. GOLDEN KIMBALL: I wish you would watch your language.
McKAY: Well, let’s go watch a show at one of the many community theaters, then.
DONNY OSMOND: I don’t like musical theater.
PRETTY GIRL: Yeah, that would be totally fun.
UGLY GIRL: Yes, let’s go on the double date! I’m unattractive, and I think of nothing but getting a husband!
FRESHMAN: (in puberty voice) Hi, guys. I just got my mission call! I’m going someplace bland and unexciting, but I’m pretending it’s awesome.
McKAY: It’s funny because it’s true!
SPENCER: People really do that!
ORRIN HATCH: I’m a famous Mormon politician.
PRETTY GIRL: He’s right! He is!
SPENCER: It’s funny because it’s true!
McKAY: Hey, we’d better take off. It’s almost time for Family Home Evening. (to camera) Get it? Family Home Evening?
SPENCER: It’s funny because you mentioned a thing I’ve heard of!
FRESHMAN: I’m going to buy some suits, and then I’ll enter the MTC.
McKAY: Once you’re there, you can’t date girls anymore.
SPENCER: It’s funny because it’s true!
MERLIN OLSEN: Anyone remember me? Anyone at all? Hello?
UGLY GIRL: Young children go to Primary!
PRETTY GIRL: And sing songs!
SPENCER: My oh my, that is funny.
McKAY: Funny because it’s true.
PRETTY GIRL: I went to Relief Society, and the sister teaching the lesson put a centerpiece on the table.
UGLY GIRL: That’s what always happens!
SPENCER: Your mentioning it is a funny thing!
ORSON SCOTT CARD: Why aren’t there any good LDS writers?
McKAY: It’s funny because it’s true!

While watching TV at the gym — and could there be a better combination of laziness and health? — I was alarmed by something I saw on MTV. I get alarmed every time I watch MTV these days, which is a sure sign that I am growing very, very old.

It shouldn’t surprise anyone that if civilization is declining, MTV is at the head of the line, smoking pot, flashing its breasts, and yelling, “Wooo!” It’s interesting that when MTV first came around, people who didn’t know what they were talking about declared it “evil” because it played music videos, which someone arbitrarily decided were bad. And now, 20 years later, MTV actually IS evil — not because of the videos, which it doesn’t play anymore, but for other reasons.

What caught my attention at the gym was the vomiting. It was on one of MTV’s many, many “spring break” programs, most of which center around people cavorting on beaches while not wearing much clothing. This particular show was dare-oriented, with a cool-dude host offering shirtless men about $40 in exchange for doing stupid things. I’m not certain what the stupid thing was when I tuned in, but it had led to all the participants throwing up. The person to hold everything down the longest won the $40.

Perhaps my horror at this was due to the phobia I have of vomiting. I haven’t thrown up since I was 13, and in the ensuing years, I have built it up in my mind to be a more dreadful process than it is. I mean, I know it’s not pleasant. But now I’m imagining it to be the worst thing that could ever happen to a person, like I might not survive if it ever happened to me again. I’ll hear a friend talk about puking and then continuing with his life normally, and I’m amazed, because I’m sure I would have to be hospitalized.

(By the way, doesn’t it seem like kids throw up all the time, but grown-ups hardly ever do? Maybe it’s because kids’ bodies are still new, and they haven’t gotten used to things yet. Also, maybe it’s because kids eat things like crayons.)

But the next stunt, after the don’t-throw-up contest, had a guy being dipped in molasses, after which prizes were stuck to his body, after which he was hung upside-down by his ankles, after which blindfolded spring break girls whacked him with bats like he was a piñata. For this he received $40 (he talked the host up from the original offer of $5).

Let us pause a moment to acknowledge that only men would volunteer to participate in such stupid behavior. Women have a thing about appearing foolish in public, while men seem to thrive on it. If you told a man you would pay him $40 if he would allow himself to be videotaped while undergoing a lobotomy performed by a robot, his only question would be whether he could be naked during the procedure.

Anyway, I realized I was more saddened than disgusted by the show. So many TV shows and movies, like those spring break girls with the bats, exist only to hit us in the gut. Telling a story or introducing characters is a hassle. Why bother, when you can just film regular people being morons? Instant entertainment, cheap and in the can.

I’m all for the occasional bit of mindless entertainment, but I think we’re in trouble when it becomes the rule instead of the exception. Either way, I’m not going to the gym anymore.

Act I: A casual lunch

ERIC: I must write a humorous funny column today, yet I am without ideas.
LUSCIOUS: You should write about shoes.
ERIC: A column about shoes? Whatever would I say about shoes?
LUSCIOUS: I do not know; that is for you to determine. You are the funny humor column writer.
ERIC: I do not wish to cast dark shadows across our friendship, but your idea is stupid.
LUSCIOUS: I tell you, it would be a fine column. Shoes? Hello, SHOES?!
ERIC: The merits of your idea escape me. I shall ignore the suggestion, and henceforth nevermore ask you for help. A column about shoes I will never write!
LUSCIOUS: Shoes.
ERIC: Do not push it, Luscious Malone.

Act II: While driving, some time later

TANNY: Luscious has given me an excellent idea for a book which I shall write.
ERIC: How grand for you. Her ideas for me tend toward the pedestrian.
TANNY: Meaning…?
ERIC: She suggested I write a column about shoes. Every time I see her, she tells me again to write about shoes.
TANNY: Shoes? What about them?
ERIC: That was my question.
TANNY: That Luscious Malone is one crazy bag of bottlecaps.

(ERIC‘s cellphone rings)

ERIC: Hello?
LUSCIOUS: Shoes!

Act III: While shopping at Nordstrom, some time later

TANNY: It is a game! Luscious and I will each select shoes for Eric to try on, and he will select a pair, too. Then, upon trying each, he will choose his favorite!
LUSCIOUS: Huzzah!
ERIC: I don’t need any shoes.
LUSCIOUS: I said, huzzah!

(Shoes are chosen. SALESGIRL crams ERIC‘s grotesque, bunionous feet into one pair of them.)

ERIC: These dress shoes have the look of class about them; however they are slick. Look and marvel upon the slickness of them! (He slides around the floor. Only with great effort does he not fall. He is as if ice-skating.)
LUSCIOUS: The antics caused by those shoes are hilarious! You should indeed write a column about them.
ERIC: It is an amusing situation….
LUSCIOUS: You’re going to write a column about shoes! It is just as I suggested many weeks ago, and now it will finally come to fruition!
ERIC: But it will not work. The humor of the slick shoes is visual in nature, and the column is in text only.
LUSCIOUS: ‘Twill be funny! Write it and see how funny a column about shoes can be! Write it, write it, write it, write it! (She prances madly about the store.)
TANNY: (shaking his head sadly) One crazy bag of bottlecaps.

(Exeunt. End of the play.)

(Note: To save online readers the trouble of posting derisive comments after this column, we have inserted within the column itself the sort of things the hecklers are likely to say. So go ahead and take the day off, you troublemakers, you.)

Since NASCAR is the fastest-growing sport in America and has hundreds of thousands of fans, the day will probably come when I will have to take it seriously. That day has not yet arrived. (When will the day arrive that you can write?)

I have no idea what the NASCAR craze is all about. (That’s because you’re stupid and you can’t write!) These are rednecks who drive cars really fast in a big circle, right? Is that it? Have I missed something? Have I unfairly minimized all that NASCAR entails?

There will be complaints over my calling NASCAR drivers “rednecks,” and someone will point out that many drivers have college degrees and like to cure cancer in their spare time, and therefore cannot be rednecks. You will see that my logic is airtight, however, for I define a redneck as anyone who drives for NASCAR. (How dare you call NASCAR drivers rednecks! Many of them have college degrees, you know.)

I recall attending an auto race when I was young, but I don’t remember anything about it. In fact, I will probably delete this paragraph before the column is published. (Ha ha, you dummy, you said you were going to delete the paragraph, but then you forgot to do it! Doesn’t anybody edit this column?)

The odd thing about my skepticism toward NASCAR is that in actual practice, I am strongly in favor of driving fast. Nearly every day, I wish our freeways were like the autobahn in Germany, where there is no speed limit. (Nearly every day we wish you were IN Germany, so we wouldn’t have to read your stupid column!) Would there be more accidents? Probably. Would I personally be involved in more than one a year? Probably not. So the impact is negligible. (Maybe we’d get lucky and you’d die in the first accident so we wouldn’t have to read your stupid column anymore!)

I also wish all cars were equipped with phones, and that the licence plate number were the phone number. That way, you could call people and say, “Hi, I’m right behind you. I noticed you’re only going 55 and you’re in the fast lane. Is everything all right? Do you need me to summon help?” Old people, it goes without saying, would have 1-800 numbers. (More rudeness from the guy with the stupid column that we have to read!)

But I have drifted far afield of my main point, which is that NASCAR perplexes me. (It perplexes me how someone could write such a terrible column!) Or perhaps I am not so far off the point after all: I enjoy driving fast, and I do it often. Where, then, is the “sport” in watching others do it? I think if a feat can be accomplished by me — the least athletic person in the world — then it is probably not going to be very entertaining to watch, since by definition it is something easy and probably involves sitting down. (It’s true: You write this stupid column, and we have to read it, and it’s not very entertaining to read.)

You know what would make NASCAR more interesting? I mean aside from the obvious solution, which is to have more crashes. (The solution is to have more crashes, but for YOU to be in them!) They should make the driving conditions more like real life. Sure, they’re driving 200 mph, which probably takes concentration. But the track is predictable. Put in some potholes, some construction barriers, some old people driving really slow — no more than 110 mph — in the fast lane. That, my friends, is entertainment. (Maybe, but this column isn’t! Why does the Herald keep printing it? Does anyone even read it?)

There is no greater issue dividing the American classes than the issue of smell. Race, religion, politics — these are trifling matters you wouldn’t even bother to sneeze upon, if they were tangible, Kleenex-like matters, when compared to the subject of stinkiness.

I base this on mail I have received recently. Within the past seven months, I have on three occasions decried the odor of a person or group of people. And in each case, I have subsequently received letters from people who said, “You are right, stinky people are terrible,” and other letters from other people who said, “How dare you make fun of the way someone smells?” (Some people are more smell-tolerant than others.)

First, in October, I talked about a man who barged into the Daily Herald office saying the U.S. should kill every single person in Afghanistan. As befitting someone with that political philosophy, he smelled starkly of urine. I called him Urine Man.

At www.harktheherald.com, where people who can’t spell or write are encouraged to try their hand at both, we had many angry responses to this column. Some examples, reprinted exactly as they were written:

“I will NEVER read you articles again.”

“HEY SNIDE, ARE YOU SURE IT WASN’T YOUR BREATH BLOWING BACK IN YOUR FACE???”

Then, in January, I said that if tow truck drivers believe there’s no such thing as a wrongly towed vehicle, then I have to believe there’s no such thing as a tow truck driver who doesn’t smell bad. Someone read this column to a lot of tow truck drivers, and many of them pounded their fists on computer keyboards long enough to create responses such as these:

“Just remember if you get stuck at 2:00 in the morning who is going TOW your Car for you get you gas or unlock your car or even better rescue your wife or family member.”

“People like you disgust me as well as the rest of the industry that I can speak upon.”

“Your pretty classy. NOT!”

And just last week, I told the story of the Stinky Fat Black French Girl who followed me around in London. Many people were bothered that I would describe her as “stinky”; these people, clearly, have not smelled her, or they would think “stinky” was being charitable. “Apocalyptically foul” would be more accurate.

A few others took my including the girl’s race to mean I was suggesting the two were related. I didn’t mean to imply anything of the kind; I only wanted to help the reader visualize the girl. Nonetheless, there was an e-mail from someone who described himself as “an black Utahn,” who called me an “IGNORANT RASCIST JERK!!!” (I think if you’re going to call someone a racist — and I got the impression this was someone who calls a lot of people racist — you should learn how to spell the word. It reminds me of the people at www.harktheherald.com who like to accuse other people of whining, but they spell it “whinning,” or who are always labeling one another as “hipocrits.” I’m not saying you need to know how to spell EVERY word, but you should at least learn your favorites.)

Anyway, I do want to apologize to those who misunderstood my point, such as it was, in the stinky girl column. I said “Stinky Fat Black French Girl” was a listing of her traits in the order of importance; I should have said they were in order of how noticeable they were — i.e., her smell could kill you, but you might miss her gender altogether. I definitely didn’t mean it to be a race thing. Race relations are at an all-time high right now, thanks to someone who’s occasionally sort of black winning a Best Actress Oscar, and far be it from me to louse that up.

But I stand by the observations of stinkiness. Is it juvenile to talk about such things? Perhaps. And by perhaps, I mean yes. But is it something everyone can relate to? Yes, if they have noses.

“How dair you make funn of peple who dont have noses!!!”

I stayed at a hostel when I was in London. If you are on a tight budget and want to truly experience the flavor and adventure of a European city, you should definitely, um, sleep in the park. No one should ever stay in a hostel.

Hostels are like hotels, but with an extra “s” in them, and the “s” stands for “scary.” They are meant for irresponsible youth backpacking through Europe to flop for a night or two, but they can also be used by regular people who would rather save money than sleep comfortably, and who don’t mind sharing space with multitudinous bacteria, many of which speak English.

I thought it would be an interesting (and by “interesting” I mean “costing only 11 pounds a night”) sociological experience. How better to examine a cross-section of world cultures and enjoy a variety of smells than to share a room with seven strangers? It was bound to be exactly like MTV’s “The Real World.”

Here was our cast:

• Dumle, a Nigerian-born Londoner who believes himself to be the most fascinating conversationalist in the world, particularly if what fascinates you are guys who never shut up. He had something to say about everything, whether any of us expressed interest in chatting or not. We looked forward to his falling asleep, only to discover that when he sleeps, he snores like a freight train. (Do freight trains snore? Discuss.) This kept us awake until 2 or so. Were it not for my unfamiliarity with the English laws governing justifiable homicide, Dumle would surely have found himself smothered with a pillow before night’s end.

• Loud Drunk Guy. I’m not sure of his nationality, as I only saw him in the darkness in the wee hours of the morning. He would burst into the room every night at 3 a.m., loudly proclaiming that he was either a) drunk or b) totally drunk. He would stumble around and bump into things for a few minutes, then slam himself into bed, where he would loudly open a bag of loud chips and loudly eat them. He was also fond of talking (loudly) to anyone who was still awake or who had been awakened by him.

• The Korean-born American girl who learned I was visiting from Utah and who then said, in a very disgusted manner, “You’re not a Mormon, are you?” Telling her I WAS a Mormon shut her up in a hurry, though unfortunately it also gave Dumle something to talk about. Having seen BYU’s Julie Stoffer on “The Real World,” I knew precisely how to deal with awkward circumstances like this one: I crawled into a cupboard and wept.

• The French girls who talk. These French girls smelled pretty good, as French girls go, but they talked incessantly, including when people were trying to sleep. This pitfall should have been foreseeable; after all, if you put two girls in a room together, they are GOING to talk, forever, no matter what. If you duct-taped their mouths shut, they would still talk muffledly through the tape and probably still understand each other, to the extent they even listen. Oh, and they were speaking French, so it was impossible to understand them. (Well, unless you speak French.)

• Two other people, known as the Mystery Guests, who arrived long after we’d all gone to bed, and who left before we got up. I believe one of them was Scottish.

Reading this, you’d think my strongest memory of England was people talking a lot and hindering my sleep. But this is not so. My strongest memory of England is the following names of places, which are real: Sheepwash, Tooting Bec, Cockfosters, and Elephant & Castle. It’s worth traveling that far, and getting so little sleep, to hear someone on a train say, “I’ll be getting off at Cockfosters.”

I shall now tell you the story of “The Stinky Fat Black French Girl Who Was Omnipresent in London.” It is a true story, and it happened to me. (I was not the title character.)

Upon arriving in London, I was delighted to find a place that would allow me access to the Internet for only one “pound” for 15 minutes. Now, since English money is very colorful and festive, I had a hard time treating it like real money. “You want one of these pink ones in exchange for that doughnut?” I would say to a shopkeeper. “Fine! Here, have a yellow one, too!” So paying a “pound” for 15 minutes of Internet time seemed like quite a bargain.

It was while I was checking my e-mail that I first encountered Stinky Fat Black French Girl. Note that I have arranged those descriptors in order of importance: That she smelled bad was the most noticeable thing about her; that she was female, I almost overlooked altogether.

I smelled her before I saw her. I was bombarded by a sudden blast of body odor powerful enough to curdle milk, and I turned to see whence it came. I assumed I would find a flaming bag of dog excrement sitting next to me, or perhaps Satan smoking a cigar made out of Dom DeLuise’s underpants. But instead, I saw this person. She was stinky, yes; she was also quite large, and black, and she was speaking and writing in French.

(Pardon me if “black” is not the term I ought to have used. “African-American” doesn’t apply, obviously, since she wasn’t American, and “African-French” doesn’t sound right at all. Plus, I think we can agree that the title I have given her is already long and unwieldy enough without attempting to add an ill-fitting bit of political correctness to it.)

So she was all of those things, but first and foremost, she was stinky. She was knocking birds out of the sky — and we were indoors! She smelled so bad, she had wavy lines coming off her like cartoon characters do.

I finished my business and fled as quickly as possible, stripping my clothes off in horror and stuffing them into the nearest rubbish bin as I dashed out into the night. The next day, when I returned to the same Internal terminal, I found Stinky Fat Black French Girl there again (still?), typing e-mails and being stinky. Two nights later, she was there again (still?), stinky and e-maily as ever. Was there no end to her stinkiness? Was there no end to her being there?

A few nights later, I was in London’s theater district, which they call “the West End,” taking in some shows, which they call “shows.” As I emerged from the subway station, which they call a “tube stop,” I noticed a commotion of some kind, which they call a “brouhaha,” and a small crowd gathering, which they don’t have a word for. I figured they were watching a street performer. I elbowed my way to the front and found the source of the commotion was that someone had passed out and was lying on the sidewalk, unconscious.

I tossed him 50 pence — it was more interesting than “Fame: The Musical,” which I had paid 18 “pounds” for — and I was on my way. But as I turned around, whom should I see in the crowd but Stinky Fat Black French Girl! She, too, had noticed the ruckus and was now on her cell phone, apparently summoning medical help, which is more than I was doing.

A thought occurred to me: What if she’s a superhero whose super power is that she smells bad? If you were an evil-doer, you’d consider a foul-smelling defender of justice a formidable opponent indeed. I know I wouldn’t fight her, or touch her, or get near her. And as a Fresh-Smelling Thin White American Guy, I’m probably her arch-enemy. Good thing I made the connection and launched a devastating can of Speed Stick at her before she saw me.

It is easy to recognize that England is very different from America. Why, simply examining the Brits’ teeth is enough to show that England is separate from every other nation on Earth, and also to show that a nation of dentists ought to invade England and wage an aggressive campaign of orthodontia.

But while recently vacationing in London — and get used to that phrase, because I plan to write 78 columns about it — I observed that some of the most fundamental differences between us and them are exemplified in one place: St. Paul’s Cathedral.

First of all, the fact that a cathedral is a major tourist attraction separates the Brits from us, since here in America, we like to pretend religion has no connection with our nation’s history.

My friend Monty, touring the cathedral with me, had to be asked three times to take off his hat, since St. Paul’s is still a functioning church. The reason he kept putting it back on was not disrespect, but habit: Monty is very bald, and his head looks absolutely awful. Seriously, you can hardly stand to look at him when he’s hatless. His own children cry when they see him. So he always wears a hat, including when he showers.

Anyway, the Brits always sound polite, no matter what. The last time Monty was asked to remove his hat, it was by an elderly man who said, “Sir, I wonder if I might encourage you to uncover your head.” In America, the request would have been accompanied by profanity and the cocking of rifles.

No, wait. In America, they wouldn’t care if you wore a hat. In fact, they would be SELLING hats AT the cathedral, and the hats would say, “St. Paul’s ROCKS!!!!!”

If we had anything this old and beautiful in America, surely we would have stripped it of its dignity by now. We would have a college kid in a St. Paul costume dancing around the chapel, and an animated Christopher Wren (the architect who designed it) greeting visitors with a toothy smile and architecture-related puns. (“ARCH you glad you came?!! Don’t let the flying buttress hit you in the apse!!”)

There is much beauty to observe from the floor of the cathedral, but you can also go to the top of the dome and look out over the city. To do this, you must hike up 47 million steps. It is long and difficult, even for someone in good shape such as not myself. Near the top, the passageway becomes short and narrow; anyone exceptionally tall and/or fat would not be able to squeeze through. (This means King Henry VIII never saw the gorgeous view of London from atop St. Paul’s, because he was fatter than two Oprahs; also, because he died 250 years before it was finished.)

In America, there would be signs at the bottom, in four languages, warning that expectant mothers, people with heart conditions, and the elderly should not climb the steps. This would be to avoid lawsuits, which otherwise would have been issued within five minutes of the cathedral’s opening. Also, government regulations would by now have mandated reworking the whole thing to make it wheelchair accessible. We would provide helicopters, if necessary, to avoid looking like we were discriminating against anyone, and we would rewrite history to say Christopher Wren was a bigot who hated fat people, thus explaining his “oversight.”

None of this means I prefer England over America, of course. The very idea of having a king or queen is very silly to me, and if I lived under one (governmentally speaking), I fear I would never stop giggling. But in some ways, maybe they’ve surpassed us. Their dental hygiene is funnier than ours, that’s for sure.

Don’t you hate when you’re struck with an uncontrollable desire to do a crossword puzzle, only to discover the newsstand at JFK International Airport doesn’t sell crossword puzzle books? Well, they do, but only PennyPress brand, and not the far-superior Dell?

Perhaps my experience is too specific to spark a smile of recognition in the reader. You will have to take my word for it, then, that the scenario described is indeed a frustrating one. It is perhaps as frustrating as when you just barely got your windshield repaired, and then you got another chip in it from a rock that flew out of a gravel truck when you were driving to Salt Lake City with your friends Josh and Chanel.

The crossword puzzle incident occurred because I had missed a connecting flight and had to sit at JFK (the airport, not the person) for nine hours. I had nothing to do, of course; airports are not exactly bustling with diverting activities. In the end, though, it was an enlightening experience. It gave me time to ponder: Is God punishing me, or blessing me?

I don’t think it’s presumptuous to assume God had something to do with it, one way or the other. This wasn’t as light a matter as the waiter bringing you the prime rib instead of the sirloin, or a basketball game pushing the local news back to 10:30 instead of 10. Missing a flight by 10 minutes and thus losing half a day of your vacation seems too major a thing to have happened simply by pure, random chance. It’s the sort of convergence of events that can only happen on purpose. So the question is, was it for good or for bad?

I kept one eye on CNN all day to see whether the plane I should have been on had plummeted headlong into the ocean or something like that. I was mildly resentful when it didn’t.

So maybe sitting in the airport all day was a punishment. But for what? The mind boggles at the wide range of things I might have done that deserved punishing. But what sin could I have committed for which a nine-hour layover would be the appropriate punishment? Buying gasoline on a Sunday seems more like the “your car breaks down” kind of sin than the “sit in a stinky airport all day” kind.

Unable to work out the nature of my predicament, I did what I always do I’m when faced with a difficult theological question: I took a nap. I curled up on a bench in the terminal, put my coat over my torso, and closed my eyes. That’s right, I became one of those people. The people who sleep in airports. I learned, however, that it’s impossible to sleep in an airport, due to the prerecorded lady telling you every 10 minutes over the loudspeaker (there’s a reason they call it that) that you are not allowed to smoke in the terminal — which it seems to me everyone already knows. You can’t even bring nail clippers into an airport anymore; does anyone really think you can have fire?

Not having showered, now, in 24 hours, I went into a restroom to try to freshen up a bit. I was optimistic. I had my toilet kit with me, so I could apply fresh deodorant, wash my face — heck, I could even shampoo my hair in the sink, if I was really ambitious. Life had handed me lemons; I was going to whip up a big batch of Uncle Eric’s Old-Fashioned Down Home Country Time Lemonade.

This was naive and stupid of me, of course. You cannot “freshen up” in an airport bathroom. No matter how long you wash, you will come out filthier than you went in. It’s the nature of the bathroom.

I decided that instead of making lemonade, I was going to start throwing the lemons at people. Alas, they were figurative lemons, and I was forced to return to considering my fate. Blessed or cursed? I didn’t arrive at a definitive answer, but I do know this: My failure to show up for the first flight means someone had an empty seat next to him, and thus more elbow and leg room. I hope he appreciates how blessed he is for that.

The 2002 session of the Utah state legislature ended this week with a raging debate over the Official State Vegetable: Should it be the Spanish sweet onion or the sugar beet? (Not in the running: Gayle Ruzicka.)

Debate probably raged over other, weightier matters during the session, too, but I didn’t notice because that kind of news bores me. I am easily distracted, and I prefer news that caters to my short attention span. Legislature headlines always have verbs like “considers” and “discusses.” I want verbs like “explodes” and “devours.”

Anyway, our representatives initially chose the Spanish sweet onion to be our state vegetable, but then they were bombarded with complaints from the state’s sugar beet supporters, who are the powerful, dark overlords of the vegetable world. But that made the Spanish sweet onion people mad, because they HATE the sugar beet people — they always have to be seated separately at vegetable functions (like, I don’t know, salads I guess), and the groups are always talking smack about each other and getting into rumbles on the street. So the legislature couldn’t just cave in to the sugar beet people, but neither could they ignore the Spanish sweet onion contingency.

Eventually, the legislature amended the bill to designate the Spanish sweet onion as the state vegetable, and the sugar beet as the “historic state vegetable.” What this essentially means, of course, is that the sugar beet USED to be the state vegetable, but has been dethroned by a better, mightier vegetable, the Spanish sweet onion. “Historic” is a nice way of saying “you used to be big, but now you’re a has-been. You stink, sugar beet.” Why the fearsome sugar beet lobby was placated by such a derisive backhanded compliment is beyond me, but the fact is, they are happy.

Why Utahns would accept an onion apparently from a foreign country as their official state vegetable puzzles me, too. Once the John Birch Society, all beady-eyed and frothy-mouthed, finally achieves its goal of overthrowing the government and thrusting a gun into the trembling hand of every man, woman and child in America, let me assure you, the borders will slam shut and you can kiss the Spanish sweet onion goodbye! Then the weak-willed Utah state legislature will be forced to reckon with its mollycoddling of the Spanish sweet onion lobby.

But for the time being, yes, everyone is happy about the vegetable compromise, especially those of us who take pleasure in seeing people act serious about silly things.

You may wonder what some of Utah’s other Official State Things are. Conveniently, there is a list here. You will notice that they use legal jargon to clarify things. For example, the state folk dance is the square dance. Foreseeing that a lot of people would engage in passionate arguments about what, exactly, constitutes a “square dance,” and that many would be killed in the ensuing melee, the lawmakers have defined it: “The folk dance that is called, cued, or prompted to the dancers and includes squares, rounds, clogging, contra, line and heritage dances.” So don’t go trying to sneak in a non-official dance move and still hope to be considered part of the official state folk dance, buster!

Utah does not have a state primate, so I nominate the roller-skating monkey. The matter is not open for debate, so other primates, worthy as they may be, will need to accept this and move on.

A friend called in a panic last Saturday. He said VH1 was showing a program called “Pup Stars,” which consisted only of music videos being shown on a TV set while Dalmatian puppies frolicked in front of it. I told him he was delusional and should never call me again.

A TV show in which dogs watch TV? That’s ridiculous. Next you’ll tell me there’s a show about seven strangers forced to live in a house together.

“Pup Stars” was over by the time my friend called, so I couldn’t see it for myself, if it existed. So I checked out the programming schedule at VH1’s Web site and sure enough: They don’t show videos anymore. The original “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” movie is on several times this week, as is “Little Shop of Horrors.” Also, you can see a special about Latin pop star Shakira, whose song titles I’m sure are rolling off your tongue right now. But you can’t watch videos unless there are dogs watching them, too, which is apparently the premise of “Pup Stars” — which, it turns out, does exist.

I envision this conversation as having taken place at VH1 headquarters:

EXECUTIVE #1: People always complain that we don’t show enough videos. But when we do show them, nobody watches them.
EXECUTIVE #2: Maybe it’s because our videos are all for uninteresting, 40-year-old soft-rock stars.
PHIL COLLINS: (appearing in a flash of lightning and smoke) I am the God of VH1, and I sentence you to an eternity of torment for your blasphemy. Sussudio!
EXECUTIVE #2: No, Lord Phil, please forgive me!
PHIL COLLINS: I am merciful. Mend your ways, or know endless suffering.
EXECUTIVE #1: Lord Phil, please tell us how to solve our problem.
PHIL COLLINS: I shall. People like puppies. Go with it. Sussudio! (He is gone in another puff of smoke.)
EXECUTIVE #2: (shaken) Puppies?

And “Pup Stars” was born.

This is not the first dumb idea for a TV show, of course. It’s not even the first dumb idea for a TV show involving animals. There were two in 1983, when I was young enough not to notice how stupid they were, or care that they were both on NBC, and I am not making up either of them. One was “Mr. Smith,” about a talking orangutan who was heavily involved in politics; this show is believed to have inspired Paramount Pictures’ fictional “Arnold Schwarzenegger” character. The other was “Manimal,” about a guy who could turn into any animal, which I guess helped him solve crimes, don’t ask me how. Seems like you’d be LESS effective at questioning suspects if you were, say, a hedgehog.

More recently, we’ve seen a lot of reality shows based on things that would never happen in reality. For example, in reality, if you were on a desert island, there would not be anyone there to “tempt” you into leaving your spouse. There would be monkeys, maybe, and perhaps cannibals, but you’d have to be a pretty hard-core “grass is always greener” person to think any of these would be better than your current partner. (“Mbutu might be a savage, but I bet he doesn’t leave the toilet seat up.”)

The nice thing about TV is that while some entertainment media started out smart and got dumb, TV just started out dumb. The shows of the ’50s were every bit as stupid as the shows of today; they just had fewer commercials. Soap operas — easily the lamest things in all of television — have been a staple from day one.

None of which, fortunately, means the shows aren’t fun to watch. Smart or dumb, TV is relaxing. So VH1, if the only way you’ll show videos is with puppies watching them, so be it. Just don’t tell MTV. They might start doing the same thing with “The Real World,” and then we’d have to contact the Humane Society.

Post-Olympics Salt Lake City is eerily quiet. It’s like Europe just after World War II, when the Nazis were gone, but there were still signs of the occupation. A few flags here and there, maybe a few hardliners who insist it’s not over yet, and a bunch of cattle-people standing outside the Roots stores, waiting for permission to buy hats.

I was with my friends Luscious Malone and Tanny Tantan (names have been changed) at the Gateway Plaza the other night, partially to make fun of people who would stand in line for four hours to buy a hat — a hat advertising an event that is OVER now, I might add — partially to see if we still enjoy Salt Lake when the Olympics aren’t there (we do), but also to convince me to buy a Love Sac.

What is a Love Sac? The Love Sac is a little old place where we can get together. No, sorry, that’s the Love Shack. The Love Sac looks like a huge bean-bag chair, but instead of beans inside, it has the soft foam you’d find in a La-Z-Boy recliner, or in Archie Bunker’s easy chair (or in Archie Bunker himself, for that matter). As such, the Love Sac retains its softness for decades instead of minutes, which is how long bean-bag chairs used to last, back in the ’70s, when they were cool. (Well, as cool as anything could be in the ’70s.)

I’m starting to sound like a commercial now, so let me point out something commercials never tell you: The Love Sac is EXPENSIVE. (Wouldn’t it be great if commercials did tell you that? “You’ll love the Love Sac. If you can afford it. Which you can’t.”) Fortunately, I had Luscious and Tanny with me, and it’s impossible not to spend money when you’re with them. They don’t always exert direct pressure on you, but the influence is there. And if you waver in your decision to spend money, they’ll remind you of the time you spent $200 on a ceramic dog at RC Willey.

What happened was, I was buying furniture for my condo, and Tanny was with me to make sure I didn’t buy anything hideous just because it was cheap. When it came time to buy a bed (I’d been living in a furnished apartment up to then), I wanted to buy a full-size one, not a queen. Queen is too big for one person. If I get married or start sleeping around, I could always upgrade. Tanny insisted it was ridiculous to buy a full when a queen was just $50 more. I was talked into the queen.

Later, I still had money left on my newly opened RC Willey credit card, but I had bought all the furniture I needed. I spotted a realistic-looking, life-size ceramic dog that I thought would make a swell addition to the decor. The dog cost $200. Tanny insisted I should not buy this dog, but buy it I did. His name is Junko, and he’s a good friend. He doesn’t criticize my stupid financial decisions, anyway.

Those are the facts of the story. But whenever Tanny tells it — which is every time I’m considering not buying something — the price difference between the two beds gets smaller, and the cost of Junko the fake dog gets larger. Currently, Junko was priced at $5,000, and the queen-size bed was only a nickel more than the full-size. “You’ll spend $5,000 on a fake dog, but you won’t spend a few hundred on the Love Sac?!” was the general tone of Tanny’s remarks in the Love Sac store.

So I have a Love Sac now. It occupies most of the living room, between the couch and Junko. It’s so comfortable, I could sleep on it — which means the bed I was talked into buying was a waste of money. Who’s the dumb one now, Tanny?!!

In these trying times, I have found that you can get people to listen to anything you say just by introducing it with “in these trying times.” (Also: “In light of recent events.”) But in the interest of providing hope and comfort, I offer the following bits of inspiration, directly from my heart and adjacent organs.

“MAYBE…”

MAYBE when God closes a door before us, he opens a window. Maybe he was just opening the window to let in some fresh air, though, so be cautious about just climbing in like you own the place.

MAYBE a lost love is a love that was never meant to be. The only way to know for sure is to keep stalking until there’s a restraining order.

MAYBE the best kind of friend is the kind with whom you can sit on a porch swing, drink lemonade, never say a word, and then walk away feeling like you had a great conversation, except for the not-saying-anything part, and now you have to use the bathroom because you drank too much lemonade.

MAYBE we usually don’t know what we have until it’s gone, but that’s not the case with the flu.

MAYBE it takes only a minute to get a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, and a day to fall in love with someone, but it takes forever to convince her she looks FINE in that outfit, and can we just GO already, for crying out loud?

MAYBE the reason there is strife and turmoil in your life is that you did something wrong. Did you ever think of that, Complainy McWhine?

MAYBE it is impossible to have a bright future while still clinging to sorrows of the past. So draw a map to where the bodies are buried, give it to the authorities, and let all those negative energies flow right out of you.

MAYBE it’s wrong to marry someone based on something as superficial as good looks or money, but maybe ugly, poor people don’t need love anyway.

MAYBE being surrounded by friends and loved ones is the best way to avoid sniper fire.

MAYBE I’m crazy, but does this look infected to you?

MAYBE our world is just a single cell in a huge monster the size of the whole universe. And maybe that monster has gas, so look out!

MAYBE there will never be complete peace on Earth, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have peace in your own little part of it. Start by putting up a big barbed-wired fence and hiring a security guard.

MAYBE the way to happiness is not to have a lot of worldly possessions, but simply to make sure you have more worldly possessions than everyone else does.

MAYBE you should not judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes, but that argument probably will not make a very good courtroom defense.

A summary of the Olympics, in case you missed something:

Day 1: The 2002 Olympic Winter Games officially begin with an Opening Ceremony so elaborate, it requires the efforts of literally dozens of different LDS ward activities committees to put it together.

Day 2: The U.S. wins its first medal of 2002 when Shannon Bahrke takes the silver in women’s moguls. Utah Porn Czar Paula Houston immediately begins investigating whether women’s moguls ought to be shown in public.

Day 3: The IOC announces racism is OK as long as it is Olympic-related, as in statements like, “Those lazy Frenchies never win anything” and “The Irish sure do drink a lot, even here at the Olympics.”

Day 4: In a controversial decision that would go on to taint the entire Games, the French judge in the pairs figure skating declares Al Gore the winner of the 2000 presidential election.

Day 5: After finishing 16th in the women’s downhill, one-time Olympic star Picabo Street changes her name to Has-Been Avenue.

Day 6: Denver Post writer Woody Paige runs a column in which he implies that Utahns are religious zealots. Utahns respond by murdering him.

Day 7: NBC reports that its TV ratings are so strong, no one even noticed when, over on ABC, Hugh Downs and Barbara Walters smoked crack on the air.

Day 8: Canadian figure skaters David Pelletier and Jamie Sale upgrade their silver medals for gold. The Russian skaters who originally were given the gold are unable to return theirs, because they have already traded them for a loaf of bread and a winter coat.

Day 9: The speedskaters’ freakishly large thighs cause the men to crash into each other and fall down. By a fluke, the French judge declares King Louis XIV (1643-1715) winner of the race.

Day 10: The IOC admits that, OK, they don’t know what curling is, either, and we all might as well stop making jokes about it.

Day 11: French ice dancers Marina Anissina and Gwendal Peizerat win the gold medal for their routine, but it is taken away when judges realize they are unable to determine the gender of either participant.

Day 12: Vonetta Flowers becomes the first black athlete, male or female, from any country, to win a gold medal in the Winter Olympics. Hitler’s bunker in hell gets just a little hotter.

Day 13: Third-generation Olympian Jim Shea wins the gold medal in men’s skeleton. He also takes the bronze in men’s intestine and the silver in men’s circulatory system.

Day 14: America assures Michelle Kwan that it loves her, but for crying out loud, will she please STOP SMILING? Seriously, that grin of hers is knocking satellites out of orbit.

Day 15: The U.S. and Russian men’s hockey teams face each other. The Russians, now choosing to play or boycott games on a case-by-case basis, decide to have it both ways by playing the game, but playing badly.

Day 16: A somber mood settles upon the Games when, following the men’s speedskating finale, newspaper headline writers realize they have used the Apolo Anton Ohno/”Oh, no!” pun for the last time.

Day 17: The Games come to a finale with a dazzling Closing Ceremony. Following the benediction, refreshments are served in the cultural hall.

Utahns, we should be proud. The Games are nearly over, and while they’ve been plagued with one problem after another, it’s important to note that NOT ONE OF THEM WAS OUR FAULT!

The French judge screwed up the figure skating: Not our fault. Woody Paige wrote a mean column: Not our fault. Speedskaters fell down, favored teams lost, Picabo Street blew it: not our fault, not our fault, not our fault.

The things we thought WOULD be our fault — horrific traffic jams, overbearing Mormons and unprepared venues — didn’t happen. Do you even remember the details of the SLOC bribery scandal? Neither do I!

As I write this, the Games are brewing up a new scandal on which to end things, and it is once again NOT OUR FAULT. It involves the Russians, who feel they have been treated badly by the Olympic judges. I would invoke the Utah state motto — “If you don’t like it here, then why don’t you leave?!” — but the Russians have already thought of that. They’re threatening to go home early and not come back.

Now, the going home early part is a little silly, since the Games are practically over anyway. You’re not making much of a statement when you walk out of a play during the curtain call.

But they’re threatening not to participate in future Olympics, either — 2004 in Athens, 2006 in Torino, 2008 in the Evil Empire of China, 2010 at the South Pole — no more Olympics, ever.

In response to this, IOC vice president Vitaly Smirnov, who is Russian, said — and this is a real quote that I didn’t make up — “Without Russia, the Olympic Games would be lost.”

That sounds like a challenge to me. Let’s have some Olympics with no Russians and see what happens. When they boycotted in 1984, the only consequence was that the United States won about 400,000 medals. We recovered from that devastating blow, and I imagine we can persevere if the Russians pull out again, although I will miss having skaters with names like Slutskaya.

South Korea is also threatening to leave, angry over Kim Dong-Sung’s disqualification in the short-track speedskating final. The IOC’s response was: “South Korea is here? Who invited them? We need to beef up security.”

Anyway, none of this is Utah’s fault. We’ve been good hosts. The whole world thinks so. Utah is no longer an obscure, backward American state that no one would ever visit; it’s now an obscure, backward American state that no one would ever visit, that has hosted the Olympics!

Now it’s time to bid our visitors farewell and get back to normal. Tell the polygamists they can come out of the cellar as soon as company’s gone.

Quick, now, you only have a few days left to experience downtown Salt Lake City as an Olympics site. After Sunday, ownership of the city reverts back to the LDS Church, and I suspect they will not permit Bud World to remain.

Bud World is brought to you by Budweiser, which is an Official Sponsor of 2002 Alcoholism. It’s an outdoor plaza at the Gallivan Center, and it has all sorts of merriment that the whole family will tolerate. For example, you may have heard that the famous Budweiser Clydesdale horses are there. If you have always been awestruck at the beauty of those majestic animals as they gallop across the prairie, then you will certainly want to go to Bud World, where they are locked in cages.

Bud World also boasts a Panasonic exhibit, whose major theme is that Panasonic is a company whose products you may purchase.

But downtown has more than just Bud World. Downtown also has the Medals Plaza, where every night thousands of rock ‘n’ roll fans turn up and are heard to say, “Brooks and Dunn? What the FETCH?!” But if a band you like is playing, and you were not able to get free tickets when they were distributed a few weeks ago, you should not fret, as dozens of helpful scalpers are on hand to assist you. Last week, we were approached by a man selling Sheryl Crow tickets. He said he would sell a pair for $60. I pointed out that he was crazy. He said, “I can sell them for $50, but I can’t go lower than that.” I said, “Well, let’s see, you got them for free … so, yeah, anything less than $50 and you’re taking a major loss.”

I had to take my sarcasm elsewhere, though, as there were many more Olympic-themed sights to see on the streets of Salt Lake. We wanted to make sure we had a look at Temple Square, for example, because we’d heard they were using metal detectors now and we thought that was a cool idea. (“Sir, you’ll have to let us check those gold plates.”)

And across from Temple Square is the Church Office Building, which, like many downtown buildings, has an enormous Olympian plastered on its west-facing side. The Church Office Building’s Olympian is a giant lady skater, and we wondered if employees there refer to their offices in terms of which part of the lady is outside their window. “I have a nose office,” someone might say, or, “I’m in the cleavage section of the building.”

We could not dwell on such prurient matters, however, because we still had the issue of finding our way back to the TRAX station to deal with. Everyone’s encouraged to take the train into downtown, and then, helpfully, the downtown station closes after 7 p.m. I think those Clydesdales should be used to haul people to the next station, but I guess they can’t, what with being locked up in cages and all.

If you do not yet have a Roots(TM)-brand beret that says “USA” on it, then you are completely devoid of Olympic spirit and are not fit to call yourself an American who follows every single stupid trend that comes along. The bandwagon is here, America. GET ON IT!

Roots(TM) is a Canadian (?!) company and the “official outfitter” of the 2002 U.S. Olympic team. Any Olympic hats you see the athletes wearing, they were probably made by Roots(TM). But Roots(TM) has been kind enough to make some of this stuff available to the general public, too, which is why if you walk through downtown Salt Lake City, you will see a Roots(TM) “USA” beret on the head of every living creature, including birds and French people.

What is it about the Roots(TM) beret that makes it such a hot commodity? For one thing, if you wear one, it’s sort of like being on the U.S. Olympic team, regardless of how fat or uncoordinated you might be.

For another thing, the hat is hard to get. There are two Roots(TM) stores at The Gateway plaza in Salt Lake, and there is a perpetual four-hour wait just to get INSIDE one of the stores, let alone to buy something. I’m not exaggerating on this point: The stores open at 10 a.m., and at 9:50 on a recent morning, the people at the front of the line — which at that point contained well over 200 people — said they had been waiting since 6. These appeared to be ordinary people with no serious defects, and yet they were waiting in the pre-dawn hours to purchase headwear.

I cannot imagine needing a hat so bad that I would be willing to wait four hours to get one. In every possible scenario I can think of, there is a way for my hat needs to be met in under an hour. In most scenarios, it’s under 15 minutes. (Go to Wal-Mart; buy a hat.)

But, I thought, maybe I’m missing something about the Roots(TM) hats. Maybe I should stand in line and buy one and see what–

Ah, screw it. I can’t even wait 10 minutes for a table at a restaurant. There’s no way I’m waiting four hours to buy a hat. Instead, let’s look at Olympic fashion through the ages:

776 B.C.: The first Olympic Games, held in Athens. Predominant fashion: nudity.

774 B.C.: The first Olympic Winter Games, held in the mountains of Athens: Predominant fashion: nudity and frostbite.

1896: The first modern Olympic Games, held in Athens again. Predominant fashion for female athletes: corset, slip, brassiere, under-corset, top-corset, secondary brassiere, skirt, top-skirt, dress, overcoat. American Myrtle Gammey won a gold medal for running the mile in just under 7 hours.

One of the perks of covering the Olympics is that I’m granted access to luminaries such as gold medalist Casey FitzRandolph, who was signing autographs at a store at The Gateway on Monday (I didn’t go), and to a bunch of Danish non-athletes at a breakfast.

The breakfast occurred Monday morning, the same day as the Casey FitzRandolph appearance I didn’t go to. A friend of mine named Jjudy (names have been changed) lives in a neighborhood of Salt Lake City where the Danish delegation is being housed, and Jjudy’s house serves as Daily Breakfast Headquarters. She invited me along to enjoy some free food and to be chummy with the Danes.

A bit of history of Denmark may be in order. Located in Norway, Denmark is a country with a monarchy, currently headed by a queen named Queen. The unit of currency is the Dane; a 100-Dane bill is often called a “Great Dane,” and that is where the dog name comes from. Famous Danes include Hamlet, Scooby-Doo, Dane Judi Dench and the Broadway musical “Dane Yankees.” The population of the country is such that if you were to count every person in Denmark, you would know the population.

What I learned about the Danes is that 1) their Winter Olympic teams always stink, and 2) they don’t care. For example, as of Monday morning, the Danish teams had done so poorly, their only chance for a medal would be if they bribed the French judge AND made everyone else in the race fall down.

As a result, the 20 or so diplomats, officials and consuls general who tagged along are spending their time skiing and buying peanut butter. (Apparently, peanut butter is rare in Europe, probably because of the Nazis.) They were chatty and friendly over breakfast, and they spoke better English than the Utah native I ran into at SmithTix, who pronounced “February twelfth” as “Feb-uh-ary twalth.”

The Danes were met with a dilemma this particular morning, as they were going to a hockey game between Germany and Sweden. They were unsure whom to root for, because if there’s anyone the Danes hate more than the Swedes, it’s the Germans. (“What about the French?” I asked. “Oh, yeah, of course we hate them,” was the casual answer, as if I were silly to even ask the question.) The reason for their dislike of Swedes is that the Swedes tend to act superior, and of course the Germans had that World War II thing. (The Swedes wound up winning the hockey game, so take THAT, Adolf!)

To my disappointment, the breakfast included many nice bagels and English muffins, but no Danishes. The Danes told me they really don’t eat that many of them back home, which means some of my information on Denmark might be a little off. I’ll contact Queen and ask her.

When the Olympic Games are over, approximately 17,000 weeks from now, I believe my favorite scandal will still be the uproar over the Great Condom Giveaway, wherein helicopters are dropping hundreds of thousands of condoms over the Olympic Village, accompanied by fliers encouraging the athletes to have sex with anything that will stand still.

No, wait. That’s not what’s happening. That’s only what the ultra-conservatives who oppose it THINK is happening. What’s actually going on is that condoms are available to athletes at the Olympic Village clinic, as part of SLOC’s commitment to provide free health care to the athletes.

Now, I recognize some problems with this line of thinking, such as SLOC’s alleged dedication to health while allowing major non-healthy sponsors like Budweiser and McDonald’s to play a greater part in the Games than snow.

Also, reports say 12,000 condoms have been donated, for use by the 2,400 athletes. By my calculations, that’s 5.3 condoms per athlete over the course of 17 days, or one condom per athlete every 3.2 days. But have you SEEN some of those hockey players? Five condoms in 17 days should be about four too many. (That was rude, and I demand the firing of whoever said it.)

Now, you probably knew you’d see raving lunatic Gayle Ruzicka’s name somewhere in all this, and here it comes. Utah Eagle Forum leader Gayle Ruzicka has posted a letter on her Web site (www.utaheagleforum.org) in which she says this:

“Where are the athletes … getting their sex partners? Are they bringing their own with them … or are they going out on the streets of Salt Lake City looking for our sons and daughters? Are we giving them permission to do this with the distribution of condoms?”

Yes, Gayle. That’s EXACTLY what we’re doing. By giving out free condoms, we are telling the athletes they have our permission to roam the streets and have sex with our sons and daughters. Young people of Utah, if you find yourself engaging in any illicit sexual behavior this week, feel free to say your partner was an Olympic athlete, and that it was your parents’ fault for giving them permission.

I agree maybe the athletes should have brought their own condoms. But I also think Picabo Street’s parents shouldn’t have smoked so much weed before they named her. Things go awry, and what can you do? Not offering any assistance — Picabo, I’ll send you the form you need to legally change your name — can only make the situation worse.

And Gayle, did you know some of these Games are taking place on Sunday? Quick, send your legions of flying monkeys out to conquer THAT evil!

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s an Olympics venue RIGHT HERE in Provo. It’s called The Peaks Ice Arena, and if you haven’t seen how lovely it is, you should definitely head downtown and look at it through a pair of binoculars from four blocks away, which is the closest you’re allowed to get.

The neighborhood around The Peaks is closed to all traffic. This is to prevent people from, I don’t know, going there. Olympic security is so tight, the only chance a troublemaker has of causing a ruckus and getting the world’s attention is if he or she is a French figure-skating judge. (Thank you! I’ll be here all week.)

So you can’t drive to The Peaks, but you can go inside, if you park at LaVell Edwards Stadium and take the shuttle bus over. Then you’re allowed to go inside and even purchase a $5 bottle of beer, if you so choose. In the great tented city of The Peaks, there are numerous places to buy beer. You may recall that this subject caused much consternation among Provoans when it was raised a couple years ago. Some people felt it was sending the wrong message for The Peaks to sell beer, since the majority of Utahns belong to a religion that prohibits attending a sporting event where other people besides you are drinking, or something like that.

People also got mad when it was announced that you couldn’t bring your gun to The Peaks. Apparently, Provoans would rather the guy next to them have a pistol in his hand than a beer.

Anyway, The Peaks got its beer permit, and now beer flows down the aisles like the canals of Venice. But if someone gets drunk and violent and all of the 30,000,000 uniformed security officers are unable to control him, you’ll have to just say your prayers and hope for the best, because you still can’t bring your gun. So there.

It’s worth not being able to pack heat, though, for the privilege of enjoying the Peaks atmosphere. It’s quite festive in there. On Tuesday, the BYU Jazz Legacy Dixieland band was performing (because when you think of hockey, you think of Dixieland), adding a “Mardi Gras” sort of feel, which makes sense, since Tuesday was Mardi Gras.

Food is for sale, too, and bank representatives are on hand to help you fill out the loan documents necessary to buy some.

There’s also a scary clown who makes balloon animals, although in fairness, he is probably just an ordinary clown, and it’s my own clown issues that cause me to attach the word “scary” to him.

Tickets are still available to some hockey matches at The Peaks. Take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, if you like hockey. If you don’t like hockey, well, at least there’s beer.

There is fun and excitement for all ages at the Nu Skin World of Ice. This is especially true if you believe it is fun and exciting to be cold.

I have long maintained that the only problem with the Winter Olympics is that it is held during the winter, when it’s far too cold to be doing anything outside. Ideally, Winter Olympic sports would involve relaxing by a crackling fireplace, drinking hot chocolate, and reading a John Grisham novel. But does International Olympic Committee president Jacques Rogge listen to me? No, and I have the restraining order to prove it.

So it’s very cold outside these days, and outside is where the Nu Skin World of Ice takes place, right at the intersection of University Avenue and Center Street in Provo. If you’re bundled up properly, and perhaps actively on fire, it actually is a pleasant winter wonderland sort of place, all kidding aside. You’ll find live music, food vendors, ice skating in the world’s smallest ice-skating rink, and some seriously impressive ice sculptures. These ice sculptures represent each of the continents of the world, except for Antarctica, because those lazy S.O.B.’s never bother to send any athletes to the Olympics. (You’d think they’d be really good at winter sports, too.) (If it weren’t for this parenthetical remark here, I would surely get at least one e-mail from someone who thinks I actually don’t know that there are no people in Antarctica.)

There’s also an ice sculpture in the shape of a castle, complete with an ice throne that you can sit on, though I don’t know why you’d want to. I sat on it, and it was cold. Also: wet and slippery. Also: The ice tastes funny. (I didn’t ask first if you were allowed to lick the ice, because I was afraid the lady would say no.)

There’s also an enormous inflatable Ronald McDonald, sitting there looking like Buddha, which is ironic, given the Buddhists’ strict code against clowns. Isn’t it funny how the biggest Olympic sponsors — McDonald’s and Budweiser — are companies that make really, really unhealthy things that no athlete should eat or drink? It’s not funny? Then why did I mention it?

Anyway, there’s a McDonald’s mini-tent, plus some other booths with other food, plus a tent with propane heaters and nothing else. We found this tent the most enjoyable.

There is an ice-carving competition today, with judging this afternoon. People from 30 different countries will use chainsaws, picks and chisels to carve ice into stuff, assuming they can get those implements past the security checkpoints, which is doubtful. The ice-carving competition is an official Olympic contest, which means my crackling fireplace idea can’t be far behind.

The IOC couldn’t have chosen a worse city to host the Olympics than Salt Lake, where, for crying out loud, you can’t even buy a caffeinated soda without 1) showing I.D. and 2) calling it “pop.” It’s a provincial, ridiculous little city with no clue how to host a major event.

I would like to apologize for that last paragraph. Since writing it, I have received thousands of e-mails from people who were upset with what I said. My weak attempt at humor failed. I was wrong to write what I did. I am totally responsible and regretful for it.

From a completely impartial standpoint, though, the Games have to be considered an abysmal failure. Foreigners are winning medals right and left, right here on American soil! American athletes, how can you allow such a travesty to occur? You should be ashamed of yourselves.

That paragraph was not intended to be a vicious, hostile attack, but, upon reflection and rereading what I wrote, it went over the line of propriety. Foreigners, I love you. I’m sorry I hurt you.

The athletes are not to blame, after all; it’s the Mormon Church, which has been kidnapping and brainwashing journalists from around the globe and forcing them to write positive articles in their various news outlets, often under threat of death. This sort of abomination has got to stop, or it will forever ruin the Olympic Games.

I apologize to the Mormons who have written to tell me they were enraged at the preceding paragraph. Obviously, it was satire that didn’t work. I asked to speak with church president Gordon Hinckley, but he was on the other line, which I totally understand and respect. I am a complete and utter freak, and I realize that now.

Not all Utahns are Mormons, after all. Many of them are lapsed Mormons or inactive Mormons or anti-Mormons. And they’re certainly a friendly bunch of smiling, robotic, unthinking, Jell-O-eating weirdos who have single-handedly ruined all that the Games stand for, what with their horrific traffic snarls and unsafe venues. No wonder the whole world is criticizing the Winter Games!

It is with humble heart that I retract my last statement. Upon actually leaving my hotel room, I have discovered that everything I said was false. I have no worth as a human being. I should have been tied up in a sack and dropped down a well immediately after my birth, like the doctors recommended. I wouldn’t know quality writing if my fleas stood up and shaved it in my back hair. I am not writing this under duress or threat, though I am writing it under heavy anesthesia.

I love you, Utah, Mormons, athletes, foreigners and Olympics. Can I buy you a drink?

That’s it! I’m moving to Russia! Because apparently, that’s where the world’s best figure skaters are (hardy-har-har), and I don’t want to live on a continent that doesn’t have the best figure skaters!

The Canadians were robbed — of the gold, of their dignity, of several pounds of back bacon — by communist Nazi fascist judges who were prejudiced against them! If I were Canadian, I would be so outraged, I would drive to the prime minister’s shack right now, not caring how many moose or penguins I hit along the way, and demand that he (or she) take immediate action against the Olympic judges!

OK. I am calm now. It’s just, I get so worked up when it comes to figure skating. After all, it’s the sport of kings, if your kings are lithe young men and women flinging each other around an ice rink. Figure skating has a long, noble tradition in the Olympics, and how dare the judges go against that tradition by letting the Russians win!

OK, now I’ve just been informed the Russians ALWAYS win, so it actually was in keeping with tradition that they won this time. But still! I’m angry! In fact, I’m so angry, I’m bangry and fangry! (That’s where you bang stuff around and your fangs are showing.) This is the greatest miscarriage of justice ever to occur in the history of mankind, and a tragedy like none the world has ever seen.

As you know if you watched Monday’s competition, the Russian pairs team, consisting of Elena Berezhnaya and Anton Sikharulidze, won the gold medal, despite the fact that when they did their routine, not only did they fall down a lot, but Berezhnaya was drunk and Sikharulidze wasn’t even wearing pants.

The Canadian team, meanwhile, comprising Jamie Sale and David Pelletier, performed a flawless routine that culminated in Pelletier putting both legs behind his head, and Sale turning herself inside-out. And for that the judges rewarded them with a shameful, shameful silver medal.

I fear this may be the last snub the proud Canadian people are able to take. For too long they have withstood our ridicule, the sub-freezing summer weather, the daily polar bear rampages in their town squares, currency cut out of comic books, and a now-epidemic level of French influence. I fear the Olympic judges have roused a sleeping giant. It is well-known that Canada has stockpiled nuclear weapons in the completely uninhabited territory of Saskatchewan for decades, and this latest insult may be the last straw. I urge President Bush — either the one we have now, or the old one — to take action immediately to prevent war. May heaven have mercy on us all.

So women are playing hockey now, apparently. I know because I watched them do it at The Peaks on Tuesday. What will come next in the women’s movement? Why, soon they’ll be voting!

I had no idea what to expect from a women’s hockey game. Would there be hair-pulling slap-fights? Instead of going to the penalty box, would the players sit in the powder room and sulk? Would the ladies refuse to knock the puck into the net until someone put the seat down? How many gender-based stereotypes could I think of before the game started?

There was also the matter of which team to root for. I’ve never been to China or Finland, so I had no pre-existing favorite. I figured the Finnish women would be of Viking stock, with the horns and yellow braids and everything, and that sounded promising. But of course the Chinese gals might be able to fly, like in “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and that would surely be an asset.

I settled on Finland, because I know people who have been there and they say it’s nice. Also, there was a Finnish family sitting next to me, and they were very adamant about the superiority of their nation’s team. I feared for my safety if I cheered for China.

The near-capacity crowd at The Peaks was in high spirits, having enjoyed a boisterous round of strip-searches and background checks. Every patron seemed to have chosen a team to root for, probably for reasons as arbitrary as mine. We were, as the kids say, pumped.

And the game began! I was impressed with how quickly I got bored. In all the excitement of going to the Olympics and being part of a historical event and being proud of my adopted homeland of Utah, I had forgotten I don’t like hockey. I appreciate the level of skill required to skate and not fall down, and how it takes a lot of physical stamina to play an entire game without throwing up. It’s just not a sport that interests me.

Surely there are others in my shoes, getting all giddy about the Olympics and buying tickets they don’t actually want. It’s a shame organizers don’t take stronger measures to prevent that. There should be a sign at SmithTix that says, “Please note: You don’t like hockey.”

Turns out the Fins slaughtered the Chinese, 4-0. (I knew my gals would pull through! Fin-LAND! Fin-LAND! Fin-LAND!) And in a stroke of good fortune, the entire game was played without anyone breaking a nail. As the women’s hockey team of Finland would say, “Näyttääkö minun takapuoli iso näissä housuissa?” (“Does my butt look big in these pants?”)

They keep adding events to the Olympics. This is to ensure that no matter how closely you follow the Games, there will always be something unusual to baffle you, similar to how the Utah Department of Transportation likes to close freeway offramps for no discernible reason. It keeps an air of unpredictability about the proceedings.

At the 1998 Winter Olympics we were introduced to curling, an allegedly ancient sport that was invented a few years ago by Canadian senior citizens who wanted a way to play shuffleboard on ice. It narrowly beat out “listening to talk radio” and “standing in line at the DMV” to become an Olympic sport.

During that same Olympics, snowboarding was made official. That’s right, the irresponsible, pot-smoking little brother of skiing has its own Olympic event now, in the company of such well-respected contests as table tennis, trampoline and ski-for-a-while-then-shoot-a-gun (whatever that thing is called).

It’s entertaining to hear the sports announcers try to maintain a sense of dignity and professionalism even while spouting snowboarding terminology.

ANNOUNCER: Well, he may be riding “goofy-footed,” but he certainly pulled a nice “fakie” as he “pumped the tranny” and ended with a “gnarly McTwist”!
OTHER ANNOUNCER: And now he just “slayed” a flawless “crippler”!
ANNOUNCER: If only he’d taken that “doobie” out of his mouth first!
OTHER ANNOUNCER: The “judge from Jamaica” sure loves him!

(Perhaps I am being hasty in my generalization that snowboarding is synonymous with smoking marijuana. To be fair, I’m sure many snowboarders also take other drugs.)

On Sunday, Kelly Clark became the first American ever to win a gold medal in this event, and three more Americans won medals on Monday. They all did it on something called a “half-pipe,” which makes me think of even more marijuana jokes.

With snowboarding becoming an established Olympic event, it’s clear we are entering an era of youth in the Games. I know we’ve had medal-winning gymnasts who were no more than 2 or 3 years old — we all remember the steely determination of Keri Strug and the indelible image of her limping off the mat into the arms of her coach, who then changed her diaper and fed her a bottle — but in the snow sports, it seems like they’ve usually at least burned off the baby fat before they compete. Clark is only 18, and most of her competitors are not much older.

Snowboarding appeals to younger viewers, too, involving as it does a lot of weird lingo and the high possibility of death. When the mosh pit becomes an Olympic event, that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far.

Ah, the Olympic Opening Ceremony! Such pageantry! Such spectacle! Such coyotes on ice skates!

Yes, a sizable portion of Friday night’s extravaganza was devoted to the heritage of the Old West, and 5,000 performers enacted it. It is rare to see so many dancing cowboys outside of a Village People concert.

I don’t blame them for dancing, though, as it was very cold in Salt Lake City that night. I happen to know it was in the 20s, because Bob Costas said so. Three times. One of those times was during the very stirring moment when the tattered American flag from the World Trade Center was being carried in. If you were lucky enough to be one of the millionaires who could afford tickets to the event itself, then you probably noted how reverent the crowd became. If you were watching on TV, as I was, then you heard a lot of respectful silence, and then Bob Costas interrupting it to say, “The temperature here is in the 20s.” Apparently, that was the most profound thing he could think to say during such a time. I would like to see him during a funeral procession. (“I had pudding for lunch. Back to you, Katie.”)

I also enjoyed the moment when, as we saw soldiers standing up with the words “Kandahar, Afghanistan” across the bottom of the screen, Bob Costas said, “They’re standing in Kandahar, Afghanistan.” Also: During the Parade of Nations, when Katie Couric observed that even though “Lord of the Rings” was filmed in New Zealand, “there are no Hobbits marching tonight.” Thanks, Katie.

There were oodles of ice skaters in the proceedings, telling the story of a little boy who skated around the world looking for someone to light his fire within (if you know what I mean). At one point, he was chased by giant skating icicles who were dressed like Klansmen, probably unintentionally. The Klancicles frightened the boy away; as Bob Costas noted, “It’s never good when you’re being pursued by giant icicles who are up to no good.” That is especially true when the icicles look like white supremacists.

Later, there were Indians. Not the ones from India; that country, despite having 1.1 billion people, only managed to send one athlete, which makes me wonder WHERE THE HECK THEIR PRIORITIES ARE!!!!

No, these were the American Indians, with each of Utah’s five tribes represented. I guess we did kill a lot of them and steal their land, so it’s only fair we let them play flutes at the Olympics. I say we call it even.

It was indeed an extravagant extravaganza, and a spectacular spectacle — a fitting beginning to what will surely be 17 days of thrilling Olympic hoedowning action. The temperature of my fire within is hot.

The International Olympic Committee closely guards the use of its trademarks and licenses, and it has trademarked and licensed pretty much everything. In fact, you are no longer allowed to use the word “bribe” without putting a little “TM” after it.

How vigorously do the various Olympics committees defend their properties? On officially licensed merchandise, the three adorable mascots, Copper, Powder and Coal, have “TM” after their names. That’s right, the Salt Lake Organizing Committee has copyrighted the words “copper,” “powder” and “coal.” Don’t go around saying these words casually, as you have been, because they belong to SLOC now.

Presumably, this also means you cannot name your child “Copper” without permission. Of course, if you’re in Utah, you would probably spell it “CopPer,” and that might be different enough to avoid a lawsuit. So knock yourself out.

The height of Olympic hypersensitivity came last month, when the U.S. Olympic Committee — the third committee we’ve mentioned so far, if you’re keeping track — filed a lawsuit against Discount Tire Co. because of its billboard that showed five car tires arranged in the same fashion as the Olympic rings. Since Discount Tire has no official connection with the Olympics, it is not allowed to use the Olympics — or, in this case, bring the Olympics to mind — in its advertising.

Which is all well and good, I suppose, and I have no problem with protecting one’s logos and trademarks. What I found amusing, however, is the language of the lawsuit, as reported by the Associated Press.

“Discount Tire’s actions not only deceive the public, but also are irreparably harming the USOC,” the lawsuit said.

So in the USOC’s mind, the intent of the billboard was to make passing motorists think, “Hey, Discount Tire must be affiliated with the United States Olympic Committee! We should spend our money at that tire location, not at one of the non-Olympic-affiliated ones.” Discount Tire didn’t want to sell tires; it wanted to trick people.

In fact, I suspect Discount Tire’s intent was merely to be clever. When I saw the ad, I thought it was cute. I didn’t remember which tire company it was for until I read about the lawsuit.

I also like the “irreparably harming the USOC” part, because it makes me think of some entertaining conversations that would have to take place for that to be true.

“What should we do tonight, honey? Should we go to the Olympics, or should we buy some tires?”

Or:

“I had a bad experience at Discount Tire. So you United States Olympic Committee missionaries, get off my porch!”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go powder™ my nose.