Some people are concerned that the upcoming Games will turn into the “Mormon Olympics,” due to the high percentage of Utah residents who are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. These fears are valid, of course, because this sort of thing has happened before. For example, the 1998 Winter Games in Nagano, Japan, were nothing more than a proselyting effort for the Buddhists, and you couldn’t throw a rock in Lillehammer in 1994 without hitting an Evangelical Lutheran missionary.

I’m lying about that, of course, but in truth, religion has always played a part in the Olympics. The ancient Greeks were so overjoyed when the IOC announced Athens would be the site of the first Games in 776 B.C. that they immediately threw a bacchanalia in the street to honor whichever of their random, silly gods they felt was responsible for it. (Yes, the Bacchanalia was a Roman festivity. The Greeks were so excited, they invited them over.)

So with religion and the Olympics linked from day one, and with most Utahns being Mormon, it should come as no surprise that the Olympics have a bit of an LDS flavor. But how strong is the Mormon influence? Take a look at some of this year’s events:

– Women’s Downhill Jump to Conclusions
– The Self-Righteous Huff
– Slalom Minivan Driving with Non-Operating Turn Signal
– Bobsled
– Freestyle Scrapbooking
– Guilt
– Scripture Chase
– Preparing Lesson During Sacrament Meeting While Also Distributing Cheerios Among Toddlers Biathlon
– Southern Utah County Big Hair Curling.

Again, I exaggerate. Yes, this Olympics will have a Mormon influence. But guess what? There are a lot of Mormons in Utah. Utah and Mormons are inseparably connected. You couldn’t hold an event here without there being SOME manifestation of the predominant culture.

The Mormons say there’s nothing wrong with celebrating Utah’s (read: Mormonism’s) culture. The non-Mormons say they’re tired of the Mormon influence — which, it should be noted, they complain about the rest of the time, too. The Olympics just gives them an international forum in which to do it.

So to the world, I say this: Get a load of us! We are, without apology, who we are. We’re a bunch of Jell-O-eating, church-going, gun-owning, Republican-voting, under-tipping, dollar-movie-attending, Osmond-forgiving, California-hating, Idaho-belittling, “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat”-watching, in-the-left-lane-slow-driving conservative family types who are proud of our culture and eager to share it with you. In fact, we would love to send a couple representatives of our culture to your house for an informal one-hour discussion of — wait, come back!

Directionless? Clueless? Legless? Fret not, because Eric is here with another installment of “Ask Eric Stuff,” in which people ask Eric stuff and he tells them where to go and what to do. All of these questions were submitted [outdated link provided], where you can submit your own questions, too.

Dear Eric: My college adviser told me I need to pick a major. What should I do: engineering, because the 5-1 ratio of boys to girls gives me a better chance of getting married; or nursing, which I’m really better at, but where all my male counterparts will be pansies? — On the Prowl in Provo
Dear Prowly: You’re wasting time even being in school, darlin’. Just rope yourself a guy, stay home, and start birthin’ some babies.

Dear Eric: I’m moving to Texas and buying a house. What should I look for in a primary residence? — Relocator
Dear Dislocator: Find one as far away from the Texans as possible. And whatever you do, don’t “mess” with Texas. That really annoys them.

Dear Eric: How do you feel about Internet romances? — CyberCurious
Dear E-Desperate: Internet romances are very safe, normal and non-creepy, and they always work out in the long run, and no crazy stalkers ever engage in them.

Dear Eric: I’m writing a poem and need a word that rhymes with orange. Any suggestions? — Rhyme Time
Dear Rhyme Thyme: Yes. Get a job.

Dear Eric: I am in a BYU single-student ward, and therefore have been placed in a Family Home Evening group. My question for you is, do you think it’s okay to go out with my FHE group leader, even if he insists upon those in our group calling him “dad”? — Electra Complex
Dear Incestia: I can’t imagine any purpose in having Family Home Evening groups in a student ward OTHER than to get people dating each other. It’s not really your family, and it’s not held at home. It should just be called Evening.

Dear Eric: Do you think that teaching sex education in the schools reflects the lack of morals in our society as the nuclear family becomes weaker and fewer? — Conservative Queen
Dear Queen: Hey, at least it gets kids doing their homework.

Dear Eric: When running a marathon, is it better to wear more cushioned shoes, or lighter shoes? — Slowbut Igetthere
Dear Ha Ha Your Name is Clever: There is no reason to run a marathon. There’s no reason to run at all, unless something is chasing you. And even then, you should pause a moment and think whether it would be all that bad if it caught you. To answer your question, though, you should wear the shoes with the jet packs in them.

Dear Eric: How can I tell a guy that I don’t want to go out with him without hurting his feelings? — Heartless Wonder
Dear Heartless: Who told you guys had feelings?

Dear Eric: What should I name my soon-to-be-born son? — Scared to Death
Dear Scared to Death: I kind of like Scared to Death.

Dear Eric: After exercising, why do I get a tingling sensation in my thighs? — Tae-Bo Teri
Dear Tae Land: Are you exercising with jellyfish? Because if you are, it’s possible one of them is stinging you on the thigh. If not, then maybe it’s a stroke.

The billboard I saw on my way to work said this:

“The United Nations Wants to Take YOUR Gun!”

I was alarmed. How could the United Nations Want to Take MY Gun when I don’t even have one? Are they planning to issue guns to everyone, just so they can take them away? Because THAT sure wouldn’t make any sense. Plus, I don’t want a gun in my house, even if it’s only long enough for the U.N. to take it away. Who knows how long they’ll leave it there before they come get it? It could be days, or even weeks, and in that time, plenty could go wrong, such as my roommate leaving dirty dishes in the sink FOR THE LAST TIME.

Upon checking the Web site referenced on the billboard — www.getusout.org — I learned what I should have known all along, which is that the John Birch Society is behind this. The John Birchers haven’t had much to do since communism stopped being a threat, though you shouldn’t say that in front of the John Birchers, because it will make them reply, “The communists just want you to THINK they’re no longer a threat!” The communists are in hiding, perhaps under the polar ice cap, with the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel and Bigfoot.

Without a strong target that actually exists, the Birchers have moved on to the United Nations. To hear them tell it, the U.N. is hell-bent on removing all the personal freedoms enjoyed by Americans. You want to own a gun? The U.N. will take it away. You want to have as many kids as you please? The U.N. will regulate your womb. You want to make a right turn on a red light? The U.N. will enforce needlessly strict traffic laws.

And yet, just to give you an idea of how sneaky the U.N. is, all you ever hear reported in the news is that they’ve deployed a task force or initiated a peace-keeping effort somewhere. All this secret, rights-stealing stuff they do never makes the news. This is probably because the news media is run by liberals, all of whom have sworn blood oaths to promote the U.N. agenda.

If you read that last sentence and thought, “It’s amusing that Mr. Snider (or perhaps you thought ‘Mr. Snyder,’ the way you spell it in your angry letters) has mocked one of the common complaints about the media by pretending to espouse it,” then you are on level ground. If you read it and thought, “It’s about time someone in the media admits there’s a conspiracy to keep the news liberal,” then you are a wacko.

Having worked at a handful of newspapers in my day, I can tell you that the notion of a deep media conspiracy is a fairy tale. Most newsrooms are so chaotic that the people who work in them can barely remember to wear pants on a daily basis; the idea that papers could cooperate with each other, and that they could all cooperate with TV news — which we consider the mentally challenged stepson of journalism — is ludicrous.

I think the paranoid right-wing conspiracy theorists who come up with this stuff get off on being described as “paranoid right-wing conspiracy theorists.” Persecution means justification: If no one believes them, that’s just further evidence of how deep the conspiracy runs.

Doesn’t anybody still believe that calmness is the best way of dealing with things? I’m sure there are pros and cons regarding our involvement in the United Nations, although I suspect the major beef some of the paranoid right-wing conspiracy theorists have with the organization is that it accepts foreigners as members.

The U.N. is certainly a matter worth discussing. But to look at the hysteria on the Get Us Out Web site, you’d think it was a matter of life and death that must be acted upon NOW! Few things must be decided that hastily. Most things can wait a minute — at least until you’ve washed those dishes, anyway.

This column occasionally makes people angry, if by “occasionally” we mean “all the time” and if by “people” we mean “sticks in the mud” and if by “angry” we mean “angry.”

One sentiment we hear very frequently from callers and letter-writers is that they usually enjoy “Snide Remarks” — but THIS TIME, I’ve gone too far. In other words, “I used to think you were funny, until you made fun of something I liked. Then you stopped being funny.”

This is actually not as absurd as it sounds. (At least, I hope it sounds absurd.) Most people don’t laugh when something hits close to home. Mel Brooks said, “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when YOU fall into an open manhole and die.” If we feel too attached to the thing, we’re not as likely to find humor in it as we would if there were some distance.

Which is why, believe it or not, most of the things I say in this column are said with the assumption that most readers will agree with me, or at least partially agree with me. Enough to find the jokes funny, anyway. Think about it: If I wrote with the INTENTION of making everyone mad, well, where’s the humor in that? People don’t laugh when they’re angry. They holler and cry and misspell words.

But despite my best efforts, some columns upset a lot of people. So today, I’m only going to present opinions that absolutely EVERYONE will agree with. (Well, almost everyone. There’s always that one percent whose opinions don’t line up with anyone else’s, like the people who DIDN’T think it was silly when LaVerkin banned the U.N. We can do nothing to accommodate these people, except to back away slowly and not make any sudden moves.)

So what’s the deal with murderers? I don’t think we ought to be killing each other unless we have a really, really good reason. And if someone does kill someone else, then he (the killer) should have to stand trial and account for his actions.

Don’t you just hate when you order something at a restaurant, and then the waitress brings the WRONG THING? That drives me up the wall! I mean, hey: If I WANTED the chicken, I would have ORDERED the chicken!

Recently I was out driving when my car broke down. You buy a car, and you expect it to run properly, and then it breaks. Isn’t life just a kick in the pants?

Canadians, on a whole, are a friendly group of people. Hard-working, honest, patriotic — that’s the Canadian way.

Some people have issues with people from other countries moving to the United States and bringing their native languages and cultures with them. But you know what I think? I’m just glad I live in a country that people WANT to move to! You don’t see people immigrating to Afghanistan, do you? Except that misguided John Walker character, who might be a traitor and who might just be a troubled young man, but in either case, I’m glad he finally got a haircut!

Watching TV, I couldn’t help but notice that a lot of commercials are insulting to my intelligence. “BUT WAIT!” they yell at me. “THERE’S MORE!” OK, I’m waiting. Tell me what’s so great about your product, Mr. Commercial Man!

Say what you will about fast-food employees, but one thing’s for sure: French fries are one of the best snacks around.

I hope I have not offended anyone today. Next time, we’ll discuss why all Canadians should be rounded up and shot.

The story so far: Eric’s car was towed; the Park City Police Department charged him $80 and then had to refund the money when they realized they didn’t have the car; the guy who DID have the car didn’t want to release it this late at night, even though he had towed it only an hour earlier; Eric finally persuaded him to do it, but at great cost to his own dignity.

I took a taxi to the impound lot, which was 12 miles from Park City. After 20 minutes of standing in the sub-freezing midnight air, I saw Gus (names have been changed) pull up in his tow truck. I will describe him only by saying that if “tow-truck driver” conjures a particular image in your mind, that image probably looks like Gus.

Knowing how unwilling he had been to release the car this late at night — and forever shall I give honor and glory to Gus for shining his mercy upon me! — I treated him with “kid gloves,” as they say, meaning I did not want to touch him with my bare hands. I got out the $80 to pay him, and he started telling me about how the normal cost was $165, but then there was also storage on top of it — $25 a day, and technically, it was now a new day — and I assumed he was leading up to “… but since I told you $80 on the phone, it will just be $80.”

It was silly of me to assume that, of course. He said he was generous enough to leave off the storage fees — may the name of Gus be forever praised! — and the final total would be $165. I pointed out as gingerly as I could that in the 15 minutes I’d spent on the phone with him, begging him to please let me have my car tonight, he had never indicated the cost would be more than the $80 I’d been told initially. He replied by pointing out that he could not accept a credit card or a check.

Silently, I wondered why tow-truck drivers assume people carry around huge wads of cash with them. Vocally, I told him he’d have to drive me to a cash machine.

It occurred to me that Gus could have charged whatever he wanted, and I’d have been powerless to stop him. “Well, I’m gonna have to charge you a standing-up fee, plus a putting-on-my-coveralls fee,” he could have said. “Oh, and there’s a $25 jerk fee that I have to charge you for my being a jerk. You’re lucky I don’t charge you double, as much of a jerk as I’m being.”

Anyway, we rode in Gus’ truck to the nearest ATM, three miles away. Out of the blue, Gus said, “I bought a new bed.” I was amazed to hear this. I had been searching all my life for the topic of conversation that I was least interested in, and now I had found it! A new bed purchased by an obstinate journeyman was precisely the thing in all the universe that I couldn’t possibly have cared less about. And now I was talking about it!

I was afraid if I appeared uninterested in Gus’ new bed that he would change his mind again on how much money I owed him. (“I’m also gonna have to charge you a $25 not-caring-about-my-new-bed fee.”) So I said, “Oh, yeah?” I even raised my eyebrows, the way interested people do.

After getting the money, we went back to the impound lot and Gus released the car. Unfortunately, the evening’s snowfall made it impossible to get the car out from the corner of the yard without — that’s right — being towed. I had to be towed out of the tow yard. (Gus did not charge me for this; in fact, he found it as sadly amusing as I did.)

A caller Wednesday morning said this to me: “I’d just like to know why no one ever puts that them people that stink and smell like smoke comes out and gets people off the roads in the middle of the night, ice-cold, hot, whatever the circumstances are, and they’re there to save everyone else, but they never put that in their little columns.”

I could not have expressed it better myself. The guys who come to your rescue when you’ve broken down perform a valuable service. The companies that do that sort of work exclusively have my respect as hard-working laborers. It’s the ones under contract with cities and police departments to take cars without permission that need to be scrutinized. Whether the towing was justified is irrelevant. The outrageous pricing, the lack of a means for redress, and the odd rules about when cars can be released (seems like if they can tow it at night, they can release it at night) are all due for some examination.

And I’m sorry it took two columns to tell this story. It was only going to be one, but then I had to charge you a one-column reading fee.

If you’ve been to Park City during the Sundance Film Festival, then your car has been towed. During the time when the most people visit the town, that’s when the city decides no one’s allowed to park there. It’s like inviting guests over for dinner and then setting the front door on fire before they arrive. Sometimes Park City builds new parking lots just to declare no one can park in them.

For the record, I was not parked illegally when I was towed Friday night. I was parked in an officially designated Sundance parking lot. Allegedly, I was “blocking an entrance,” which I honestly do not understand, since I entered through the entrance, drove another 100 feet or so, and then parked parallel to everyone else. Perhaps what the tow guy meant was not that I was “blocking an entrance,” but that he “wanted to steal $170 from someone.”

I tried to explain to the tow guy, whose name was Gus (names have been changed), that my car should not have been towed. But I didn’t try very hard. For one thing, I feared explaining something sufficiently for a tow-truck driver to understand would tax the limits of my vocabulary and reasoning skills, since tow-truck drivers tend to be that unfortunate combination of 1) stubborn and 2) stupid. For another thing, never in the history of mankind has a tow-truck driver said, “OK, you’re right. We shouldn’t have towed you. There will be no charge, and I apologize for the inconvenience.” If a tow-truck driver’s brain ever even attempted to combine those words in that order, his head would explode. (Raise your hand if you would like to see this.)

Gus used airtight logic in explaining things to me. He said, “You must have been parked illegally, because you got towed.” In other words: “I towed you because you were parked illegally. How do I know you were parked illegally? Because I towed you.” Similarly, all tow-truck drivers smell like a combination of cigarettes, B.O., and engine grease. How do you know they smell like a combination of cigarettes, B.O., and engine grease? Because they’re tow-truck drivers.

But I have gotten ahead of myself. Before I even talked to Gus, I had to talk to the nice folks at the Park City Police Department. They believed the car to be in their possession, so I paid them the $80 and waited for an officer to arrive and show me where the impound lot was. Then we discovered that in fact, PCPD had turned the job over to a private company, Summit Service, and it was in their lot.

Fine. No problem. As long as SOMEONE had the car, I didn’t really care who. (Well, within reason. I wouldn’t want Drew Barrymore driving it, for example, or Hitler.) I called Summit on the phone and was told by Gus — you remember Gus — that since it was after hours, he could not release the vehicle. I would have to come back the next day, he said, and when I told him I had no place to stay in Park City overnight, he told me that, well, then, I shouldn’t have gotten my car towed. That’s when I tried to explain I hadn’t INTENDED for the car to be towed, and that it SHOULDN’T have been towed, but you know how far I got with that.

Mind you, Gus had towed the car only an hour earlier, so he wasn’t opposed to working after hours. It was working after hours when it might actually HELP someone that he was opposed to. Stealing a car, fine. Giving it back again, no.

(And it is stealing, by the way. If your kid were on my property without my permission and I responded by locking him in my closet until you paid a large amount of money — cash only, please, and the amount might change according to my whims — you would have me arrested.)

After much humiliation and begging and pleading on my part, I finally persuaded Gus to meet me at the impound lot and release the car. He told me to get my $80 back from PCPD, because I would need it to pay him. He sounded like he was the greatest martyr the world had ever known for doing this. He did not specifically SAY that he thought I should teach my children to pray in his name, but it was implied.

But there is more to the story. The $80 turned into a lot more, it was really cold outside, and Gus told me about his new bed. Join us Friday for the harrowing conclusion to this greasy story.

On Tuesday, I took a moment to make fun of Robert Redford. Specifically, I called him a “leathery midget.” I fear this epithet may have been taken the wrong way. I only meant that his skin is textured like that classiest of classy materials, leather, and also that he is a midget. Seriously, he’s like 4 feet tall.

I have a great, non-sexual love for Robert Redford. I think he’s a fine actor and a decent director, and of course he deserves movie sainthood for founding the Sundance Film Festival, now entering its third decade and growing stronger each year, especially if strength is determined by counting the number of movies about lesbians, which it is.

All week long, I’ve kidded the festival, and made fun of the movies that are low in quality and/or moral standards. And while Sundance has its share of bad movies, and filthy movies, and movies that don’t make any sense, and movies with more style than substance, and movies that make me wish death upon the people responsible for them, it also has more than its share of GOOD movies. Some of the best films I’ve ever seen have been at Sundance.

It is vigorous work, all this movie-watching. Sometimes I see five movies in one day. By the time I get home, they have all run together in my mind, and I feel like I’ve watched one 10-hour movie (specifically, “Titanic”).

But then something will come along that makes me glad to be in Park City in January (which, in terms of weather, is like being in hell in August). Some movie will remind me why I ever loved movies in the first place, and restore my faith in the art of film. Movies can be powerful, inspiring tools that can make us better people and benefit our society.

But enough of that, because I want to complain about short films. Here’s my opinion on short films: I don’t like them. Either make a movie, or don’t. I guess if your story isn’t detailed enough to justify feature length, I don’t mind you keeping it short. Better to be too short than to be too long, in terms of movies, anyway. But some shorts don’t HAVE stories. They’re just random images of colors or objects or whatever. This is where a director said, “Well, I don’t have any ideas for stories, and I don’t have any actors, but I do have a camera and Adobe Photoshop. Maybe I can just film some random stuff.” Which might be fine for, you know, 30 seconds. But then they make seven-minute shorts in which NOTHING OCCURS. I used to think I could handle anything, no matter how dull, if it was only for a couple minutes. Then I tried to take a statistics class in college and learned otherwise. The shorts thing only confirms it.

The redeeming value of the weird shorts is that the directors are always at the public screenings to introduce them. If you think movie people in general are strange, you should see the ones who make the short films. They’re very enthusiastic and animated, and they seem unaware that the audience is watching their films and saying, “This is bizarre and stupid.” Whoever’s encouraging these filmmakers, knock it off.

Whoever’s encouraging those other filmmakers — you know, the ones who can actually tell stories and entertain people — keep it up. You make Park City a great place to be. In January, anyway. The only way I’d ever go there in February is if the Olympics were coming.

I love Parker Posey. She’s been in many good movies, including “Waiting for Guffman,” which was the best comedy of the ’90s and one of the best comedies of the past 1,000 years. She was in “The House of Yes,” which contains the only good Freddie Prinze Jr. performance on record. (Scientists believe this was an anomaly that will not occur again in our lifetimes.) I can understand how John Hinckley felt with his obsession for Jodie Foster: If I thought for a moment that Parker Posey wanted me to assassinate someone, I would totally do it.

One of the reasons a person like me goes to the Sundance Film Festival is to see the latest Parker Posey film. She is the undisputed Queen of Independent Films. This year she was in “Personal Velocity,” a chick flick that I, being non-chick in nature, did not find terribly useful. Nonetheless, the acting from her, Fairuza Balk and Kyra Sedgwick is for to make one happy.

You can imagine my childlike wonderment and delight, then, when a publicist for the movie called and asked if I wanted to participate in a round-table interview with the three stars. I said I most certainly did, which was actually only one-third true: I wanted to interview Parker Posey. I couldn’t care less about Kyra Sedgwick or Fairuza Balk, both of which sound like geographic terms from “Lord of the Rings.” (“You must cross the Bridge of Fairuza Balk over into the Land of Kyra Sedgwick.”)

There were five other semi-journalists there, some of them even less qualified than myself. Parker looked casually sassy in a baggy off-the-shoulder sweater and blue jeans. She is pencil-thin but well-proportioned. I don’t recall whether Kyra and Fairuza were wearing clothes. (Actually, I remember Fairuza — who reminds me of the Goth chicks I was afraid of in high school — had well over 1 million rings and bracelets.)

The journalists who were not me dominated the conversation, asking questions about the movie. Kyra and Fairuza talked a lot; Parker, while endlessly bubbly and friendly, seemed least interested in the discussion. The format did not allow for a lot of individual questions — they were there to talk about the movie they’re in together — and so queries as to whether Parker Posey, specifically, would marry me seemed inappropriate.

I did ask Parker — I called her Parker — what she planned to do to stop Christina Ricci from dethroning her as Queen of Independent Films. (The fearsome, bug-eyed Ricci has three films at Sundance this year, while Parker has only one.) She jokingly said, “Oh, I’m lying awake at night worrying about it. Christina and I are going to meet and work something out.” I asked if there would be a fight, and she said I should stop projecting my male fantasies onto her. Then her cellphone rang, and she answered it, “Hi, Christina.” It wasn’t really Christina, but man, what a great joke. I laughed until a year from now.

We also got to interview the writer/director of “Personal Velocity,” Rebecca Miller. She is the daughter of Arthur Miller, who was the greatest American playwright of the 20th century. I asked her whether being the daughter of a bigshot has more advantages or disadvantages, and she said she can’t estimate how much difference it makes, because she has never NOT been Arthur Miller’s daughter. She implied she wasn’t there to talk about Arthur Miller, which meant I had to throw out my entire list of questions, which included: How is Arthur Miller? And: Can you get me Arthur Miller’s autograph? (It is just as well, I suppose; I couldn’t remember whether he’s alive or dead, and I was fearful of using the wrong verb tense when I talked about him.)

The famous people were all very pleasant, as famous people tend to be when they’re in carefully controlled, media-oriented environments. Not a lot of insight came out of the interviews, except that all three cast members and the director think “Personal Velocity” is a great movie. I disagree, but that won’t stop me from seeing it again and memorizing the Parker Posey parts.

So far I’ve seen two self-referential movies at Sundance. One was a documentary about philosopher Jacques Derrida that tells the story of Jacques Derrida while also telling the story of how the documentary about Jacques Derrida came to be. The other was “The Laramie Project,” which is based on a play, and the play is partly about how the authors wrote the play. Imagine if “Hamlet” didn’t just tell the story of Hamlet, but also told the story of how Shakespeare happened to write “Hamlet.” (As if “Hamlet” weren’t long enough already.)

And so, in the true Sundance Film Festival spirit of experimentation, and of copying things you’ve seen other people do, this column will be self-referential. It will be a column, but it will also be ABOUT the column.

During Sundance, Park City’s Main Street is the place to be if you want to see a lot of other people who want to see celebrities. The celebrities themselves, I don’t know where they are. They tend to blend in with the commoners, because everyone — famous people and peons alike — dresses exactly the same. Everyone looks like they don’t know whether to watch a movie or go skiing, like they could walk into a room and buy either popcorn or a lift ticket.

(Originally, that line ended with “watch a movie or go skiing,” but I felt like it needed another clause to drive the point home. Then I figured I needed some material on cellphones, since they’re so prominent at the festival. That material is coming up now.)

Cellphones are part of the Sundance uniform, of course. If you cannot afford a cellphone, one will be appointed for you. It’s ironic, really, given that Park City has cellphone reception worse than what you would get on the moon. Of course, it’s ironic that Park City would be home to a film festival when there are only three actual movie screens in the town, but irony is something you get used to with Sundance, since it’s the favorite literary device of all the angsty Gen-Xers who make the movies.

But back to the cellphones: Everyone talks on them all the time. The latest trend is the headsets, where you trade the hassle of holding the phone in your hand with the hassle of looking like a Gap employee. (Why do the Gap employees need headsets, anyway? What goes on in a Gap store that requires all personnel to be in communication with each other at all times? Are they launching nuclear-powered chinos back there, or activating a doomsday sweater? Is there a show going on? Is one of them the stage manager? (“Ready, pants … pants, go.”) (Are you allowed to include a parenthetical remark within another parenthetical remark?))

Wow, what a nightmare of punctuation THAT was. In technical writing, you use brackets [like this] for parentheses-within-parentheses. I don’t know what the rule is for newspapers. The rule is probably just not to do parentheses-within-parentheses. But in the spirit of Sundance, I am breaking the rules. I am also talking a lot about myself, which is also in the spirit of Sundance.

You have to look the part, and nowhere is that more true than at Sundance. Cellphones, black leather jackets, coffee-oriented beverages — it’s all part of The Look. With it, you’re part of the crowd, whether you’re a director, actor or just a regular ol’ movie-goer. Without it, you’re just a loser. (Will I offend my fellow losers by pretending not to be one of them? That is the ongoing question with this column.)

People often ask me, “How do I get to Sundance?” I give them the same answer as the New Yorker who was asked how to get to Carnegie Hall: What am I, the tourist board?

But seriously. Many filmmakers try to get their films into the Sundance Film Festival, but it requires skill, such as remembering not to say “film” four times in one sentence. You have to have a keen eye as a director, and as a writer, you’ll need a profanity dictionary.

Films are selected by a committee. These people are very committed to the Sundance Film Festival; why, they wear black leather jackets all year long, not just for 11 days in January. The selection process is arduous. The committee members watch films, have extensive debates, and apparently smoke a great deal of crack to determine which films are truly in the Sundance spirit.

Sometimes, the decision is easy to make. For example, this year’s festival includes a movie called “Love in the Time of Money.” It is not a very good movie. If someone gave you a video of it, you would tape over it. “West Wing,” maybe, or “Friends.” But this plucky little film had something working to its advantage: Its executive producer is Robert Redford, the leathery midget who founded Sundance and who I’m sure exerted no pressure whatsoever on the selection committee. (With each passing year, it becomes less likely Mr. Redford will ever submit to an interview with me.)

Short of having the founder executive-produce your film, what can you, the aspiring filmmaker, do to ensure your movie is deemed worthy to play at Sundance? Here are the Ten Commandments of independent filmmaking, as handed down to Robert Redford on Mt. Sundance.

* Thou shalt be “edgy” and push envelopes. Specifically, thou shalt have at least one gay person per movie.

* Thou shalt not allow traditional two-parent families in thy movies, unless a) the parents hateth each other, b) one of the parents beeth a pedophile, or c) the mother decideth half-way through that behold, she is a lesbian.

* If a film existeth that hath too many lesbians, the Sundance committee hath not seen it.

* Thou shalt include in thy cast people like Parker Posey or Christina Ricci; behold, if thou casteth Adam Sandler or Cheech Marin, thou might as well throw thy movie in the Dumpster — yea, verily, in the damn Dumpster.

* Any film which is in the Iranian tongue shall be brilliant.

* In thy pursuits of “edginess,” be thou aware of political correctness. If, for example, thy movie containeth a murderer and a homosexual, be thou sure they art not the same character. And any character who maketh a joke about homosexuals must be a villainous character, or turneth out to be gay himself.

* Behold, where is that intern with my latte?

* Remember thy film editor, and keep him nourished with crystal meth, so that he may edit thy film to look like a music video.

* Religion hath no place in a Sundance film, except as it shall be mocked.

* Thou may know thy movie is good when thy audience understandeth it not but pretendeth to like it anyway, so they may appear smart.

[ Originally, I just started listing “rules” for Sundance movies. I changed to the Ten Commandments format because a) I do so enjoy writing in Bible-style language, and b) it helped me come up with a movie title for the column.

We got this angry letter sent via the Herald Web site. (There’s a feedback form you can fill out, apparently.) It is fairly typical, as angry letters go, but a lot more level-headed than most:

I never heard from the leathery midget himself, but I did hear from several people who cited that as their favorite comment of the week.

In 2011, I recycled some of these jokes for a similar column for Film.com. ]

The 2002 Sundance Film Festival is four days old now, and the list of celebrities of I’ve seen is very small, unless you count seeing them in a movie, in which case I’ve seen dozens.

In person, though, I’ve only seen people who LOOK like celebrities. I saw a woman who looked like a dumpier version of Jennifer Aniston, for example, as well as a man who looked like Lisa Kudrow, and a guy who was a dead ringer for Ben Affleck (who, despite the film “Bounce,” is still a celebrity). The Affleck guy turned out to be a smarmy Miramax executive named Andrew. “Andrew’s in New York” is what his gal pal said to someone by way of introduction, despite the fact that Andrew was obviously in Park City. What she meant was that he WORKS in New York, as opposed to L.A., those being the only two places that exist to movie people. So now I go around telling people, “I’m in Provo.” This impresses no one.

I have a friend who saw the real Jennifer Aniston, not her dumpy Doppelganger, but she wasn’t with hubby Brad Pitt. (New rumor alert, straight from my imagination: I hear they’re splitting up. Also: Brad Pitt is dead.)

My theory on all the lookalikes is that they’re decoys, designed to keep lower life forms like myself away from the important people. It’s apparently working, because so far Sundance has been a bust in terms of celebrity sightings. But that’s not why I come here. I come here to get out of that infernal, soul-crushing newspaper office for a week. Also, I come here for the movies, which are in abundant supply, it now being easier to make a film than to obtain a driver’s license. This is unfortunate, really, because it means a lot of people make movies, and a lot of those movies suck.

Take, for instance, one of this year’s Sundance entries, a little thing called “Rain.” It’s basically a trashy prime-time soap opera, except you have to pay to watch it. It takes place in a little town where everyone knows each other (and I mean that in the biblical sense), and a woman is having an affair with a high school student, and then it turns out he’s her long-lost son. Hooray! This movie includes a scene of someone literally crying over spilled milk, and another one of someone literally covering her tracks. It is a triumph in the field of Filmed Metaphors. I only wish the filmmakers could have made the movie emit an odor, so we could say it literally stinks.

“Rain” doesn’t have any famous people in it; it actually doesn’t even have much rain in it, which always bothers me about movie titles. (How to tell a good movie from a bad movie: “Fight Club” is actually about a fight club; “Steel Magnolias” is utterly devoid of steel or magnolias.) A movie that’s full of famous people is “The Laramie Project,” which posits that the 1998 murder of Wyoming college student Matthew Shepard was a terrible thing, which I really wasn’t aware we needed convincing of. Apparently we did, though, because the movie spends 90 minutes arguing the point. I kept saying, “OK, I agree! I never disagreed! Stop with the celebrity cameos!” But the movie kept going, and the celebrities kept coming. Some of them, I’m told, are really nice in person.

Utah County has so much live theater, it’s leaking out at the seams and getting goo all over the adjacent counties. Still, there are some who don’t attend the theater and might be hesitant to try, for fear of committing a social “foe paw,” pardon my French.

Here, then, is a guide to proper theater etiquette, as observed in Utah County.

• Babies love theater. Bring them, no matter how young. It is perfectly acceptable to give birth in the car on the way over and then bring the baby, still dripping, into the theater. Babies love theater.

• If a thought occurs to you, be sure to say it out loud, even if it’s in the middle of the play. A thought that remains unspoken is a wasted thought. If you think one of the actresses is wearing a pretty dress, you should say: “That’s a pretty dress.” If a character reveals something he shouldn’t have, in a manner that will surely lead to humorous complications, you should say: “Whoops!” (Also acceptable: “Uh-oh!”) If you are watching “Beau Jest” at the Hale Center Theater Orem, and seven of the play’s eight characters are already onstage, and someone knocks at the door, and process of elimination tells you it must be Chris, you should say, out loud: “Chris!” A whisper is acceptable in each of these instances, but make sure those around you can hear, so they can share in your excitement over having had a thought.

• Eat like a @#$% pig. Theaters wouldn’t sell concessions if they didn’t want you to enjoy them. Unwrap candy slowly and delicately, savoring every second of unwrappy goodness. If you can find a bag of Skittles in which each Skittle has been individually wrapped in its own cellophane bag, even better. If your candy has somehow been rigged to a box of dynamite, and each bite you take sets off another explosion, that’s fine, too. An audience full of candy-wrapper noise is a happy audience!

• Don’t worry about “dressing up.” If you have shoes on, you’re ready. Is there a hole in your sweatpants? Tie a sweatshirt around your midsection, and go to town.

• Only nerds show up before a play starts.

• Choose the right things to be offended by. Shows featuring racism (“The King and I”), adultery (“Camelot”), spousal abuse (“Carousel”), sexism (“Seven Brides for Seven Brothers”) or any other offensive behavior are perfectly OK, as long as the characters are amusing, and as long as they sing and dance a lot. But if the characters drink or use profanity, complain to the management.

• Turn your cellphone off. But if you forget and it rings during the show, don’t just quickly silence it, as that would be rude to the caller. Instead, answer it, and have this conversation: “Hello … yeah … no, I’m in a play … yeah … yeah, it’s pretty good … OK … OK … yeah … bye.” You should convince yourself that you are whispering quietly enough not to be heard by others, but trust me, this is not true.

• A play a day keeps the doctor away. If you feel yourself coming down with a cold, cough, flu, tuberculosis or the consumption, do not see a doctor. Go immediately to the theater — to a comedy, if possible, so that every burst of laughter can turn into a loud hacking. Do not bring lozenges, as unwrapping them might disturb other patrons.

• Be a true “patron of the arts.” If you ignore all shows except “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” which you see each time it is performed; if you dismiss all Shakespeare plays as being “boring” without even seeing them; if you won’t watch anything unless it’s a musical, comedy or musical comedy; if you have seen more than five plays this year in which a man dresses as a woman for comedic purposes; if you believe the actors having learned their lines is enough to constitute a play being “real good”; if any of these apply, then feel free to proudly proclaim yourself a true patron of the arts! Hooray and huzzah!

We thought our friend Sassy Winger (names have been changed) had appendicitis, so we took her to the hospital. Turns out it was just an ovarian cyst that had burst. YOU WANT TO KEEP READING NOW, DON’T YOU????!!!!

I’m uncomfortable discussing Sassy’s ovaries, so from here on, we’re going to call them phone books. Sassy began experiencing pains in the general area of her phone books — sharp, stabbing pains, as though someone had stabbed her with something sharp — and she feared it could be her appendix. Trying to be helpful, I related the story of my brother Jeff, and how he had his appendix taken out when he was 4, and how the scar has subsequently grown to be over a foot in length, due to Jeff as a whole having also grown exponentially since that time.

Sassy found this unhelpful, and Luscious Malone and I took her to Utah Valley Regional Medical Center. There we waited as she met with the triage nurse. I love the idea of triage nurses, because I love the idea of someone’s job being to tell you whether you’re sick enough to be there. She’s like the bouncer at an exclusive nightclub, holding open the velvet rope for some, but not others. (“You, you, you, not you, you, you, not you….”)

Anyway, as Sassy pled her case before the triage nurse — and each time I’ve typed the word “triage,” it has come out “triangle,” by the way — Luscious and I looked around the emergency room to figure out who was sickest.

It gave me time to reflect on all the time I’ve spent at that particular hospital, almost always to visit someone else. My first major experience there was in 1998, when my friend Chris was in a terrible car accident where he almost died and missed his own wedding. (The woman married him after he got better, and now you’d never know he even had an accident, except that he talks about it ALL THE TIME.) For a couple weeks, my friends and I would go hang out at the hospital in the afternoons, watching TV and pretending to be family so we could sneak into the ICU and see him.

The difficult thing with this accident was that Chris’ spleen was crushed, and theretofore, “spleen” had been one of our favorite funny-sounding words. Now, it was no longer funny. (It is funny again now, by the way; the statute of limitations has passed. Soon we’ll be able to make fun of George W. Bush for being stupid again, too.)

In 2000, Luscious Malone herself was the recipient of a car accident, and we all scurried down to see her in the E.R. She reports that the wooden slabs they put possible back-injury people on were not made for persons above 17 pounds in weight, and that she, being larger than that, began to feel like a Luscious-kabob. She also reports that, at least in her case, if you swear in front of your nurses, they will think it’s funny.

(My first memory of meeting Luscious Malone, by the way, was when she was playing Nintendo at a mutual friend’s house, swearing in such a manner as would knock a buzzard off a crap-wagon, if you’ll pardon my use of the vernacular.)

She also reminds me that you know you’re in bad shape if they put you in a private room in the E.R. Usually, you just have the curtain separating you from the other victims. But if they foresee a lot of screaming or sawing, you get the private room. Fear the private room.

Sassy Winger didn’t get a private room, fortunately. She was relieved, if grossed out, to learn it was merely a phone-bookian cyst and not something worse. They told her to let the phone books rest for a couple weeks, and everything will be fine. Even so, maybe we’ll head back to the hospital, just to visit. I hope we can get in. (“You, you, not you….”)

It’s that time of year again: Time to make my New Year’s resolutions. The Columnists Code mandates that all newspaper columnists write about this, so here goes:

• I resolve not to actually write a column about New Year’s resolutions.

Now, on to more important matters, like “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” It used to be that you had to be embarrassed if you watched a show with a title like that. But nowadays you can watch nothing but 20-year-old reruns on Game Show Network and still feel good about yourself, as long as you don’t read what the people at HarkTheHerald.com say about you. (By the way, if there’s a more illiterate bunch of hate-spewing special-ed dropouts than the people who post regularly at that site, I’d like to believe they live far away from me and don’t have access to sharp things.)

I got addicted to “Buffy” this fall, when the FX cable channel started showing all the old episodes, in order, from the beginning. Then they started showing two a day, which dramatically impacted my social life, insofar as now I was always watching “Buffy” when no one called me, instead of being on the Internet.

You may be interested to know that many of my fellow Orem residents could not partake of the daily Buffy buffet because Orem’s only cable company, AT&T, doesn’t offer FX as one of its channels. It doesn’t have Comedy Central, Cartoon Network, TCM or BET, either — all channels that are widely considered to be part of pretty much every basic-cable package. I believe you could get more out of your TV by taking the guts out and using it as a flower pot than by using AT&T in Orem.

Which is why I got Dish Network, a satellite service that brings well over 1 billion channels directly into my home, including some from other planets. (At least, I assume that’s where the people on “Iron Chef” are from. Certainly no regular people get that excited about cooking dinner.)

I don’t remember how much Dish Network costs, but I would gladly pay twice as much (unless the current price is infinity; I don’t want to cause any mathematical conundrums), if just for purposes of Buffy. Which is what we were talking about in the first place. (Well, second place.)

“Buffy the Vampire Slayer” is about a girl named Buffy who is a vampire slayer. She lives in a town that is overrun with dark forces and sinister beings who seek the destruction of mankind’s freedom. This town is called Provo.

No! I am “joshing” you, as people who aren’t named Josh say. The town is called Sunnydale, and for as evil as many of its inhabitants are, at least they haven’t outlawed public dancing. Buffy’s job is to kill any demons, vampires, Masons, mummies, elves, aliens or Webelos she stumbles across. The show depicts the forces of evil being slewn by an attractive, lip-glossy young lady — far more empowering for women, I would think, than a show like “Friends,” where the same three women keep choosing sexual partners from a pool of the same three men. (Buffy, by way of comparison, sometimes dates vampires.)

Another show I’m addicted to is “24,” which airs on Tuesdays on Fox. It’s about a government agent trying to stop the assassination of a politician. (Discussion question: Why?) The gimmick is that the entire season of 24 episodes takes place over the course of one day, with each episode representing exactly one hour of time. This is similar to ABC’s tactic with “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” where each hour-long episode is shown in “real time,” including 45 minutes of contestants thinking or taking bathroom breaks, leaving time for approximately two questions.

Speaking of non-20-year-old game shows, how many of you are still watching “The Weakest Link”? No one? That’s what I thought.

Anyway, since one of my New Year’s resolutions is to bring every column around full circle, let me mention that one of my New Year’s resolutions is to watch more TV this year. It will be tough, but I think I can do it.

I’ve always maintained that the airline industry is the most incompetent organization in the world, coming out ahead of even the U.S. Postal Service and communism in terms of ineffectiveness and disorganization.

Granted, the airlines have been under extraordinary duress in recent months. However, the effect of this has merely been that now, in addition to being incompetent, the airlines are also paranoid and delirious. It’s like going up to a man who’s already insane and telling him his rear end is on fire.

My experience last week while trying to return to Utah after Christmas was the topper. I don’t think I’d fly again now if I sprouted wings and a beverage cart.

I don’t want to say which airline I was dealing with, so we’ll call it Shmelta. When I checked in, the Shmelta representative said the flight would be delayed slightly. This was not a terrible inconvenience, because due to increased security requirements, I had arrived at the airport 17 hours early anyway. What’s another 30 minutes on top of that?

So I had lunch at the airport Shmapplebee’s, read a book, loitered, frittered, puttered and dilly-dallied. Fifty minutes after the scheduled departure, we were allowed to board the plane. Thirty minutes after that, the plane headed down the runway. Then, instead of going faster, we started to slow down.

Now, I don’t know a lot about airplanes, but I do know that in order to get off the ground, you have to be going fast. We were told there were “mechanical problems,” and we deplaned so they could fix them. We waited in the terminal for another two hours, and then were allowed to board the plane again. (I found it amusing that as we boarded, they checked our IDs again at the door — as if a terrorist would have waited that long. Can you picture him, chilling out in the terminal, reading a John Grisham novel, making conversation with other passengers about how he’ll never fly on Shmelta again?)

After another half-hour of sitting on the plane, we were hustled off again, and the flight was canceled. Apparently, all the boarding and un-boarding was just for practice. There were no more flights to Salt Lake City that night, so Shmelta booked us on the first flight the next morning and put us up in a nearby hotel for the night.

If you think the nightmare was essentially over now, you have overlooked the possibility that the hotel might not give me the wake-up call I requested, and I might wake up with only 40 minutes to spare before the plane took off. In fact, that is exactly what happened. Fortunately, I was sleeping on the world’s most uncomfortable bed — a document verifying this hangs on the hotel room wall — and I was waking up frequently anyway. At one point, I turned on the TV to see what time it was and discovered it was 90 minutes past the time I had asked to be woken up. I was going to miss my flight! This may not have occurred literally, but figuratively, I immediately and completely voided my bladder all over the bedsheets.

Frantic at the thought of missing my flight, I sprang from the world’s most uncomfortable bed and tried to remember how to do anything. I could not remember how clothes go on a person’s body, or what shoes look like, or whether it’s hands or feet that you’re supposed to walk on. I stagger-lurched blindly down to the lobby, gurgled something about a shuttle to the airport and issued a few choice words regarding to the person from whom I had requested the wake-up call. A shuttle-van driver who clearly had been in this situation before tried to calm me, but if you have ever tried to soothe the nerves of a person who is about to miss his flight and who is unshowered and untoothbrushed and who is pretty sure he has forgotten his underclothing in the hotel room, you will know that it is impossible. I felt like an insane man whose rear end was on fire.

I made it through the security checkpoint in record time, and learned that if you’re an unkempt, wild-eyed individual in a tremendous hurry to get through the metal detectors, the national guardsmen will look at you and your shoes very suspiciously.

Fortunately, I got on the plane with seconds to spare, and I was in Utah a couple hours later. I’ve never been so happy to be in the Beehive State. The people at Shmelta will surely be getting an angry letter from me, too, though there’s every chance the post office will lose it.

Random highlights from the 800,000 “Snide Remarks” columns published in 2001:

Feb. 2: I thought I saw Mick Jagger at the Sundance Film Festival, but it turned out to be just a telephone pole with some trash stuck to it.

May 2: My recent trip to Disneyland revealed a park vastly different from the one I knew as a child. The Mickey’s Hernia Operation ride is new, for example, as is Tigger’s Crack House.

May 23: Hindering my sleep on the plane was a baby who shrieked like he was passing a kidney stone made out of Satan. This baby was very young; I believe his mother had given birth while boarding the plane.

June 1: BRIGHAM YOUNG: I see you’ve invited the entire world to visit our fair state in 2002 for an athletic contest of some kind. This is certainly a reversal of the policy I established, under which foreigners were shot on sight. Or perhaps that is still your intention, in which case I wink slyly at your cunning and say, bag a Frenchman for Brother Brigham!

June 13: New York is the city of dreams, the city of excitement, the city of people who stand on the street and want money. Some of these people are selling something, but some of them want money merely for standing there. I saw a guy who was standing motionless on a box, and he was painted gold from head to toe. People were throwing money in a cup in front of him, in exchange for his continuing to stand there, gold. I saw no reason to give him anything. I wasn’t the one who told him to paint himself gold.

June 15: I tend to lose weight quickly, I think because I send my body into shock. I go from eating 100 grams of fat a day to eating about 20 grams of fat a day, plus I’m jogging. So my body sees the sudden drop in fat consumption and says, “Crap! He’s dying!” Then, with the running, my body says, “Crap! He’s dying AND someone’s chasing him!” And we start getting rid of stuff that’s weighing us down, like we’re an airplane that’s lost an engine. All the excess items get tossed out. My appendix actually removed itself last week.

July 11: The Victoria’s Secret war heated up when a local mother walked past the Victoria’s Secret in Ye Olde Provo Towne Centre Malle and was shocked and appalled to see a shocking and appalling poster in the window. Her 6-year-old son saw the poster, too, and immediately burst into puberty. The mother’s head exploded. The mall caught fire. The world ended. (Remember?)

July 18: I love that you’re allowed to talk during a baseball game. Not like church, for example, where you can’t yell “chatter” at the players (“Hey, preacher, preacher, preacher, he’s no preacher!”), and where only a few of your more liberal sects permit the eating of nachos.

July 27: I was halfway through the four-hour “Family Feud” marathon on the Game Show Network when a thought struck me: Sweet Allah in heaven above me, is this what my life has become? I’m a big loser! Then Richard Dawson said, “Name a yellow fruit,” and the contestant said, “Orange,” and I felt better.

Sept. 7: PETA’s latest victory in the war against common sense is that Disneyland employees will no longer shoot fake bullets at the fake hippos on the Jungle Cruise ride. This was long overdue, as the fake animals had been tormented by fake bullets shot from fake guns by fake river guides for decades. It took a fake hippo nearly fake dying from a fake bullet wound before Disney finally did the sensible thing and began shooting PETA members instead.

Oct. 3: A telemarketer called last week. He said, “I am calling to tell you about a ‘funtastic’ new offer from–” and I hung up. Any product that can be described as “funtastic” is not a product I want in my home.

Oct. 24: The Wal-Mart Supercenter: Where you can have your oil changed, buy groceries, visit the eye doctor, get a mammogram and adopt an underprivileged African child, all in one overcrowded, city-sized store where the employees may not be exactly at the top of their field. I mean, do you really think guys are graduating from optometry school saying, “I hope to open a practice at Wal-Mart, looking for astigmatisms in housewives who are pushing seven barefoot children in a shopping cart”?

Nov. 2: Newspapers are not exempt from these cutbacks. The Orange County Register recently laid off 105 employees, and the Dallas Morning News sent 73 folks packing. The New York Times even had to sell its theater critics’ thesauruses. (“A tragic tragedy of tragic proportions!” is how one critic described it.)

Nov. 7: The ballet was not boring. It was beautiful and exciting. The stage was filled with so many lithe young men and flat-chested young women, I thought an Obsession commercial was going to break out. The music and dancing complemented each other, telling a story. (“Once upon a time, there were some people who were dancing.”)

Nov. 28: I flew on a tiny plane with only 50 seats. It was designed by elves, for elves; unfortunately, the passengers were all non-elfin. I used the bathroom on this plane, and I believe it was not only the smallest bathroom I’ve ever been in, but the smallest space I’ve ever been in, period, including the womb.

We Sniders are an obsessive-compulsive lot that can barely function in normal society without a lot of medication and public embarrassment. And nowhere is this made more manifest than at Christmastime. We’re big on traditions — so much that anytime something new happens on or around Christmas, we declare it a new tradition and insist that it happen again in all subsequent years. (This includes accidents and family tragedies.)

For example, one year when we kids were young, Dad tried to take a shower before coming out to the living room so we could all open presents. We were enraged that he would delay the proceedings. The next year, he turned on the shower, and when we heard it, we raced down the hall to kill him. Turns out he was still fully clothed and was merely pretending to take a shower to see what we’d do. And the merry new tradition of pretending to shower was born.

So each year we add more and more traditions to the 30 years’ worth we already have, making Christmas more and more complicated, to the point that we now have to begin observing it on Dec. 20 just so we can be done by New Year’s. I shudder to think what will happen the first time I’m not able to fly home for the holidays. I suspect the family will do everything as per normal, and just leave silent spaces where my lines would normally go. (Sample dialogue: “Now I remember why I moved out”; “Someone get rid of that stupid cat”; “I have TWO sisters?”)

One of our traditions is accusing each other of ruining Christmas. This is sometimes done in a joking manner, and sometimes it is accompanied by a torrent of tears. It is an essential part of the American Christmas experience, as it helps remind us that no matter what goes wrong, it is always someone else’s fault.

The greatest crime this year was committed by Mom (the record-holder in the field of Christmas-ruining), who allowed her yappy little dogs to dictate the placement of the presents. Normally, of course, the presents are under the tree, where they belong, as mandated by the Bible. But the chihuahuas, Andy and Pee-Wee, apparently wreaked havoc on them, so they (the presents) were put on the pool table instead.

Now, I ask you: Is it acceptable to put Christmas presents on a pool table? Can you picture the Wise Men doing that? Do the Norman Rockwell paintings allow for it? If you ask me, it’s a travesty with a capital T. Besides, any dog that can’t climb up on a pool table is no real dog at all, and trust me, Andy and Pee-Wee are not real dogs. They are gophers, or throw pillows, or things to kick. They bark ALL THE TIME, in accordance with the law of nature dictating that creatures with the least capacity for coherent thought should also make the most noise. (See also Jerry Falwell.) Pee-Wee is also Andy’s father AND grandfather, thanks to some mating shenanigans that apparently are OK in the dog family but that we humans tend to frown upon, at least this far North. I think the inbreeding actually made them stupider than your average chihuahuas, if you can believe that.

Anyway, speaking of stupid, our newest tradition is riding my brother Jeff down the stairs. See, Jeff’s a big guy. Huge, in fact. He could eat you under the table, and then eat you and the table. And our parents just bought a new house, with a second story, and the house we grew up in had no stairs, so stairs are a novelty. And so now for fun, Jeff lies on his belly and slides down the stairs with someone on his back, riding him like a sled. We have video footage of Mom doing this.

Some families get really dysfunctional around Christmas. But not mine. We’ve got all that medication to help us out.

A mistake was made recently at The Daily Universe. Now, I know the BYU student newspaper routinely makes mistakes, including that one time back in the ’90s when they let me be editor in chief for a semester. But this error wasn’t the fault of the students. This one came from the Communications Department.

The mistake was in firing John Gholdston as managing director of The Daily Universe, a position he held for 15 years. Under his compassionate tutelage and vast real-life-journalism experience, hundreds of students were immeasurably enriched and enlightened by John Gholdston. (Trivia: He does not like to be called “Gholdie.”) We also learned how to use words like “tutelage.”

Firing him was a mistake, pure and simple. What’s worse, it was a cowardly, back-stabby mistake. He was unceremoniously dumped, without notice and without cause, two weeks before Christmas.

This is the man who led The Daily Universe through its integration with the broadcast journalism program, and under whose guidance The Daily Universe won awards year after year after year. And then he was treated the way you treat part-time seasonal help, or the kid who occasionally mows your lawn. Rarely have I seen such ingratitude and cluelessness, even from BYU officials, among whom ingratitude and cluelessness are seen as favorable traits. (They call them “self-reliance” and “child-like innocence.”)

Gholdston has legal reasons for not discussing the reasons he was given for the firing, but he did tell me this: “I did not violate any Honor Code principles, and I broke no rules or laws involving BYU or the LDS Church — nor was I accused of such.” In other words, he didn’t do anything wrong, and the Communications Department doesn’t claim he did.

So why was he fired, then? The mass e-mail sent by some students last weekend says the Communications Department accused Gholdston of being inaccessible to students, and unwilling to mentor them. I hope this is not really what the Communications Department said — they’re not talking to the press, either — because it is an absurd statement. In fact, it is the least-true statement I’ve ever heard in my life. A team of liars working around the clock for a thousand years could not come up with a statement any less true than that.

Being available to students is what John Gholdston was best known for! If you’re going to fire someone and make up a reason for it, at least make up a GOOD reason. Don’t accuse the guy of NOT being the one thing he was best known for being. It’s like firing Santa Claus for not being jolly.

Speaking of Santa Claus, I would like to remind you that the firing took place two weeks before Christmas.

The topper was when NewsNet General Manager Jim Kelly refused to let student editors run a story about the firing in last Friday’s Daily Universe. Communications Department Chair Michael Perkins said in Tuesday’s Daily Herald that this decision was a matter of news judgment: “It really wasn’t a news story,” he said.

A beloved teacher and role model is suddenly fired, and it’s not a news story? Well, here’s a partial list of things that WERE in Friday’s Daily Universe, which means they apparently ARE news stories:

“Donation Needs Exceed Contributions.” (What? You mean there are still poor people? What happened to that 10 bucks I gave United Way?)

“Students Learn Survival Skills.” (Report on a graduate student’s lecture on managing finals-week stress.)

“New Planner Promotes Y.” (FranklinCovey has unveiled a new BYU-themed day planner.)

“Shortened Break Causes Concern.” (Many students — well, two are quoted in the story — wish Christmas break were longer.)

If stories were omitted from The Daily Universe due to not being newsworthy, each day’s edition would consist of two 8 1/2″ x 11″ sheets of paper (front only). And if Gholdston were still there to teach and instruct, the stories would be written by students who’d been infused with a passion for journalism, and who were allowed to make mistakes now and then as part of the learning process. Under the new management, I suspect they’ll be infused with a passion for bureaucracy and double-speak — good training for the public relations students, I guess, but not the journalists.

Attention BYU: Take my name off your mailing list, because I’m not donating anymore. Attention whichever university hires Gholdston now: Just tell me who to make the check out to.

2001 was an unpleasant year, and not just because it spawned so many gratuitous references to dull science-fiction movies. I would like to end things on a positive note, but instead, I’m going to share with you The Year in Angry Letters, a wrap-up of the mail I got this year in response to “Snide Remarks.”

Back in February, I made a passing reference to Richard Paul Evans and his “Christmas Box” books, and how they are crap. Then I received this e-mail:

“I haven’t noticed any of your writings made into books [as a side note, don’t forget to buy the two “Snide Remarks” books, published in 1998 and 1999, on sale at the BYU Bookstore], so all of that “crap” from Evans must be liked by quite a few people. [Oh, I didn’t say it wasn’t popular. Just that it wasn’t good.] Personally, that kind of language offends me and I really didn’t see the necessity of using it [except when you’re quoting a columnist, apparently]. Ideas can be put across using a better selection of words.”

Ideas CAN be put across using a better selection of words. Did you hear that, Richard Paul Evans?

In April, I discussed the difference between “chick flicks” (which only women can enjoy), and “date movies” (which men can sort of tolerate). I said men will endure any kind of boring date the woman can conjure up — even reading magazines in a gynecologist’s office — as long as he thinks he might get a kiss at the end of it.

That column begat this angry, anonymous letter. See if you can figure out what the writer is actually angry about. (Hint: You can’t.)

“I try not to read your column. [Not very hard, apparently.] … However, I must be a sucker for punishment because I go back to it when I have time to open my Daily Herald. … ‘Snide Remarks’ should be re-titled ‘Ignorant Bliss’ by Mr. Dumb A**. [Alas, that name’s already been copyrighted by Rush Limbaugh.] …

“Are you really so provincial to think that a date is for the woman’s enjoyment only? … Where did you find your lovely wife? Russia? [Did she just manufacture a wife for me out of her imagination and then make fun of her? Yeah, I think she did.]

“Incidentally, I challenge you to find a woman brassy enough to include a trip to the gynecologist as part of a date. [Because for sure I wasn’t exaggerating when I mentioned that as a possible date.] This is NOT a fun activity by the way.” [What?!]

She went on for a while, but I lost interest faster than a guy at a Bette Midler movie.

A month later, I mentioned computer demon SuperDell, and how he’s the most annoying man on the face of the Earth, which has actually been verified by the Supreme Court. I got this e-mail, which was spelled exactly as it is here:

“I read you article on SuperDell and I hate him as well! However, you sound like a tight [swear word] close minded [swear word] and your topics and writing ability suck perharps you should ask yourself why superdell is worth a few million and all you can do is criticize him”

Yes. Perharps I should. Perharps we all should wonder how someone so rich could possibly be subject to criticism.

On July 4, I referred to how the founding fathers “slapped together this great nation of ours.” I also mentioned Andrew Jackson’s drunken inauguration party, which is well-documented by history. I got this e-mail:

“How dare you say that the ‘Founding Fathers slapped together this great nation of ours’. [Which word did she object to, “slapped” or “great”?] Who do you think you are? [Who DON’T I think I am?] The remarks made about Andrew Jackson are atrocious. [And true.] You would do well to consider what it cost the men who founded this country, and consider doing something similar.” [I should found my own country? OK, but you won’t be allowed in.]

In a separate letter she wrote for the Opinion page, she said she was “horrified” to see this column in the paper. I picture her cowering under her chair at the breakfast table, maybe making a cross with her fingers to ward off the power of the column. And then I wish I had a photograph of that.

After the last letter was printed, we received this one from someone named “LaJean,” and it was written exactly as follows:

“I would hope by the time you get this a written apology by, Eric Snider, has been made. I to was concerned as was the neighbors who wrote on July of their objection of the July 4 remarks by him. In talking to others slap in done in objection to. For Eric to say our forefathers slapped together this great nation. The other slander in the article was rediculous.”

Perharps those founding fathers should have done more with the public school system. Perharps, perharps, perharps.

Well, bless my stars with gravy, it’s time for a Very Special Christmas Episode of “Ask Eric Stuff,” the remarkably distasteful feature where people ask Eric stuff and he answers them like he’s some kind of know-it-all. All of these questions were submitted at [outdated link], which involves using the “Internet,” or at least a really fancy typewriter.

Dear Eric: My wife’s birthday is the day after Christmas. What can I do to make her birthday special, and keep it from getting swallowed up in the Christmas festivities? — Doghouse Dweller
Dear Fido: On her birthday, arrange for a bunch of friends to stop by the house and sing, like Christmas carolers, except they replace the Christmas lyrics with clever and sweet lyrics about your wife, and how special she is to you. Then, tell her you want a divorce. When she starts crying, tell her you were only kidding. The emotional roller coaster will make her forget you didn’t actually buy her a present.

Dear Eric: Why on earth has Provo City installed roundabouts at every intersection? — Irritated
Dear Irr: It’s a test to see if, no matter how many roundabouts there are, people will still have no idea how to use them. Some scientists believe that, even if every single intersection were a roundabout, drivers would still feel compelled to come to a complete stop when they reach them.

Dear Eric: There are so many charities asking for money during the holidays. Which one should I give to? — Altruistic in Altruismville
Dear Altoid: Avoid less-reputable charities with questionable names like the Red Crotch and the United Crack Whore College Fund. Instead, give to charities that bear the Eric D. Snider Seal of Approval. These include: Eric D. Snider’s Checking Account, Eric D. Snider’s Savings Account, United Way, and The Safety Deposit Box at Eric D. Snider’s Bank.

Dear Eric: Will I get that cool new X-Box for Christmas? — Greedy in Greenville.
Dear Greeny in Greedville: Not until you finish your W-Box!

Dear Eric: I have met a lot of Californians who have a very negative attitude toward Utah, even though they’ve never lived here. Can you help me understand this? — Utah Pride
Dear Pride Is of the Devil: A lot of Californians have a very negative attitude toward hell, too, but I’ve never questioned that assessment.

Dear Eric: What is the purpose of underarm hair? — Follicly Curious
Dear Curious George: It’s an easy way to spot which women are lesbians or European.

Dear Eric: Do you believe in Santa? — Believer
Dear Bee Liver: Do I believe in Santa? Why, you might just as well ask whether I believe in the sunshine, or in rainbows. Santa Claus lives in the heart of all good people everywhere. He is the embodiment of the Christmas spirit, and the spirit of giving and good will. Without Santa Claus, there is no joy. (Short answer: No. What am I, 6?)

Dear Eric: If A squared plus B squared equals C squared, why doesn’t A cubed plus B cubed equal C cubed? — Ms. Mathematically Challenged
Dear Can’t Add: It doesn’t? The IRS owes me a BIG refund, then!

Dear Eric: Fire or ice? — Robert Frost Fan
Dear Frosty: Depends. Are they both fresh today? Because I got some stale fire last time I was here.

Dear Eric: What should I get my mother-in-law for Christmas? — Curious in Costa Mesa
Dear Curious George: If your mother-in-law is like mine, she doesn’t exist, because you’re not married. Get her some chocolate. Old ladies love chocolate.

The Surgeon General has advised those indulging in the Christmas spirit to do so in moderation. If you are attending a Christmas party, be sure to appoint a Designated Scrooge — someone to remain less merry than everyone else, stay away from mistletoe, and at all costs avoid trolling the ancient yuletide carol.

The Surgeon General’s point is that it is possible to have too much of a good thing, like the time I drank a half-gallon of egg nog in one sitting and subsequently was able to hear colors. I learned my lesson, and now I limit myself to one cup of nog per week, and no nog at all outside the month of December, and no nog-drinking when I’m alone or to escape my problems. I don’t know what nog is made of, but the way it oozes down your throat, I suspect there’s flannel in it.

The Surgeon General has also issued this advisory for those listening to Christmas music: Take it easy, Bobtail. For example, let us discuss KOSY 106.5. This radio station normally plays “easy listening favorites” — i.e., songs you don’t like but lack the energy to hate — but since Thanksgiving, KOSY has been playing nothing but Christmas music, 24 hours a day, at least seven days a week.

At first it filled me with so much Christmas cheer that it would have made Charles Dickens himself vomit in his hat. Then it dawned on me that, just like every other station, KOSY was playing the same songs over and over again. You’d think that with 50 years’ worth of Christmas recordings available, with no restrictions on genre, they’d be able to avoid playing Barbra Streisand’s on-crack version of “Jingle Bells” thrice daily, much less that nightmarish “Little St. Nick” by the Beach Boys.

Besides, playing contemporary Christmas music is really just an experiment to see who can screw up a Christmas carol the most. Maybe a pop diva like Mariah Carey or Vanessa Williams will take a simple melody like “Silent Night” and turn it into one of those awful things where each note is replaced with seven different notes, so we can be impressed with how “well” they sing. Or maybe someone will convert “The First Noel” from 3/4 to 4/4 time and make it more of a march. Why? Because they can!

I can say I have stood at the precipice of hell because I have heard Rosie O’Donnell and “Sesame Street’s” Elmo sing “Do You Hear What I Hear?” (If what you hear is a brass-voiced Gorgon dueting with a shrill sock puppet, then yes, we are hearing the same thing.)

And so I began to hate Christmas music. It began to make my stomach hurt, like the time I drank a half-gallon of egg nog in one sitting and subsequently … did I already tell you that story? Fine. Then it made my stomach hurt like the time I got punched in the stomach.

Eventually, I realized KOSY probably didn’t expect me to listen to KOSY every single time I got in the car. Normal people, enjoying the Christmas spirit in moderation, would not hear the same songs multiple times, so they wouldn’t be bothered by Karen Carpenter singing “Merry Christmas, Darling” with that voice of hers that always sounded like it had syrup all over it (which, if it had been true, might have saved her).

No, most of us have the sense to take Christmas in doses no larger than we can handle. ‘Tis the season, sure, but remember what the song says: “We need a little Christmas.” A LITTLE Christmas. Not a shload of it.

So be careful this holiday season. Deck the halls, sure, but don’t deck the crap out of them. Watch out, don’t cry, don’t pout, but don’t get obsessive about it. And if you’re going to dash through the snow, for heaven’s sake, don’t don you now your gay apparel. People will make fun of you.

I went up in a hot-air balloon with my pet cat, and when we were several hundred feet up, I held the cat by one leg and dangled him over the edge of the basket. He slipped out of my hand and fell to his death. Now I am suing Superman for not arriving in time to catch the cat before he hit the ground.

If you think that lawsuit is stupid, consider the one filed recently by the Wayment family. You’ll recall that in October 2000, Paul Wayment left his 2-year-old son, Gage, sleeping in the truck while he scouted out a hunting area. When he came back 45 minutes later, the boy had wandered off. His frozen body was found five days later by rescuers. Paul was convicted of negligent homicide and, stricken with guilt and grief, committed suicide in July of this year.

The story of Paul and Gage Wayment is a dreadfully sad one. We never had to blame Paul for leaving Gage alone; from the beginning, he blamed himself. His subsequent suicide was tragic, but I’m not sure I could live with that kind of guilt, either. It was a poignant, heartbreaking end to an emotional story.

Now, however, the family has filed a multimillion dollar lawsuit against the various counties and sheriff’s departments that helped search for Gage, saying if they had done their job properly, the boy would have been found a) sooner and b) alive, meaning Paul would not have c) committed suicide.

I respect the memory of Paul and Gage Wayment. But the sympathy I had for their family is fast dwindling.

One hates to use terms like “opportunistic white trash,” but let’s look at the facts. Dad wants to go hunting, and for some reason wants to take his son along. Fine. Family togetherness, father-son bonding, teach them to kill things while they’re still young, whatever. I question dressing the boy only in his pajamas in October in the mountains, but perhaps they were really warm pajamas, made out of fire or something.

Leaving the boy alone was stupid; Paul admitted that. It was clear from Paul’s suicide that he blamed himself — not the searchers — for Gage’s death. But now, in hindsight, the family has decided it was the searchers’ fault after all. “Never mind, Paul,” they are saying. “It wasn’t your fault after all! It was the searchers’ fault! Your death was pointless!”

Wayment family attorney Barry N. Johnson has said the intent of the claim is not “to criticize (searchers’) noble efforts.” Instead, he said, “The intent of the claim is to make my clients and myself very, very rich. Rich, I tell you!” Then he clicked his heels and hopped around the courtroom.

No, I have made up that last quote, as well as its accompanying mental image. Johnson actually said, “The Wayment family remains extraordinarily grateful to the numerous volunteers involved in the search effort.” Then he added, “But the Wayments also want the volunteers to feel guilty, resentful and dirty, like the Wayments are.”

There I go again, making up quotes. What he REALLY said was that the purpose of the claim “is to create the changes necessary to ensure that future search efforts are competently organized and implemented, thereby resulting in a greater number of successful searches.”

Oh, I get it. The Wayments, who appear to be greedy, selfish and evil, are actually trying to help their fellow man. If they can milk $1 million from these government agencies and live on Easy Street for the rest of their lives, it will teach those bad volunteers a lesson they won’t soon forget! Searchers will be sprouting wings out of their armpits and developing heat-seeking night vision to enable them to search better, faster and more accurately. Sure, it will cost $1 million, effectively crippling the agencies involved and terrifying anyone who might consider volunteering his time and energy to a rescue effort. But it will be worth it, for all the precise searching and rescuing it will lead to! They’re heroes, those surviving Wayments.

Plus, as you know, the $1 million will cause Paul and Gage to spring back to life as though nothing ever happened. The question is, will they be too ashamed of their family’s behavior to associate with them?

A new study shows that women suffer more brain damage from taking Ecstasy than men do. This is alarming, because if they’re taking Ecstasy, that means they’re not very smart to begin with.

Ecstasy is a common “rave drug,” which means the critics are “raving” about it. (“Ecstasy is the feel-good hit of the summer!” says Roger Ebert. “It’s what I was taking when I gave ‘Final Fantasy’ 3 1/2 stars!”)

You’ll have to pardon me; sometimes I joke. Ecstasy is known as a “rave drug” because it’s often present at raves. From what I understand — and bear in mind, I’m way out of my element here, as “my element” consists only of my house and Wal-Mart — raves are big loud parties held in abandoned warehouses, chosen for their famous good acoustics and ample restroom facilities. Word spreads through e-mail and other unreliable channels that a rave is to be held, and soon everyone who’s anyone who’s a slacker is gathering there. Raves don’t start until very late at night, and there are usually drugs there. So it’s like a midnight screening at Movies 8.

What I’m curious about is where the kids find all these abandoned warehouses. Do they live in Action Movie Land? That place is full of abandoned warehouses, with machinery that still works, so the bad guys can get killed at the end.

Anyway, Provo is currently rave-free, thanks to the highly effective, well-thought-out, non-oppressive, not-at-all-stupid Dance Hall Ordinance passed by the Provo City Council earlier this year. You’ll no doubt recall that prior to the passing of this ordinance, Provo was practically overrun by raves. Every night of the week, there were raves being held in every abandoned warehouse on Main Street. Sometimes, the teens would commandeer a non-abandoned facility, such as Los Hermanos, clear out the furniture, and hold a rave there. Thousands were killed.

I’m lying, of course; Provo doesn’t even HAVE a Main Street. The only “raves” here were at Club Omni, and to my mind, if a rave is officially sponsored by a dance club, it’s not a rave anymore. Approval from grownups de-raves it.

But Provo wanted to combat the non-existent problem, so the city council passed an ordinance saying dances have to end by 1 a.m. (1:30 on Fridays!) and have surveillance cameras, metal detectors and security guards. Government, school and church dances are exempt.

Raves, if there had ever been any, would continue unabated, since underground operations don’t usually abide by city ordinances. That’s one of the quirks that makes underground operations so lovable.

So the only institution directly affected by the ordinance is Club Omni — which some believe was the actual target of the ordinance anyway. That sort of makes sense. Not that I want Club Omni shut down — actually, not that I care one way or the other — but at least Club Omni exists, unlike the raves that were the alleged target.

Club Omni’s status as a relative non-nuisance seems to have been lost on the city, though. When a Daily Herald reporter told a city councilman that Club Omni is a veritable merry old land of Oz compared to the depravity that goes on in the Salt Lake clubs, the councilman told her, “You shouldn’t be going to clubs anyway. You should just go to church dances.”

Yes, it’s amazing that a city councilman would say such a ridiculous thing. But it’s less amazing when you consider he’s never seen “Footloose” and is therefore unaware of the irony that drips from him and his fellow councilors like so much flop sweat.

(The joke’s on him in regards to church dances, anyway, as this particular reporter is a member of the Church of Satan.)

In summary: Ecstasy is bad, raves are not a problem in Provo, the city council is full of fusty old sticks-in-the-mud, and “Final Fantasy” was boring. Any questions?

Soap opera update for the week of Nov. 26.

If you missed your stories this week, here’s what happened:

“THE MOIST AND THE SWEATY”: Clarissa’s birthday party was interrupted by guerrillas, and then gorillas. Monica agreed to marry her brother Jason, unaware he’s actually her sister, Jasonina. Stodge died again, for the last time. Jake looked pensive. COMING: The return of Stodge.

“DOIN’ THE NASTY”: The McClanahan family picnic led to the shocking revelation that they were out of mustard. Tabitha was confused when someone mentioned having to “be at work by 9,” and she didn’t know what “work” was. Chandler did laundry and Rebecca. The evil Stefano schemed and plotted, then warned his roommate, “Don’t go in there for a while, I’ve been scheming and plotting.” Mason jarred Art’s art. COMING: Chandler orders Rebecca around and pizza.

“RICH WHITE TRASH”: The town of Sprinfieldvilledale was overrun by foreigners. The evil twin convention was interrupted by Chloe, who claimed to have a bomb, which turned out to be nothing more than dynamite. Richard was murdered by Diana’s evil Siamese twin, Anaid. The evil Stefano realized he was in the wrong show. Courtney looked bemused. COMING: Arthur wonders who this strange new guy “Ruhtra” is, and why he looks exactly like him.

“PASSIONS OF LOVE”: On Monday, Taylor and Caleb decided it was time to have Dr. Ted pull the plug on Francesca, and that it should be done immediately. On Tuesday, Taylor and Caleb told Dr. Ted to pull the plug on Francesca. On Wednesday, Dr. Ted reached over to pull the plug on Francesca. On Thursday, Taylor and Caleb wept as they bid their mother (Francesca) goodbye, as Dr. Ted continued to pull the plug. On Friday, in a special two-hour episode, Dr. Ted pulled the plug some more. COMING: Francesca joins the Navy.

“MY HIGH SCHOOL DRAMA CLASS”: Marvin got mad at Richard for making out with Shelly when a bunch of them were on a camping trip, and Duke got blamed for letting it happen, even though it totally wasn’t his fault, and Marvin’s kind of a wuss anyway, even though he tried to hide it by getting in a fight with Richard. COMING: Shelly acts ditzy, but she’s not acting.

“DOCTORS OF LUST”: The hospital was hit by an earthquake, then a tornado, then another earthquake. Riley killed Brock, and video killed the radio star. Marcus married three women — to each other, and against their will. Tamara arrived to work only to find monkeys, everywhere monkeys. Stiv awoke from his coma with amnesia, so now he doesn’t know he’s a moron. The board of directors named Gerald as its new hospital administrator, and his chief rival, Mr. Tinkles the monkey, swore revenge. COMING: A primate’s fury.

“FURTIVE GLANCES”: At a party, Rachel glanced furtively at Kenneth, who was glancing furtively at the guy hogging all the bean dip. In the convent, Mary glanced furtively at a statue of St. Christopher, then at Father Tim, who glanced her furtively right out of the convent. COMING: A furtive glance from a stranger results in a concussion for Mabel.

“WHAT TROUBLES MAY COME”: A judge ordered Jessica and Bethany to settle their dispute via mud-wrestling. Clark shocked the McCoy family by dating an alligator. Senator Palindrome appointed Anna, Bob and Racecar to his staff. A fire destroyed the entire town and killed everyone in it, but it turns out everyone was faking his or her own death. COMING: Several thousand funerals are interrupted by startling revelations.

I rode on an airplane last week for the first time in several months. Everyone is nervous these days, but the only terrorist act I witnessed was how much they charged me for the ticket. (Am I right, folks?!)

The most startling change in airport security is the guys in camouflage who hold big, scary guns and stand near the metal detectors. These boys are apparently part of the National Guard Li’l Tykes Brigade. They look no older than 17, and yet they are more heavily armed than a redneck at a rodeo. They make me feel safer, I think, in the sense that in any given situation, the more guns present, the better — something I used to say sarcastically, but that I think I’m starting to mean.

We live in interesting times.

The airlines had warned travelers to arrive early and have a lot of patience. This worried me, because patience is not my strong suit. But checking in and proving to the security people that I was not a threat to anyone — anyone, that is, besides Tom Shane, SuperDell, Gayle Ruzicka, the old ladies who sit behind me at shows and talk the whole time, Freddie Prinze Jr., Keanu Reeves, people who say “acrost” when they mean “across,” Jay Leno, Howard Stern, Angelina Jolie, people who think “Phantom of the Opera” is an opera, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Courtney Love, people who assume I care about football just because I have an Adam’s apple, Bill Clinton, Strom Thurmond, both Tom Greens and Carrot Top — only took a few minutes.

So I had nearly an hour to loiter. I used that time to do my civic duty and compile a list of everyone I saw who looked suspicious. This was just in case something went wrong and the feds needed suspects.

I saw:

— Two guys with shaved heads who I didn’t like the looks of.
— A woman in a short skirt and sexy black stockings, accompanied by a grubby man in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, who I assume was her kidnapper.
— A minority.
— A guy drinking coffee.
— A 7-foot-tall guy.
— A girl with pink hair.
— A toddler in pink pajamas with the feet on them; she didn’t look suspicious, but she sure was cute!
— A guy making a list (wait, that was me).
— A girl in checkered pants. (Seriously, what gets INTO people?)

On the way back, I flew on a tiny plane with only 50 seats. It was designed by elves, for elves; unfortunately, the passengers were all non-elfin. I used the bathroom on this plane, and I believe it was not only the smallest bathroom I’ve ever been in, but the smallest space I’ve ever been in, period, including the womb.

Still, I was better off than the band of travelers I passed at the airport, whose flight had been canceled and who were trying, all of them, to get onto MY flight. People whose flights have been canceled are the grouchiest people in the world, except maybe for people whose flights have been canceled who are now trying to cram themselves into a plane the size of a lunchbox that will actually only seat a few of them. Needless to say, my ticket on that plane was a hot commodity. I haven’t had that many strangers eyeing my seat since I visited West Hollywood.

But it’s worth a few mild discomforts for the privilege of traveling such great distances in such little time. Our pioneer ancestors would surely marvel, all wide-eyed and drooly, at the modern conveniences we have in the 20-somethingth century. I think they would marvel at checkered pants, too, but that’s another matter.

Well, Jared and Nichole’s wedding turned out fine, despite Nichole having the flu, and despite a lot of people not showing up because it conflicted with the BYU/University of Utah football game, and despite my involvement as the best man.

My humility issues cause me to have a hard time with a title like “best man.” I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging. (“See all these other guys? Yeah, they’re only second-best.”) In any collection of men, it’s rare that I’m the best of them, except maybe at a carnival or at a movie theater that’s showing “Black Knight.” I’m usually one of your more average men: not much to look at, and certainly nothing to write home about. (“Dear Mom, There’s this guy, and he’s average. Love, Susie.”) (Because apparently, your name is Susie.)

I don’t even know what a best man is supposed to do. Can you just stand around being the best? Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I didn’t do it. I would have thrown Jared a bachelor party, but I couldn’t imagine him wanting to spend an entire evening apart from Nichole, and goodness knows she wouldn’t have been invited, what with all the debauchery. (Nichole is staunchly anti-debauch.) So that didn’t happen.

At any rate, the wedding day came and I put on a tuxedo, in which I looked like I should be playing piano in an Old West saloon. I mostly followed Jared around the reception hall, asking if I could do anything. This was when guests were milling around waiting for the ring ceremony to begin and Nichole was collapsed in a heap upstairs trying not to vomit anymore. Jared kept telling me there was nothing in particular I could do, and so I did nothing in particular. I sat and did some people-watching.

What I learned from this is that before going out in public, some people need more help than they’re currently getting. There were two different men wearing white socks with their dark pants and black shoes, for example. One member of the wedding party had been unable to show up in person for the tuxedo fitting, so he sent in his measurements. The trouble is, he used a tape measure — you know, the thin metal strip-in-a-box that construction workers use, the kind that doesn’t really bend to the contours of the body. As a result, his pants and coat were four inches too short for him.

I was not beyond reproach myself, though. I bit into an eclair and sent cream shooting out the back end (of the eclair). Soon I began doing this on purpose, for entertainment.

Nichole, bless her heart, was finally able to get upright and non-hallucinatory enough to stand in the receiving line. As best man, I was in that line, too, putting a serious strain on my small-talk abilities. I didn’t know a single person who came through. So as I shook each person’s hand, we’d do the thing where I explain I’m a friend of Jared’s and the person explains his or her connection to the happy couple. One man said, “I’m the husband of So-and-So, who used to be Nichole’s roommate.” And I said, “So you and I have absolutely no connection whatsoever, except that we’re both humans.” And he said yes. And then we had to keep talking, because he was still standing in front of me, because the line moves so slow.

It was a fun experience. I usually avoid wedding receptions, plague-like, but I was honored to be tangentially involved with this one. Not that they’re reading this, but I hope Jared and Nichole are having a nice honeymoon, and I hope I remember to return my tuxedo to the place they rented it from one of these days.

Though Miss Cleo and I are on a first-name basis (we dated in high school), I personally have no psychic ability. And yet, I will herein predict exactly what will happen at my parents’ house on Thanksgiving. Prepare to be startled and amazed, and possibly bored.

1:00 a.m. — Mom and Dad go down to the church to borrow some folding chairs so all the relatives have a place to sit.

1:04 a.m. — Mom and Dad encounter seven other couples doing the same thing, each pretending they have some other reason for being at the church at 1 a.m.

3:42 a.m. — The leader of the turkey nation awakes with a start, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

7:15 a.m. — Dad participates in the ward “Turkey Bowl” football game, despite having sworn each of the past 15 years that he’s getting too old for this.

7:20 a.m. — Dad officially gets too old for this.

10:13 a.m. — Someone jokingly tells Mom she’s ruined Thanksgiving.

12:49 p.m. — Relatives begin arriving by the vanful. There are guarded hugs and polite kisses all around. All secretly marvel at how much fatter and older everyone has gotten.

12:58 p.m. — The wives of my cousins pretend to know who I am.

1:02 p.m. — First sighting of Uncle Kenny’s butt crack.

1:22 p.m. — I make awkward conversation with my 18-year-old cousin Hollie, with whom I have never successfully conversed for more than 11 seconds.

1:31 p.m. — My cousin Ethan says something vile.

1:45 p.m. — I stare blankly at a TV from which a football game is emanating. I’m so bored by it, I feel like a damn woman.

1:51 p.m. — Someone tells Mom she’s ruined Thanksgiving, but they mean it.

2:05 p.m. — Before anyone can eat, we have to go around the table and each name something we are thankful for. Someone says, “That we’re finally about to eat,” which gets a laugh EVERY SINGLE YEAR. Meanwhile, my brother Jeff and my cousin Nathan are already eating.

2:09 p.m. — Grandpa offers a prayer, during which my brother Chris keeps his eyes open to make faces at whoever else has their eyes open, and during which Jeff and Nathan continue eating, though somewhat more quietly.

2:10 p.m. — First belch (male).

2:15 p.m. — Mashed potato supply depleted. Blame is placed on Jeff and Nathan, but the truth is, there weren’t enough mashed potatoes to begin with. I loudly complain about this fact, and about how this is the case every year, but the only response given is that if I want there to be more mashed potatoes, I ought to make some more myself. I find this extraordinarily unhelpful.

2:19 p.m. — First belch (female).

2:29 p.m — Grandpa’s new wife Margrit is informed that she’s not really our grandma, so we don’t have to listen to her.

3:32 p.m. — Someone intentionally does something that was predicted in this column, just because it was predicted in this column.

3:50 p.m. — Grandpa dozes off, his mouth wide open like he’s some kind of catfish or something. A picture is taken for posterity.

4:10 p.m. — Relatives begin to stagger bloatedly out the door.

5:32 p.m. — As my brother Jeff dishes up a plate of leftovers, Mom says, “Jeff, we JUST ATE!”

5:45 p.m. — Quiet settles on the house. My immediate family and I sit around the living room and crack each other up, largely through making fun of everyone we know. For a little while, everything in the world seems OK. Then Mom starts getting weepy-eyed about how everything in the world seems OK, and we have to turn on her.

Happy Thanksgiving!

BYU football is the reason the Daily Herald goes on living, and the University of Utah game is the reason the Daily Herald goes on living with a smile on its face. It is our raisin detour (or “raison d’etre,” as the French say).

We look forward to football season all year long here at the paper. In February, sports writers can be seen slumping around the newsroom, their knuckles dragging on the ground more than usual, visibly depressed by the lack of football to write about, reduced to covering such trivial matters as basketball and the Olympics. Many of these writers are so somber, they speak only in monosyllabic grunts, as opposed to the rest of the time, when they speak in monosyllabic exclamations.

And then football season begins, approximately three years before the first game. Joy oozes throughout the office, seeping into the crevices and festering behind the filing cabinets. Sports writers come out of their hibernation and dance about gaily. (When I say “gaily,” you should understand I mean “like a bunch of fairies.”) Football has begun!

Football is important in American society because it gives big, fat, sweaty guys something to do. If it weren’t for football, these men would be out on the street, holding signs that say, “Will be big, fat and sweaty for food.” (That’s how my brother Jeff put himself through college, actually.)

So we honor and revere football. We schedule our weekends around it. We attempt to explain its intricate rules to our less-informed friends, many of whom feign interest in the sport only when they have to write a column about it.

Which brings us to my point, which is to make a lot of jokes about the rivalry between BYU and the University of Utah. For those unfamiliar with each school, here are some comparisons that make the U of U look bad.

BYU: Requires its students to refrain from sex outside of marriage.
U OF U: Requires its students to refrain from sex outside the species (may be waived).

BYU: Used to be a high school called Brigham Young Academy.
U OF U: Used to be a high school called University of Utah.

BYU: Students like to tell “BYU co-ed” jokes.
U OF U: Students like to tell “BYU co-ed” jokes.

BYU: Endured national humiliation when it ill-advisedly censored a Rodin exhibit.
U OF U: Endures national humiliation when people in other states hear its name and say, “Utah has a university?”

And, in the interest of fair play….

U OF U: Performs theatrical works with themes of adultery, alcoholism and other controversial topics.
BYU: Does the same plays, but cuts out the swear words.

U OF U: Promotes academic freedom and open-mindedness among its diverse faculty.
BYU: Promotes academic freedom and open-mindedness among its white male upper-middle-class Mormon faculty.

U OF U: Goes out of its way not to mention Mormonism in the classroom, even though most of its students have an LDS background.
BYU: Had a professor who once went an entire day without mentioning Mormonism in the classroom, at which point he was fired.

U OF U: Football team has a record of 7 wins, 2 losses.
BYU: Football team has a record of 6 arrests, 3 convictions.