More than 100 local women tore themselves away from Deseret Book and the Quilted Bear long enough to sign a petition protesting Saturday’s 2 Live Crew concert at Atchafalaya. They feel 2 Live Crew’s lyrics violate Provo’s obscenity ordinances. They are probably also still angry because Atchafalaya used to be LeMar’s, which had topless dancing. (“Atchafalaya” is the Cajun word for “Hooters.”)

I figured I should write a column about this, since I don’t have any funny restaurant stories to tell and the phone company hasn’t ticked me off lately. So on my lunch hour, I went to Camelot Music at Provo Towne Centre to pick up a 2 Live Crew CD, for research purposes.

I figured I was wasting my time. If 2 Live Crew’s lyrics are too obscene to be permitted when performed live, surely recorded versions would be just as obscene, and surely those 100 local women would have already stamped them out, especially given Camelot Music’s close proximity to Victoria’s Secret, which is ground zero for offensive material.

But what should I find at Camelot Music, but eight different 2 Live Crew albums! Sink me!

Since I was out and about already, and since my “lunch hour” was now more figurative than literal, I stopped at the video store. I wanted to rent “Clerks,” which initially received an NC-17 rating solely for language, but was finally released with an R after the director whined and moaned and threatened legal action. I was also considering renting “Requiem for a Dream” (which was released unrated to avoid the NC-17 category) or the uncut, unrated version of “American Pie.” I allotted extra time, figuring there would be a lot of protesters outside the store, what with all the filthy movies being sold and rented inside. Turns out all the movies I was considering were in stock, and I was able to rent them without incident, except for a minor snit I had when I discovered some of them were not available on DVD. (What is this, the DARK AGES?)

Having some spare time now, and having already decided to make this a three-hour lunch, I thought, “Why not take in a flick?” I needed a good laugh, so I poked my head into “Original Sin,” the new unintentionally funny trainwreck starring one-time celebrity Antonio Banderas and current no-talent freak show Angelina Jolie. I was just in time for the extremely graphic and over-long sex scene between the two stars. The movie’s rated R, but there were some young folks in the theater. This surprised me, frankly. I didn’t think ANYONE would be in the theater. Even the protesters didn’t bother to show up.

I was fully perplexed now, and I’d given up on the idea of returning to the office. Why would people make such a big deal over a one-time 2 Live Crew show — taking place in a bar that most of Provo ignores anyway — when there’s so much in our community 365 days a year that is just as filthy?

I’m not saying 2 Live Crew’s music isn’t raunchy, because I think it is, and I’ve even been desensitized by R-rated movies and Victoria’s Secret catalogs, as you know. But I fail to see how allowing the band to perform for one night in Provo is going to do any more damage to the community than is done by allowing the band’s CDs to exist the rest of the time, or by stocking dirty movies in video stores, or by putting Angelina Jolie’s overpublicized naked bosoms on the big screen.

What’s that? Maybe those things ARE doing damage? Fine. Then where are the protesters? This one-time, ad hoc, situational activism is more annoying than anything. I can respect the dedication and zeal of people who make it an ongoing effort to ensure everyone else agrees with them. But I have no regard for people who only do it occasionally, when it’s trendy, and in so doing overlook a lot of better battles.

I’m told tickets to the show are $20 at the door. Twenty bucks to be crammed into a sweaty bar and listen to a has-been rap group? Now THAT’S obscene.

The following bits of trivia are all TRUE! Please forward them via e-mail to every single person you have ever met.

Until 1992, no one had ever died within the state boundaries of Rhode Island.

Technically, a duck has no mouth. Its bill is considered a nose.

The most common murder weapon in the United States is not the gun or the knife, but the icepick.

The nursery rhyme “Little Miss Muffet” is a metaphor for the Black Plague, with the spider representing the plague and Miss Muffet representing England. It originated as a horror tale designed to scare children.

“Jaws” was the first movie to use the word “shark.”

“King of Pop” Michael Jackson played Albert on “Little House on the Prairie.”

To avoid paying income taxes, all one must do is write to the IRS and request to be taken off their list. The reason most people don’t do this is that there is a lot of paperwork involved.

President William Howard Taft did not have any fingers.

“Hollywood” is the name of an African god. So when you say things like, “I wish ‘Hollywood’ would quit making so many filthy movies,” you are blaming it on an actual deity and probably causing serious trouble for some Africans.

The jack-o’-lantern was named after Christian martyr St. Stephen.

Of the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence, only two are still living today.

Ludwig von Beethoven was black.

There is a secret nightclub under the Matterhorn at Disneyland where cockfights are held nightly. The city of Anaheim is powerless to stop them, because once you get 100 feet below street level, you’re out of the city’s jurisdiction.

Despite living in the ocean, dolphins are not fish. They are birds.

The reason you never see Muppets from the waist down is that they are naked.

Putting one of those “organ donor” stickers on your driver’s license empowers the federal government to take organs from you even while you are still alive.

Gary Larson, creator of “The Far Side,” also invented double-stick tape.

Johnny Carson was once suspended from TV for five days as punishment for saying “scoliosis” on the air.

If you watch “The Wizard of Oz” really closely, you can see a witch being killed by having water thrown on her.

It is against the law to speak Spanish in Switzerland, due to lingering resentment from the devastating Swiss-Mexican War (1889-1901).

Before he was famous, Adolf Hitler appeared as a contestant on “The Dating Game.”

Due to an old Indian curse, every U.S. president elected in a year ending in “0” has had an ugly wife.

Fidel Castro’s favorite TV show is “Friends.” He almost appeared in a guest role for one episode, but the U.S. government nixed it. Scott Baio wound up playing the part instead.

“Alice in Wonderland” author Lewis Carroll used a pseudonym. His real name was Mark Twain.

In Monopoly, it is mathematically impossible to land on both Park Place and Boardwalk if you are the top hat.

Jesse James was a fictional character.

I’m not wearing pants.

I was awakened by the sound of a Christian minister yelling at me. At first I thought maybe I’d passed out drunk in the soup kitchen again. Then I remembered I’d never been drunk or in a soup kitchen before, so “again” wouldn’t exactly be the right word. “For the first time” would fit, but it might look suspicious if I were so hasty to point out that something had never happened before, like maybe it HAD happened, but I wanted people to think it hadn’t.

Syntax aside, I knew something was wrong. Why would a Christian minister be yelling at me? He definitely seemed angry. He was talking about how when I die, I might stand before God and tell him all these great things I did, but if my heart wasn’t right, he would say, “I never knew you,” and I’d be cast out, apparently without so much as a handshake. I was familiar with this doctrine, having read books by such authors as Og Mandino and whoever wrote the Bible, so I don’t know why the Christian minister felt a need to yell them at me. And where WAS I, anyway?

Slowly, reality dawned on me. It was morning. The Christian minister was in my clock radio, which was playing because I had set it to wake me up. I must have nudged the radio dial accidentally the night before and tuned it to a religious station, instead of the soothing thrash metal I usually wake up to.

This explains why I was hearing a Christian minister. It does not explain why he was so angry.

But anger seems to be a recurring theme in religion. In the Old Testament (the thicker chunk of the Bible — you know, the part no one ever reads), the Lord was always smiting these people or condemning those people, often for no more serious an offense than whining, which the ancient Israelites did A LOT of the time. (Seriously, after the ninth or 10th bout with grapefruit-sized boils, you’d think the Israelites would have learned to quit with the constant belly-aching already.)

Then, in the New Testament — the part people do read, or at least have heard quotes from — everything became all peace, love and happiness. Unfortunately, the 1960s were full of similar sentiments, and we wound up with weed-smoking musicals like “Jesus Christ Superstar” and “Godspell,” the logic apparently being that since Jesus and hippies both wanted good will toward men, that meant Jesus WAS a hippie. Which is sort of like saying that since I don’t like cats, I must be a dog.

The radio minister obviously had an Old Testament-inspired oratory style (even though he was citing a New Testament doctrine). But is that kind of anger justified? I assume his rationale was that he wanted to frighten us into heeding his words. But I’m not usually roused into great introspection by a man who sounds like Yosemite Sam, or even by Yosemite Sam himself. Quiet, sincere pleadings are far more likely to do the trick with your average Christian varmint.

Which is, I think, the way God actually works. In my limited dealings with him, he’s generally been pretty calm and peaceful. When I get stubborn, he does tend to whack me over the spiritual head with a spiritual brick, but that’s only when I had it coming. I can’t imagine him waking me from a deep sleep by hollering at the top of his lungs — unless I really HAD passed out drunk in a soup kitchen, in which case he’d probably want me out of there before the paparazzi showed up.

It is now time for “Ask Eric Stuff,” a wildly popular feature in which people ask Eric stuff and he answers them. This feature is so incredibly popular that Eric is mobbed by strangers whenever he walks down the street, particularly when he is wearing his suit made out of $100,000 bills. You can submit your own “Ask Eric Stuff” questions at [outdated link].

Dear Eric: What do I plant in the 8′ x 5′ area in my yard that doesn’t get water and is in all shade? — Gardenin’ Fool
Dear Fool: The only thing I know of that lives in darkness and doesn’t require water is Gayle Ruzicka, but I don’t know why you’d want to grow her.

Dear Eric: What exactly are “Zoobies” and why are they called such? — UVSC-bie
Dear High School Dropout: The desire to call BYU students “Zoobies” comes from something called the Cuteness Gene, which many people in the Midwest and mountain states are born with. The same gene makes people refer to Las Vegas as “Lost Wages,” Bill Clinton as “Slick Willie,” and McDonald’s as “Mickey D’s.” None of these nicknames is clever or original, but people with the Cuteness Gene continue to use them while silently basking in the light of their own imagined inventiveness.

Dear Eric: Which word has more inherent humor: crotch or groin? — Miss Mary Mack
Dear Mack Daddy: This is a tough one. Both are funny because they refer to the genital region. I believe “groin” may be funnier, though, as it has the “oi” sound that also makes words like “ointment” and “moist” so enjoyable to say.

Dear Eric: Can babies be born with a caffeine addiction? — Dr. Pepper
Dear Peppy: No, but several of polygamist Tom Green’s children have been born with a tragic gingham addiction, due to their mothers having worn too many homemade dresses during pregnancy.

Dear Eric: If the end of the world were tomorrow, what would you want to do today? — Beach Girl
Dear Beachy: Did you say “what” or “who”?

Dear Eric: I am about to hire a secretary. I was planning on paying her $2 per hour, like restaurants, and have people tip her to make up the difference. How much should people be expected to tip? — Tired of Tipping
Dear Tipsy: That depends. Will she get people’s appointments mixed up and be extraordinarily absent-minded? If so, good luck hiring her away from Friday’s.

Dear Eric: Will you do a movie review by request? — Couch Potato
Dear Tater: Only if you are requesting a review of the 1978 made-for-TV movie “The Initiation of Sarah,” which I watched a few weeks ago. It’s about a creepy girl with weird telekinetic powers that enable her to 1) save her sister from a rapist and 2) make a dog stop barking. She and her sister go to college, where creepy Sarah is ostracized, as she should be, and her pretty sister gets into an exclusive sorority headed by Morgan Fairchild. Creepy Sarah, meanwhile, joins the sorority for ugly girls and is driven to harness her powers for evil by her sorority mom, Shelley Winters, who is drunk in every scene. Everyone is very ugly and unappealing, including the people the movie thinks are pretty. I don’t know why this movie was ever made, much less why I watched it. I hope this helps.

Dear Eric: What is the difference between righteousness and self-righteousness, and can you cite an example of each so I understand completely? — Need Clarification in Louisiana
Dear Louie: Righteousness is keeping the commandments. Self-righteousness is keeping something that’s not even a commandment, and then belittling those who don’t. Example of righteousness: Not killing people. Example of self-righteousness: Never seeing PG-13-rated movies, and gossiping about people who do.

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.

Because when you get right down to it, what’s wrong with taking several hours out of your day to watch reruns of game shows? In fact, if it makes you happy, what’s wrong with setting the VCR to tape them all day while you’re at work?

One thing I like to do with “Family Feud” is to tune in when most of the answers have already been revealed and try to figure out what the question was. When you see a list like “dictionary,” “platypus,” “nipple” and “Genghis Khan,” you know you’ve got your work cut out for you. (“Name something you’d be surprised to find on the patio.”)

It is often simple things like this that make us happy. The big, elaborate pleasures like amusement parks and trips to the moon are fun, but sometimes you can enjoy yourself just as much without spending a fortune or leaving the Earth’s atmosphere.

For example, my 20-month-old niece, Emily, enjoys playing a game called “Bop.” In this game, she stands in front of the beanbag chair and gets your attention. Once you’re watching, she falls backward into the chair and says, “Bop!” Then she laughs like a maniac and does it again. She can do this eight or nine thousand times without growing tired of it, and my mom, whose first grandchild Emily is, can watch it at least that many times and still be delighted at how cute she is. This sort of behavior will not earn either of these people a seat in Parliament any time soon, but it does make them happy, and at least we know they’re not out playing in traffic.

When I tried “Bop” myself, I failed to see the entertainment value. Persuading people to give you their full attention is enjoyable when you can do it, but no one seemed to care that I was going to sit down on the beanbag chair. Also, the sitting process in and of itself is uninspired and trite, and “Bop” is by no means an original exclamation. Overall, “Bop” is an experience best left to the very young or the very easily amused. Grade: C+

So we see that simple pleasures are subjective. For one person, something may be dull, stupid and incoherent. For another person, that same thing may be an ecstatic fulfillment of all their hopes and wishes, and they walk out of the theater truly happy they saw “Final Fantasy.”

My friends Luscious Malone and Tanny Tantan (names have been changed) derive great joy from watching “Dukes of Hazzard” reruns on one of those redneck cable channels. Tanny was delighted to learn, after all these years, that the sheriff’s name is not Rosco Pico Train, but Rosco P. Coltrane. Surely such revelations will not put a spring in the step of every person you meet, but Tanny’s step sure is springier of late.

I was happy all day Tuesday because that morning I received a phone call from a telemarketer who said her name was Pinky Jones, which sounds like a name I would make up for one of my “names have been changed” friends. Again, maybe you would hear someone call herself “Pinky Jones” and not bat an eye, but not me. The only thing that ever made me happier was when Richard Dawson said, “Name a brand of canned food,” and the contestant said, “Potatoes.” Survey says: You’re an idiot.

My father, whose name really is Rocky F. Snider, is bishop of the LDS ward in which my family resides. This ward is in California, not Utah. This means that when church headquarters said, “No more missionary farewells in which sacrament meeting is devoted to honoring and worshipping the missionary,” they actually stopped doing them.

Anyway, last Saturday, while I was visiting for the weekend, the ward held a Pioneer Day activity involving picnics, reenactments and other assorted whoop-de-doo. We received a phone message in the morning that went approximately like this: “Please tell Bishop Snider he needs to be at the park at 8 o’clock to chase a greased pig. If he can’t make it, have him send one of his counselors.”

A number of questions were raised by this cryptic message. First of all, how does this relate to the pioneers? I can see them chasing a wild hog on occasion for food purposes, but I doubt they’d take the time to grease it up first. And from what little I know of barnyard animals, they don’t come pre-greased, viscosity being one of the things Mother Nature tends to overlook.

But more importantly, why did the message come across as though my dad were expected to comply? It wasn’t a request, like, “If you don’t already have plans or dignity, please come chase a pig like a moron.” It was as though the caller assumed this was part of dad’s stewardship — that as bishop, he held the priesthood keys of swine pursuit and would have to either exercise them himself or delegate the responsibility to some other person with authority. In developing nations, where priesthood holders are still in short supply, one assumes the pigs go unchased at Pioneer Day activities, and the picnics are overrun by swine who scamper around the park, desperately in need of someone to run after them. And the local church members sit there and say wistfully, “We must work to help our little branch grow and grow, until one day we have enough priesthood holders to catch these @$*# things.” (In developing nations, many of the saints still say things like “@$*#.”)

But my dad reports that it is not uncommon for him to be asked/instructed to do something like chase a pig. At every ward activity, there is at least one event planned whose sole purpose is to embarrass the bishop. My feeling is, hasn’t a man named “Rocky” been through enough?

He takes it all in good humor, though, and he was very cheerful and sportsmanlike when he called one of his counselors and made him go chase the pig.

Dad’s always been a good example of walking the line between goofiness and dignity. “There’s a time and place for everything” is one of the lessons I remember most from my childhood, possibly because he said it several thousand times throughout the ’70s and ’80s. (It seems the one thing I couldn’t figure out a time or place for was listening to my dad.)

How well was he able to blend lightheartedness with serious responsibility? Well, he used to have a pickup truck on which he had re-routed the wiper-fluid hose so it pointed out the front grille. When he pushed the button that would normally clean the windshield, a jet of water would squirt out the front of the truck instead, dousing whoever happened to be in the way.

I recall one Sunday afternoon when my dad — then on the stake high council — slowly followed my seminary teacher, shark-like, as she walked across the parking lot. She eventually realized what he was up to — everyone knew about Brother Snider’s Squirting Truck — and had to run to the sidewalk, in her stockings and high heels, to escape a soaking. This clearly demonstrates Dad’s sense of humor, but it also shows his sense of responsibility. A less-mature man would have just run that seminary teacher over.

In fact, if the Pioneer Day activity had involved chasing a greased seminary teacher, maybe my dad would have done it. But not a pig. You have to draw the line somewhere.

Remember that Latin Music Invasion we were supposed to have a few years ago? What ever happened to that? People like Ricky Martin and Marc Anthony were supposed to take this country by storm, and then they didn’t. Maybe they invaded some other country. Maybe they’re wandering around Iceland saying, “Man, we must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

I don’t understand how these new “invasions” are planned anyway. The Latin thing was only because we had three or four big pop hits by Latin artists — most of whom, you’ll be interested to know, don’t even speak Latin. Seems like calling it an “invasion” was jumping the gun. I’ve heard a lot of songs lately that are annoying, like the one where the guy says, “Can you take me higher?/To the place where blind men see?” And that’s annoying because, you know, NO, I can’t. What a stupid question. Where is this Land Where Blind People Can See? Is it near the Land Where Rock Singers Can Sing? And more to my point, is this the start of a new Annoying Music Invasion?

The British Invasion of the ’60s, that I can understand, as it featured the basic elements of rock: guitar, bass, drums and guys saying, “Wooo!” It officially began with the Beatles, of course, who were four lads from Liverpool with whom the young ladies of America wanted to have sexual relations. Such were the sentiments of the day, despite the fact that the Beatles looked extremely British — you know, with the weird smiles and the funny hair and everything. I guess coupling with strange-looking people was popular in the ’60s, which explains why everyone was so ugly in the ’70s.

After that, there was a barrage of rock ‘n’ roll bands from England, each one sounding approximately like the Beatles, and each one making steam come out of American parents’ ears like in a Donald Duck cartoon. Of course, by today’s standards (what’s left of them), ’60s rock sounds pretty tame, and today’s music irritates parents. And I’ve heard today’s music, and it’s filthier than a Victoria’s Secret poster, if you can imagine, with titles as poorly spelled as a Britney Spears fan-produced Web site. I can see why parents are upset by it.

On the current Billboard Hot 100 chart, we have these actual titles: “Let Me Blow Ya Mind,” “Bootylicious,” “Where the Party At,” “Get Ur Freak on,” “Someone to Call My Lover,” “I’m Just Talkin’ About Tonight” and “Giv Me Ur Sexxx Rite Now or I Wil Kil U.” (It is possible I have manufactured one of those titles myself.)

And so I wonder: When the kids of today are parents, what will THEIR children listen to that will bother THEM? How much worse is it going to get? Will “bootylicious” become an adjective that people actually use? (“Sir, our first-quarter projected earnings are bootylicious, to say the least.”) Will the popular tunes of 2020 be so obscene that listeners will burst into flames? Will music spread hepatitis? Will girls get pregnant just by listening to the radio? And if so, how cool will that be?

Anyway, people have always gotten worked up over the latest “big thing,” and the big things always seem small after some time has passed. (For example: Who even thinks about the Bubonic Plague anymore? All that hullabaloo at the time, and now, nothing.) In the 18th century, there was the Classical Invasion, when the music scene was changed forever by the introduction of the electric conductor’s baton. Composers were worshiped like gods. During the legendary Woodwindstock music festival, Wolfgang “Amadeus” Mozart and Ludwig “Driving Miss Daisy” Beethoven trashed a hotel room, and Beethoven set fire to his piano on stage, perhaps accidentally.

And where are these guys now? They’re dead, and their music is used in radio commercials to promote rehab centers and mattress sales. Which is actually a pretty high honor, compared to the extremely non-bootylicious destiny that awaits Ricky Martin now that the Fifteen Minutes of Fame Police have caught up with him.

I was at a Provo Angels baseball game last week when I had an alarming thought: Provo has a baseball team?

Yes, while you were preoccupied with polygamy trials, smutty Victoria’s Secret posters and crackpots in La Verkin who for some reason think the United Nations wants to go there when in fact no one wants to go there, Provo was getting a minor-league baseball team.

Now, I’ve never been much of a jock myself, but I am an athletic supporter. When the Founding Fathers slapped together this great nation of ours, they intended for baseball to be the Great American Pastime, even if watching it is often as dull as watching paint dry. (Unless you’re drying the paint by putting a gallon of it in the clothes dryer, in which case it’s actually pretty fun.) I figure, “Hamlet” and “Citizen Kane” are kind of boring, too, but they’re still treated with a lot of reverence, mostly by people who haven’t seen them.

So last Friday, I headed down to the Angels’ temporary home at the BYU baseball field to catch a game. I took my brother Jeff with me, as he is an enormous fan of the sport — I mean seriously, the guy is huge — and has an encyclopedic knowledge of it. Our family was baseball-oriented enough for me to know a few things, like the infield-fly rule (“If there are runners on first and second, or first, second and third, and less than two outs, and it’s a Thursday in August, and the wind’s blowing from the southwest, and both teams are named after animals, then buddy, have a drink”), but Jeff knows EVERYTHING. You name any player or team or year, and he’ll tell you everything about them, and then ask you for money.

Jeff also played Little League and high school baseball in Southern California for many years. As a pitcher, he struck out 18 batters in one game, and did that twice in one season. He also claims never to have struck a batter accidentally, having always done it on purpose, including once when he hit noted local crybaby Tommy Gibson just to see if he would cry about that, too. (He did.)

It’s critical you have someone entertaining with you at the baseball park, or else you’ll be stuck just watching the game, which is no fun for anyone. Jeff and I had a stupid good time, mostly making jokes about players’ names. (One of them is named Gillitzer, which made us think of “Gillitzer’s Island.” You get the idea.) I love that you’re allowed to sit down during baseball, which is one of my favorite activities, and that you’re allowed to talk, too. 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.

The Angels won the game 4-0, easily defeating the lackluster Great Falls Dodgers, who had more errors than hits. Several of their players, I suspect, were merely fans who had wandered onto the field by mistake.

My question to you, the reader, is this: Why aren’t you at that baseball field? Friday, the attendance was 1,695. The stadium seats 2,400. Granted, 1,695 is pretty good, and granted, the game’s short duration and victorious outcome helped make it a pleasurable experience for me. (There’s nothing worse than something that drags on forever and then ends badly anyway, like “Titanic,” or the Vietnam War.)

But considering how many people live in this valley — well over a trillion, if the traffic on State Street is any indication — that place should be packed every night. It’s cheap, it’s wholesome, it’s summertime, and you’re an American. (My apologies to you who are not Americans. Work on that, will you?) TV is nothing but “reality” programming and reruns right now, all the movies in the theaters are full of cuss words and bosoms, and none of your neighbors like you. Get down to a Provo Angels game and partake in some Americana, darn it. And if you get hit with a ball, take it like a man.

My point is, you should stay away from those restaurants. Especially the ones with the monkeys.

Eric D. Snider can be reached at 344-2560 or dhfamily@heraldextra.com.

Post your comments here:

Anonymous: not funny, snyder. your never funny.
Anonymous: you’re an idiot, because you said “your” instead of “you’re.”
Anonymous: you’re the idiot. who care’s about grammer?
Loozer: why does the hearld keep paying snyder to rite this drivel? it’s always unfunny, offensive and juvenile, and i read it every time, just to make sure.
Buttercup: This was OK, but Snyder is no Robert Kirby! He is also no Mahatma Gandhi, Elvis Presley, Susan B. Anthony or Charles Nelson Reilly. The list of people Snyder is not is nearly endless.
Anonymous: Only BYU student’s like Eric.
Anonymous: Eric had to quit writing at BYU because no one there liked him.
Anonymous: Snider, you must have went to UVSC.
DumbGuy: Another Dave Barry wannabe. I happen to know that Dave Barry invented humor; therefore, anyone else who trie’s to be funny is merely copying Dave Barry.
Stupid Internet Nickname: You’re an idiot!
Anonymous: No, YOU’RE an idiot!
Anonymous: No, YOU’RE an idiot!
Mr. Cornweenious: I know everything. Everything, that is, except how to find something to do with my time other than post 500 comment’s a day on a newspaper Web site.
Toolie O’Toole: why do you people keep reading the column if it’s so bad?
Anonymous: eric is funny!
JudyDesdemona: the only people who like Eric are his roommate’s.
Anonymous: his name is snider, not snyder. your all idiot’s!
Anonymous: No, YOU’RE an idiot!
Anonymous: No, YOU’RE an idiot!
Anonymous: why should we listen to you when you wont even sign your name after your comment’s?????????
Anonymous: I am a 2-year-old who is just whacking randomly at a computer keyboard. Snider suck’s!
Anonymous: ERIC MAYBE IF YOU HAD A WIFE YOU WOULDN’T BE SO UGLY.
Anonymous: ur a teribul riter and once u gaiv a bad revue to a play i wuz in so u suk and ur muther’s a hore
Anonymous: The reason eric is such a terrible columnist is because the mormon church isn’t true.
Anonymous: No, YOU aren’t true!
Anonymous: No, YOU aren’t true!
PiousZealot: A newspaper should treasure it’s reader’s. Mr. Snider, you need to realize that some things are held sacred by people of good taste. Monkey’s are one of those things. You should be ashamed of yourself, making fun of monkey’s as you did. The joke about the flatulent pope was funny, though.
Anonymous: Snider must be gay, or else he would be funnier.
Anonymous: No, YOU’RE an idiot!

A few weeks ago, The Daily Herald received a large envelope containing a copy of the Spring 2001 Victoria’s Secret catalog, accompanied by a handwritten note reading: “Victoria’s Secret is out …. (She’s a SLUT!!!) I resent this pornography being sent to me!!!!” I am not sure what the complainant wanted us to do about it, but if her wish was to be made fun of in my column, I imagine she’ll be pretty happy now.

I thumbed through the catalog many, many times, often with a magnifying glass, and was unable to locate any pornography. I found quite a few pictures of women in their underclothes, but nothing exhibiting “sexually explicit behavior … intended to arouse sexual excitement,” which is how the dictionary defines pornography. There wasn’t even anything “offensive to accepted standards of decency,” which is the dictionary definition of “obscene.” Nor was there anything resembling “a sliding wood or iron grille suspended in the gateway of a fortified place,” which is the definition of “portcullis,” which is a word I just learned.

Actually, it’s possible the second half of that “pornography” definition applies: “intended to arouse sexual excitement.” Surely the people who make the Victoria’s Secret catalog are not unaware of the effect it has on some men, i.e., it makes them hot. However, I doubt that’s the actual PURPOSE of the catalog. I suspect the purpose of the catalog is to sell frilly underwear, and the getting-men-hot thing is just a side effect.

Anyway, the Victoria’s Secret war heated up a few days ago, when local mother Tina Rivera 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. Tina Rivera’s 6-year-old son saw the poster, too, and immediately burst into puberty. Tina Rivera’s head exploded. The mall caught fire. The world ended. (Remember?)

Tina Rivera was so shocked and appalled, she drafted a document called “A Mother’s Plea” and had it posted at FamilyNook.com. [You can see an archived copy of the letter here.] In this letter, she urges people to take action against stores like Victoria’s Secret, which force “lewd and sexual images” on unsuspecting passersby. She also described the poster as “soft pornography” and compared it to pornographic pictures she once saw as a child.

Immediately upon learning of this exciting development in breast publicity, I headed down to Victoria’s Secret to see if the poster was as bad as Tina Rivera said. As it turns out, Tina Rivera could be a medal-winning athlete in the Utah Olympic sport of Making a Big Deal out of Nothing. First of all, her description of the poster — “a naked woman who only covered herself with her hands” — is inaccurate. The woman is wearing panties (thus making her un-naked), and she covers her bosoms with her arms. I had imagined a woman looking right at the camera, barely covering her breasts with her hands, when in fact it is a side view, and very little cleavage is actually shown, as her arms cover most of it. It’s a case of implied nudity.

Furthermore, the picture is far from “lewd and sexual.” It’s certainly not “sexual,” as the expression on the woman’s face is benign, and the photo has no other people in it. And the dictionary says “lewd” means “preoccupied with sex,” which seems like a better description of Tina Rivera than of the poster.

I see the poster as perfectly appropriate for Victoria’s Secret, as it shows the store’s ideal customer: someone who needs to buy a bra. Surely there are more important social ills to address, such as people who feel comfortable using words like “slut” in anonymous correspondence with newspapers.

In response to the many kind readers who have written gentle reminders to the effect that I’m not funny and they hate me, I am turning today’s edition over to two other writers who have written extremely funny poetry without even knowing it.

Our first author is named June Johnson. I do not know who she is, but her books of poetry are in the Americana section of the Special Collections at BYU’s Harold B. Lee Library. The poems are reprinted here exactly as she wrote them.

First we have “The Bee,” a short, thought-provoking poem that examines the nature of man and which also talks about bees.

The Bee
Why does the bird cry?
Why does the bee
sing and sting?
Why am I, I?
What made me, Me?

* * *

Ms. Johnson’s next poem is called “My Beloved Indian Chief,” and it contains language that is now considered “politically incorrect.” Specifically, it makes reference to an “Indian Chief,” when the term currently preferred is “Native American Chairperson.”

My Beloved Indian Chief
I came to you out of the night,
startling as a beam of light.
You were sick lonely and afraid,
and I came to your aid.
I warmed you and caressed you
with love and light,
Now you stand so tall and strong
and I wonder what’s wrong?
Have you found a battle we all must fight,
hidden deep inside you, out of sight?
I hope so, I hope so, my beloved Indian Chief, because I know you’ll win!

* * *

Indeed. Our second author is anonymous. He was a BYU student who wrote a book of poems and left it behind when he moved out of his apartment. It was sent to me by the next tenant, who knows a good book of poetry when he sees one and kept this one anyway.

The first poem is called “Love or Love ‘Sick,’ ” and it employs clever wordplay such as one might find in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, or perhaps a Bazooka Joe comic.

Love or Love “Sick”
Are Eleanor & I going to the dance?
The truth is I feel I don’t have the chance!
one week ago I gave her a pink rose.
Now when she sees me, she runs on her toes.
It’s not like I’m only looking for romance.
I just wish the girl would give me a chance.
She gives me a Valentine every night.
I receive it, scream “man I’m in a plight
So all you bucks thinking of charming some does.
Just be careful or else you’ll all look like smoes.

* * *

And the last thing you want is to look like a smoe.

Our final chunk of poetry comes from the same nameless author (we’re calling him Smoey Smonson) and it is also on the subject of romance. It bears the title “Lee ‘I Love You’ — Alison,” and I don’t understand the punctuation in that title, either. It seems to have been written from a woman’s point of view. You will notice the author’s penetrating insight into the female psyche.

Lee “I Love You” — Alison
Lee I’m going to be very simple!
What is it, do I have a hairy pimple?
I don’t mean to sound cold.
but c’mon be a little bold.
I put hearts all over your bed.
They we’re the color of love, that’s red.
I am sorry, I don’t mean to diss.
But what’s taking so long for the Kiss.
Marriage isn’t my only thought.
I want kids, yes alot!

* * *

I hope this collection of poetry has been enlightening. I don’t mean to diss, but compared to these poets, Robert Frost was just a smoe with a hairy pimple.

When the Founding Fathers slapped together this great nation of ours, I’m sure they envisioned a lot of parades and fireworks being part of our celebrations.

“But parades and fireworks are boring!” protested Benjamin Franklin. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all!”

He was quickly shushed by James Madison, who pushed him down the stairs, thus establishing the first modern city council meeting.

But there’s one thing the Founding Fathers probably didn’t foresee: Andrew Jackson. Was that guy a nut, or what? A drunken inauguration party full of debauchery, and he still makes it onto the $20 bill. Next thing you know, Bill Clinton’s face will be on currency, or at least a Happy Meal box.

But more to the point, one thing they couldn’t have imagined was the addition of hot-air balloons as a means of celebrating freedom. Here in Provo, where currently we are not even free to dance in public, we use a lot of hot-air balloons to send our message to the world. That message: “We have hot-air balloons! No dancing, please.”

On Tuesday, I arose at the miserable hour of 5 a.m. in order to participate in the Balloon Fest, which is part of the monthlong America’s Freedom Festival at Provo, which is part of Provo’s yearlong Festival Festival: A Celebration of Celebrations.

Now, you should know that it is not uncommon that I find myself awake at 5 a.m. However, this is usually because I have not yet gone to bed, having found a particularly hilarious Web site or a movie on TV that I would never watch under normal circumstances but which seems fine in the middle of the night. (I can’t imagine watching a John Candy film at any other time of day. As far as I know, John Candy films don’t even EXIST during the day. They are nocturnal films.)

But to WAKE UP at 5 a.m.! This was preposterous. Apparently, though, hot-air balloons don’t work in the afternoon. I’m not clear on the physics involved, but from what I can gather, it has to do with someone wanting to irritate me.

Anyway, there were quite a few balloons going up, with many townspeople present to witness this marvel in hot-air technology. (Note: Obligatory politician/hot air joke coming.) Sen. Orrin Hatch was also present, to provide the hot air. (We now return you to your regularly scheduled all-original humor column.)

I was introduced to Dave, a professional balloon pilot from Colorado. He’s a rugged, Crocodile Hunter-type of guy who I happen to know doesn’t care if you spit over the side of the basket when you’re up in the air. We were joined by a fellow named Ed (I have nothing to say about Ed), and the three of us were on our way.

Riding a hot-air balloon is one of those things that seems really fun until you actually do it, at which point you realize it’s more trouble than it’s worth. It’s sort of like buying a puppy, or getting married. For the first 10 minutes or so (I’m talking about the balloon ride now), it’s very exciting, as you see familiar sights from a new perspective and imagine yourself plummeting to your death and wondering where you would land and if it would disrupt traffic. Then, the new perspective is no longer new, and the death fantasies have become more morbid than interesting, and yet here you are, still hanging up in the sky, running out of spit.

But I’m glad I did it. Provo is a beautiful little college town, especially when you’re 2,000 feet above it, where you can’t see all the Hogi Yogis and Chinese buffets. And while city councilpersons Stan Lockhart and Cindy Richards might complain about the various modes of transportation they’re forced to use in the parade — might I suggest walking? And in another city? — I bet they wouldn’t complain if we put them up in a balloon. And even if they did, who would hear them? In space, no one can hear you whine.

Gather ’round, kids! It’s time for yet another installment of “Ask Eric Stuff,” an occasional feature in which Eric answers questions that were asked by people just like you, except dumber. You can submit your own questions at [outdated link].

Dear Eric: I’ve heard it’s a good idea to save about 10 percent of my income for retirement. What should I invest this money in? — Prudent in Provo
Dear Way Too Concerned About the Future: Just start buying the things you think you will need when you are retired. I have a 20-year supply of Depends and soup in my parents’ basement.

Dear Eric: How do I know if I’ve finally met the right guy? — Senior and Panicked in Provo
Dear Senior: It all depends on what you mean by “senior.” If you are a senior in high school, you haven’t; if you are senior citizen and you have found ANYONE, he’s the right one; if you are a senior at BYU, see “senior citizen.”

Dear Eric: How can I fool a professor into passing me for graduation in spite of my dismal performance? — Lazy in Logan
Dear Couldn’t Get into BYU: Man, you came to the right place. My senior year in college, I had to take a science elective, and the only one that fit in my schedule was an Agronomy & Horticulture class called “The History of Trees,” or something like that. On each test, one of the questions was, “Write a question you think should have been on this test, and provide the answer.” We would get two points for this. I once wrote, “Question: Will I fail this test? Answer: Yes.” Since I wrote a question and provided the correct answer, I got two points. I only scored a 25 on the test, and two of those points were from correctly predicting I would fail it. I passed the class, graduated, and have not thought of agronomy or horticulture since. My advice to you? Find a scientist or wizard who can enable you to live my life.

Dear Eric: What quality or characteristic do you most appreciate in a woman? — Just Curious
Dear J-Cu: Her ability to put up with me.

Dear Eric: What’s your favorite thing about living in Utah? — Utah Native
Dear Native: The quaint mispronunciation of basic English words. It’s something I absolutely tray-zhure.

Dear Eric: Are you volunteering for the 2002 Olympic Winter Games? — Curious 2002 Volunteer Candidate
Dear Working for Free: I volunteered to help distribute the performance-enhancing drugs and mind-altering chemicals to the athletes, but was told the position had already been filled. Now I am working on the Utah Press Association’s “Make People Sick of the Olympics” campaign. Thank you for giving me an excuse to mention the Olympics in this column. One more and I get a toaster.

Dear Eric: Are all of the questions in your column from posts to this site, or do you make most of them up for lack of good questions? — Suspicious in SoCal
Dear Nosy: I make them all up. I made up yours, too.

Dear Eric: Is the earth undergoing gradual heating until the time the polar icecaps melt, or will we experience another ice age? — Debating in Denver
Dear Denver: Gradual heating? Have you BEEN to Las Vegas?

Dear Eric: If you could be any superhero, who would you be? — Space Ghost Wannabe
Dear Wannabe: Man-Who-All-the-Ladies-Want Man.

Dear Eric: What’s the best/worst part about working for a newspaper? — Not Clever Enough
Dear Dummy: Best part: Plenty of access to free newspapers, which are handy for washing windows, which I have to do as part of my night job in order to make enough money to live. Worst part: Long-standing journalist code of ethics that prohibits showering.

A weekend in St. George is bound to teach you a few things. For example, that it’s really hot in St. George and I don’t know how anyone lives there. I have noticed it’s mostly old people. Do they possess some kind of natural defense against the sun’s deadly rays? Could we somehow harness these powers to help them drive faster?

Anyway, I was in St. George on “business,” which means I was watching plays. My friend Luscious Malone (names have been changed) accompanied me, and it was she who made the discovery that led to our first significant learning experience.

We needed someplace to eat dinner on a Saturday night, and we couldn’t find the restaurant we were looking for, which I remembered as being on St. George Boulevard and as having a slogan that was obscene if taken out of context. Naturally, we wanted to eat at this place. But it had closed since my last visit to St. George, leaving us to find an alternative.

While flipping through the phone book, Luscious Malone found a Mexican place called Pancho & Lefty’s. We were delighted that a restaurant called itself Pancho & Lefty’s. We thought: What a funny name! We should eat there.

Life Lesson #1: Do not eat at a restaurant simply because you think its name is funny.

Pancho & Lefty’s served food that was reasonably priced and tasted good. Pancho & Lefty’s employed the services of a man who strolled around and sang “Angel of the Morning” in Spanish while he played the guitar, but such annoyances can be overlooked when a place has a name like “Pancho & Lefty’s.” Pancho & Lefty’s seemed like a good experience.

And then we left the restaurant. We made it about five feet, and then: Wham! For some reason, I started thinking about Wham!, which was a great ’80s band. But that’s beside the point, because just after we left the restaurant, pow! We were both seized with violent gastronomical turbulence. It felt like I’d eaten a team of soccer players who were now trying to kick their way out. (If you’ve ever eaten a team of soccer players, you can relate.) Having found a food donor, our stomachs were initially pleased with the transplants, but were now rejecting them. The food vacationed in our stomachs, didn’t like the scenery, and elected to fly south instead. Pancho & Lefty’s punched me and left me. Fortunately, as is true with most of life’s problems, it turned out to be nothing a couple trips to the bathroom couldn’t solve.

The other significant learning experience had to do with my facial hair. I had misjudged how long I could go before my next shave, and in the middle of our St. George weekend, I simply HAD to shave. But I had brought no razor. So I had to improvise.

Life Lesson #2: Do not shave with a razor purchased from a Motel 6 vending machine.

Motel 6, like many of your classy motor lodges and homeless shelters, has vending machines with personal toiletry items alongside the candy and gum. This is really more a necessity than a convenience, as Motel 6 does not provide guests with little bottles of shampoo, apparently assuming its clientele is not part of the hair-washing crowd. (“It’s a fad” is what I picture a Motel 6 executive saying at a stockholders’ meeting in regards to clean hair.)

Luscious Malone had brought some fruity shampoo with her, but she didn’t have a razor, so I bought one. I might just as well have used the edge of a rusty hubcap. You thought my face was hideous before! (Trust me, you did.) Well, now it was hideous AND carved up. I looked like I’d been whittled. Not wanting to admit the truth, I told people Pancho and Lefty had caught up with me after I disrespected their restaurant. After all (bad pun coming), I had to save face somehow. (I warned you.)

My refrigerator was making a weird smell. The smell persisted, despite several cleanings and throwing out what old food there was. Even baking soda was powerless against it. I called an old priest and a young priest, and they exorcised the refrigerator; however, it stole their souls and the Catholic church refused to send any more priests over after that.

The mystery deepened when I discovered the refrigerator was producing its own smell — that is, nothing in it was causing the odor, but instead it was coming from within the depths of the appliance itself, like when a man’s bad breath is caused not by something he ate, but by his being evil. I discovered this after the last time I cleaned it (the refrigerator, not the evil man). The unit was unplugged and the doors were left open long enough for all the bad smell to dissipate, like when you air out your car after picking up a hitchhiking Frenchman. When I plugged it back in (the refrigerator, not the Frenchman), I put my nose right up to where the cold air comes in, and I realized the cold air was bringing the smell with it. Wherever the cold air comes from — and honestly, I couldn’t begin to tell you where that is; the North Pole, I assume — that’s where the smell was coming from.

So you’re thinking, “Dead rat down in the guts of the fridge,” which also happens to be a line from a folk song. I thought that, too, except that the refrigerator and the house it lives in are both less than four months old, which makes the presence of deceased rodentia unlikely. Nevertheless, I unscrewed a back panel to the refrigerator and poked around with a flashlight, and I found nothing other than what I assume is supposed to be there. (Actually, for all I know about the workings of major appliances, a dead rat could be a necessary part. “Well, here’s your problem,” the repairman would say. “Your rat’s outdated.”)

Absent-mindedly, I began glancing through the owner’s manual that came with the refrigerator. I wondered if, along with the instructions on how to operate the refrigerator (Step One: Put things in; Step Two: Take them out), there might also be tips on eliminating vile, baking-soda-defying, priest-defrocking odors. I found guidelines on fridge cleaning, accompanied by a phone number to call if a smell persisted.

“A-ha!” I thought. “Now there was a great ’80s band. I wonder where A-ha is now?” Then I gathered my thoughts more coherently and thought, “Well! This must be a common problem, if there is a Smell Hotline.”

Turns out it’s not a Smell Hotline; it’s just the Amana customer service center. The Amana woman (say it out loud; it’s fun) said she had never heard of such a thing as a refrigerator’s cold air being the source of a smell, and she hinted that I was crazy. (“That’s crazy,” she said.) However, she said she could send a repairman out to investigate.

This meant we had to locate the nearest authorized Amana repair center. It amuses me that in order to service an Amana product, one must be “authorized.” Are there maverick appliance repairmen out there, working on appliances they have no authority to work on? If apprehended, can they be called before a repairman’s tribunal and tried by a wise council of elders? And if so, do the elders have to take the trial back to the shop and work on it for a week to 10 days?

A man holding authority was sent up from Santaquin. His diagnosis was that a legitimate foul odor had found its way into the refrigerator’s circulation system and was now being cycled through it, over and over again. He said I should put a bowl of chopped-up charcoal in there, and within a week the smell would be gone. But I’m thinking I should also look into having my dead rat replaced, just in case.

I knew it was time to start dieting again because when I would say, “I really need to lose some weight,” people stopped saying, “Oh, no, you look fine,” and started agreeing with me.

This happens every couple years, when my lazy, gastronomical lifestyle catches up with me and my pants don’t go on anymore. That’s when I realize it’s time to take drastic measures: It’s time to buy bigger pants.

For a while, I was curious just how fat I would get before I topped out and/or died. It was sort of a game, watching my gut get bigger and bigger. “Wow,” I’d muse. “It didn’t used to wear me out just getting up off the couch. And didn’t I used to be able to eat only ONE pint of Ben & Jerry’s in one sitting…?” I was my own science project.

More to the point, though, I didn’t want to diet because so much of my social life revolves around food. When I arrive at the office each morning, after transcribing the obscene messages left on my voice mail, the next two hours are spent calling friends and associates to determine whom I will have lunch with, and where. It’s by far the thing toward which I exert the most energy. If I put forth this much effort in meditating, and if I were a Buddhist, I would have reached Nirvana ages ago.

I’ve been known to spend 20 minutes on the phone with my friend Tanny Tantan (names have been changed) just to figure out where we DON’T want to eat. We’ll sit in silence for a long time, thinking, and then one of us will say, “Not Chinese,” and then we’ll be silent a while longer, and then we’ll start conversing enthusiastically about something else, only to exhaust that topic and come back to where we started, working from a pool of choices that has been narrowed down only by one ethnicity.

But eventually, my expanding waistline gets to me, and I go on a diet, social life or no. 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 now, when the most exercise I usually get is from sneezing. 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.

MY BODY: We don’t need THIS thing!
MY APPENDIX: (as it gets flung out) I regret nothing!

The jogging I do is on a treadmill at the gym. Most of my weight-loss, however, is in the locker room, where it’s humid and moist and everyone sweats like a monkey. Honestly, is it not possible to ventilate these rooms? It’s like the Biosphere Project in there, like they’re growing mushrooms or something. You have to hack through the jungle growth with a machete to find your locker, and then chase the toucans out of it when you do.

The first thing I noticed when I walked in the locker room for the first time, aside from the tropical climate, was a door marked “DRESSING ROOM.” I thought, “Who are these girlie men who are too shy to change clothes out here in the open, like men do?” Then a man who was very old and very fat walked in and headed straight for the dressing room, and I thought: “Bless you, gym, for your foresight.”

I’ve been at this diet/jogging/sweating program for a few weeks now, and it’s paying off. I have a pair of Test Pants that I tried on the other day, and I was able to fasten them without calling the neighbor kids over for help. The next step is the Test Shirt, which currently accentuates the fat but which one day soon will, I hope, disguise it, as a good shirt ought. Then I can go back to eating again, provided we can agree on a place to go.

New York called and said, “Hey, this is New York. If we let you into our city for free, will you write a few columns about us? We could really use the publicity, as we fear many people out West have not heard of us.” I said, “Sure thing, New York. Glad to help.”

So I took my vacation days and headed for Manhattan. Polluted air, maddening traffic, embarrassing public officials — I wanted to get away from these things, so I left Provo and went to New York (or “The Big Apple,” as no one calls it).

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.

So I didn’t hire the gold man’s standing-while-gold services, but I did employ a few taxi drivers. Two of their actual names were Shah Rajjid and Butt Sohain. Butt was from India. He drove with the aggressiveness of someone named Butt. (Another name I learned, from the nametag of a McDonald’s employee in Times Square: Kizzy.)

Shah, Butt, and their colleagues kept me safe throughout our journeys, no doubt helped by the recorded celebrity voices that remind you to fasten your seat belt when you first get in the car. One of the voices is that of Michael Buffer, best known as the guy who says, “Let’s get ready to rumble!” before professional wrestling matches. His recording said, “Let’s get ready to rumble … for safety!” I don’t know that I’m willing to “rumble” just for the privilege of wearing a seat belt. Fortunately, I was able to fasten mine without incident.

Speaking of fighting, one of the many plays I saw was “A Skull in Connemara,” written by Irish playwright Martin McDonagh, whose plays always feature feuding siblings in rural Ireland and at least one act of unspeakable onstage violence. I knew I was in for a treat because the program had credits for both “fight choreography” and “flameproofing.” Any show that requires flameproofing is a good one, in my book.

Another thing that’s good in my book is old ladies who swear. I saw a Wednesday matinee of a Neil Simon play, and if you’re going to see a Wednesday matinee of a Neil Simon play, you’re going to be in an audience full of old Jewish ladies. Behind me were two in particular — they always travel in pairs — who commented on the temperature in the theater. One said, “I’m going to take off my jacket.” The other one said, “Yes, I am so [R-rated swear word] hot.”

And if “hot” is what you want, I suggest you check out the Chinese restaurant that has my favorite restaurant name of all time: China Fun. It’s actually not all that fun, but the food is definitely Chinese.

Speaking of food, if you want a cool place to have dessert, don’t trust my friend Peaches Jackson (names have been changed) to take you there. Peaches kept talking about this great place called Mozart Cafe, somewhere around 60th Street. Turns out it’s actually called Cafe Mozart, and it’s on 70th, which means we walked 10 blocks farther than we thought we would. And Mozart wasn’t even there.

But it reminds me of another restaurant experience I had, at a place called the Stardust Diner. The waiters and waitresses are singers, and they perform karaoke-enabled showtunes all evening. While having dinner one night, I heard a song from “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” which made me think of Utah, which made me start to miss everyone back here. I came home as soon as I could after that, though I did have to stop for a couple days to earn some more money. Thank goodness that gold paint is water-based.

When the Provo Angels begin their inaugural season June 16, fans will be in for a special treat: free beer for anyone wearing Speedos and a tank-top!

I’m lying, of course. Beer, free or otherwise, is not permitted at Larry H. Miller Stadium (formerly The Place Where the BYU Baseball Team Played), not even by the twilight’s last gleaming. What fans will get, however, is a fine rendition of the national anthem, sung by some of Utah Valley’s finest amateur singers.

That’s right, they’ll be regular people, folks just like you or me, except they can sing. Auditions were conducted Wednesday and Thursday to find area talent willing to warble that notoriously difficult song “a cappella” (literally, “with a cap on”) in front of the hundreds of baseball fans who will presumably fill the stands.

“We’re looking for showmanship,” said Michelle Kramer, one of two energetic young gals in charge of public relations for the new team, which as I understand it still consists of hypothetical players. “We need someone who’s not nasal, who’s clear, and who will get the crowd going.”

(For getting the crowd going, of course, nothing beats the national anthem, what with its 3/4 time and use of popular words such as “perilous” and “ramparts.” Well, free beer might, but we’ve already addressed that issue.)

There are 34 home games scheduled this summer, each of which needs a different singer. The auditioners Thursday night ranged from old to young and male to female, though mostly young and mostly female. Michelle and her partner, Amy Jo Fluharty, had them each sing the first verse of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” as it matters very little whether someone is adept at “Phantom of the Opera” tunes when it comes to opening a baseball game (and let us thank goodness for that).

A few singers obviously had operatic training, trilling their R’s and keeping strict tempo. Others sang like pop stars, some with the attitude that there’s no reason to sing only one note per syllable when you can sing nine, much like Destiny’s Child or Mariah Carey or any of those other people you kids today are so fond of, with your rock ‘n’ roll and your MTV. There were basso profundos and basso terribiles. All of them showed courage for even getting up in front of that stadium full of … well, full of no one, because there wasn’t a game. But when there IS a game! Oh, buddy, then it’ll be nerve-wracking.

It’s not easy to sing in public. When I was 8 or so, I had to sing a solo in church as part of a children’s program, those children’s programs being designed, like youth sports, to humiliate young people and instill shame in them at an early age. I expressed no desire to sing the song, mind you, and while I did my best, my performance caused several members of the congregation to convert to other faiths. When I protested to the woman in charge of the program during a rehearsal that even the other children were making fun of me, she insisted it was because I was so good. (I failed to see the logic then, and I fail to see it now.) I’m sure I’m a better person for the experience, though you wouldn’t know it to look at me.

So I could relate to how these brave souls felt. It was nerve-wracking just watching them, in fact. The national anthem is a song that, if sung badly, is sung REALLY badly. There’s no middle ground. You root, root, root for the singer; if she doesn’t nail that high note on “free,” it’s a shame. We heard MANY bombs bursting in air that night….

I was entertained by the unusual, uh, interpretations I heard of the song’s lyrics. Several people sang “perilous” as “pair-oh-luss.” A few more sang “for the land of the free” instead of “o’er the land of the free.” One singer clearly began the song not with the word “oh,” but with the word “whoa.” Fortunately, no one sang, “José, can you see?,” because that’s a really old joke. (Also old: “And the home of the Braves.”)

It’s up to Michelle and Amy Jo who gets to sing at a Provo Angels game, and perhaps even get touched by an angel. But one thing’s for sure: I was kidding about the Speedos and tank-top thing. Please, don’t wear them, not even by the dawn’s early light.

No doubt you’ve been thinking a lot about “The Golden Girls” lately. At least, I know I have been, and I’m not a guy with a lot of time on his hands.

The subject came up while I was with some friends on a road trip, which is a time when people will talk about pretty much anything, simply because they’re confined to a tight space with nothing else to do. (I’ve always wanted to go to prison for that reason: Lots of interesting conversations. Plus, I’d get a lot of reading done.)

Anyway, we were alarmed to find that we could all name all four characters on the 1985-92 NBC sitcom (Dorothy Zbornak, Sophia Petrillo, Blanche Devereaux and Rose Nylund). We also agreed that this show would never make it past the proposal stage today.

TV WRITER: We’d like to do a show about four old ladies who do nothing but eat cheesecake and talk about sex.
NETWORK EXECUTIVE: I like it. But let’s make it two young men and two young women, and instead of eating cheesecake, they have sex, and instead of talking about sex, they have sex.

There was also a heated debate among us over the gender of “Golden Girls” star Bea Arthur. Luscious Malone (names have been changed) insists Ms. Arthur is female, while I swear she is actually a man. I also claimed to have photographs of Ms. Arthur relieving herself from a standing position, though in fact I was bluffing on that point. Our other friend, Tanny Tantan, found common ground, saying Ms. Arthur is a woman, but has the parts of a man. Ms. Arthur, if you are reading this, please contact this newspaper to settle the matter once and for all, with a doctor’s note if possible.

But “The Golden Girls” has not been the only thing occupying my mind lately, though the restraining order from Rue McClanahan might suggest otherwise. No sir, I have also been deeply contemplating mediocre TV shows, such as “City Guys.” This is an NBC sitcom that airs on Saturday afternoons and is geared toward teen-agers, i.e., it’s really stupid. It takes place at an inner-city high school, although for as pleasant and affable as the teens in it are, it might as well be “Leave It to Beaver.”

Apparently, this show has been running since 1997, although I didn’t know it existed until I stumbled across it several Saturdays ago. In this episode, a new guy moved into school and immediately started getting involved with campus activities. This included helping plan the Big Dance with a girl, whose boyfriend got very jealous at all the time she was spending with the new guy. And so the girl, unaware of her beau’s seething envy, is innocently telling him what they’ve been planning for the Big Dance when this tense dialogue occurs:

GIRL: And we’ll have a raffle, and a photo booth, and a —
BOY: (interrupting) And a whatever!

(Except instead of “whatever,” he pronounces it “whatevah.”)

What I’ve been pondering since then is why someone thought this was a good exchange to include on the “City Guys” show. Some screenwriter, no doubt talented in some way (though perhaps not as a screenwriter), wrote that and then thought, “Yeah. That’s a keeper. That captures the gritty urban edginess of this show, while simultaneously establishing characterization and advancing the plot, not to mention getting a laugh with its sheer sassy boldness. Bravo for me. BRAVO FOR ME!” And then someone paid this schmuck and forced two actors to say the words in front of a TV camera.

Am I saying I could do any better if I were writing the show? Well, yes, actually, I am saying that. In fact, I bet YOU could do a better job, and I don’t even know you. But I could definitely do it. Standing up, in fact.

ANNOUNCER: Ladies and gentlemen, live from the Delta Center, it’s the Brigham Young 200th Birthday Extravaganza Spectacular of the Stars! With guest appearances by Heber C. Kimball, Eliza R. Snow, Porter Rockwell, Johnston’s Army, and more than 40 wives!

Now, here he is, the guest of honor himself, the Moses who supposes that deserts are roses, Brother Brigham!

BRIGHAM: Thank you. Thank you very much. No, please, sit down. That’s very kind of you, really.

Brothers and sisters, it’s a pleasure to be here with you to celebrate two centuries of living. Two hundred years! Can you believe that? Why, when I was born, Sen. Strom Thurmond was just a city councilman!

But I kid the fossilized artifact. Seriously, though, when I came into this world on June 1, 1801, the territory we now occupy had no running water, no electricity and no modern roads. Now I can take a bath and watch television, but it’s still a two-days journey from Provo to Salt Lake!

Things certainly have changed in our lovely Deseret. For one thing, “In Our Lovely Deseret” is now sung only for its kitsch value. When I governed this territory, “In Our Lovely Deseret” was a sober hymn of commitment and hygiene.

For another thing, 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!

Athletics have always been important here in the territory. From the earliest days, the saints would gather on Saturday afternoons to toss around an inflated pig’s bladder and shoot gentiles for sport. I remember one particular match held at Mountain Meadows. What a massacre that was! Sports aficionados and anti-Mormons discuss it to this very day.

Overall, I am pleased with the course Utah has taken. We now lead the world in the production of guilt, for example. However, I notice the fine chain of stores I built, Zions Cooperative Something Something, or ZCMI, is now in the hands of someone named Meier and Frank — gentiles, apparently, and by gentiles, I mean Jews. Brethren, what are we to make of this? Next thing you know, ZCMI will be open on Sundays and the merchandise sold there will be reasonably priced.

But I commend those who have managed the affairs of Utah these past hundred years. It’s not an easy state to govern, though it is pretty easy to draw. Nice try on the polygamy thing, but you’re not going to get rid of it. You know how you’re not supposed to get between a mama bear and her cubs? Try getting between a mama bear and her sister-mama bears and their papa bear.

Brigham Young University has done well for itself, too. You know, we were originally going to name it after Orson Pratt, but we changed our minds when we realized the initials would have been O-P-U. At any rate, I commend the faculty there for creating an environment conducive to marriage. Men are getting married immediately after returning from their five-year missions to England (that is still the routine, right?), and women are approaching the altar before their freshman years are even completed. Bravo! Wed early and often, that’s what I say.

So I’m grateful to be celebrating my 200th birthday here with you fine people. Salt Lake City has truly been made beautiful — a far cry from when we arrived here in 1847 and I said: “THIS is the place?!?” But enough of my rambling. Let us enjoy the festivities! Next, please welcome Emma Smith and the Emma Smith Comedy Dancers in a number entitled, “It’s Time to Reorganize.” Good night!

It is time once again to offer advice, counsel and mean-spirited insults in another edition of “Ask Eric Stuff.” All of these questions were submitted at [outdated link], and we should point out that the very existence of “Ask Eric Stuff” on the Internet automatically puts Eric light years ahead of Ann Landers, who still writes her column with a quill and ink and has her slaves fetch it down to the post office afterward.

Dear Eric: What will be the fate of the XFL? — Dave Hymas
Dear Dave: The same as the fate of most ill-conceived, poorly executed TV shows: It will run for 10 years and win 25 Emmys.

Dear Eric: What’s the difference between LDS and RLDS (Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints)? — None of the Above in Michigan
Dear None: About 10 percent of your income.

Dear Eric: If BYU is the “Lord’s University,” why bother with the whole accreditation thing? — Wondering in Washington
Dear Wonder Wash: Because employers don’t care whose university it is; they just want to make sure you actually learned something. Also, they want to make sure you’re an Eagle Scout, or else they won’t hire you.

Dear Eric: I just wasted 10 minutes of my life reading your article. That’s 10 minutes I’ll never get back. How do you plan to pay me back? — Want My 10 Minutes Back
Dear Timekeeper: You wasted 10 minutes reading it? How do you think I felt, wasting five minutes writing it?

Dear Eric: I will be moving to Utah in the near future and I was wondering if you could give me a couple suggestions on how to assimilate myself to the culture. — Fearing for My Life
Dear Fearing: For one thing, don’t use words that contain profanity. A word like “buttimilate” is much better for delicate ears than the one you used.

Dear Eric: I opened the paper, saw your picture and thought, “This guy looks like he’s about 14 years old.” Then I read your article and thought, “This guy writes like he’s about 14 years old.” Are you really 14 years old? — Loves High School Papers
Dear I Had to Fix Your Spelling Big-Time: Yes, I’m only 14. So tell your mother she shouldn’t call me anymore.

Dear Eric: Why are commercial jingles in Utah so unbearable? Do Chuck-a-Rama, Far West Bank and United Furniture Warehouse understand how annoying their jingles are? Can anything be done? — Longing for the Days of “Where’s the Beef?”
Dear Beefy: Yes, something can be done. We can kill that Totally Awesome Computers guy. I know his commercials don’t even have jingles, but you have to admit, it’s a pretty attractive idea.

Dear Eric: Remember that one movie [“Sleepless in Seattle”] where the guy is pathetic on the radio and an entire nation of women want him? Can your column do that for me? — Sleepless in Sandy
Dear Sandless in Sleepy: Make you pathetic? Yes, my column can do that. It’s worked for me, anyway.

Dear Eric: Why do you persecute Canadians? — Crabby in Cardston
Dear Crabs: I have nothing against you Canadians, as long as you stay in your part of the hemisphere. Oh, and keep your fake money out of our vending machines. Nothing worse than getting a Canadian quarter back when you were expecting real money. Also, I can’t help but recall that Canada is what gave us Jim Carrey and Tom Green (the MTV star, not the polygamist). If that’s not incentive enough to break off all trade alliances with you hockey-playing moose-breeders, I don’t know what is.

I’m trying to catch a cab. They whiz by me by the dozens, but none stop. It has nothing to do with my appearance, unless being non-ugly is a liability in New York City (which it might be). It’s because they already have passengers. Is it possible that a city that seems to have 2 million taxis actually doesn’t have enough?

It’s 10:30 p.m. — the time when shows are getting over and people are scattering throughout the city to do those “only in New York” things like eating at Sardi’s, strolling through Central Park, or shooting someone in the head. If I were a cab, there would be plenty of me to go around right now. In fact, even as a person, there’s plenty of me to go around right now. That’s what comes from eating out all the time and then only walking as far as the nearest taxi.

So I’m a little bothered, walking what will be 30 city blocks if I don’t find a cab first. I’m in a bit of a foul mood anyway, because the Off-Broadway show I just saw, “The Play About the Baby,” was an unpleasant experience. It’s one of those plays that doesn’t make any sense, and therefore you’re supposed to think it’s brilliant. Why? Because it’s written by Edward Albee, who you’ve been told is a great playwright, and based on his name recognition, he can get away with babbling madly for two hours and leaving it to everyone else to figure out what, if anything, the hell he’s talking about.

This is unfair. If I came to your house and started ranting like a madman, you wouldn’t say, “This is ridiculous and annoying, but hey, it’s Eric D. Snider, so if I’m not getting it, it must be my own fault.” No, you would call the police, and rightly so, as I’m sure to steal something if you let me in.

I have no problem with thought-provoking shows that are different from the norm. In fact, they are a welcome relief, coming as I do from a state where people consider themselves major supporters of the arts just because they watch “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” six times a year. But if “different from the norm” just means “senseless,” then it’s no better than sitting through “Forever Plaid” for the 800th time. Give me “the norm” over “naked people discussing relativism” any day.

So. How about that cab…? It’s a nice night, fortunately. The weather’s been nice the whole time I’ve been here, in fact — which, I hasten to point out in case the Fates are listening, does NOT mean I want to walk all the way back to the hotel. It rained a few days ago, just long enough for me to buy an umbrella on the street for $15, at which point it stopped raining. The umbrellas are sold by guys who normally sell watches. When the rain starts, the table of watches sinks into the sidewalk, and a new table with umbrellas rises up in its place, the way mad scientists’ secret inventions emerge from the floor when they pull a hidden lever. The umbrella I bought has Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” on it. Fifteen dollars might be a lot for an umbrella, but it’s a pretty good deal for a work of art like that.

Anyway, it seems odd that I’d be so eager to get a cab when riding in one is such a dangerous experience. Much has been said about cab drivers by far better writers than I — people like Dave Barry and Carrot Top — but I will say that I am very, very impressed with these drivers. Why don’t they get in more accidents? I know taxis do wreck now and then, but the way these guys drive, they should be ricocheting off each other like billiard balls. In fact, with traffic and crime the way they are in Manhattan, I’m surprised every New Yorker isn’t killed every single day. It’s amazing anyone continues to live.

Ah! Here is a taxi, and not a moment too soon. The driver’s name is heavy on consonants and light on vowels, so I know he’ll be a good one. I don’t really understand what he’s saying to me, but that’s probably my own fault. I’m sure it’s brilliant, whatever it is.

I had never taken a “red-eye” flight until a few weeks ago. Why would I intentionally do anything that would make my eyes red? Their natural yellow color is hard enough to deal with. But since JetBlue — by far the world’s cheapest airline, and I use the word “cheapest” in every possible sense — only flies to New York at midnight, I went for it.

In preparing for the trip, I realized flying at night was actually a good thing. I dislike flying — not because of the claustrophobic conditions or a fear of crashing or the comical manner in which you are urged to arrive one hour early even though the plane always sits on the tarmac with everyone on board until well past departure time anyway — wait, that clause got out of hand. Let me start over.

I dislike flying — not for the usual reasons, but because it’s so dull. There’s nothing to do on an airplane. You can read the official in-flight magazine, but that’s more boring than doing nothing because it’s written and edited by people who know their readers have nothing else to read. Or you can browse through the shopping catalogs full of items no sane person would ever spend money on, like electric toe-hair removal systems and fiberglass bath towels. In fact, on my list of Dullest Activities in the World, flying is No. 2, right before wedding receptions and right after listening to other people talk about their dreams. (It’s impossible to become interested in the plot of someone else’s dream, because they’re always so ambiguous. “And then I was in this house, except it was really an Arby’s, and my 10th-grade science teacher was there, except he was really a squid, and then I woke up, except I was really still dreaming.” OK, so I was listening to you, except I was really just nodding and smiling.)

So if I flew at night, I figured I could sleep on the plane, which would pass the time nicely. It would be like having a slumber party with 300 strangers, and if there’s anything more fun than sleeping with a lot of strangers, I haven’t heard of it.

You’re already shaking your head and saying I was a fool to think I could sleep on the plane, but the fact is, I can usually sleep pretty much anywhere. I’m sure if I were flying the plane, I’d have no problem dozing off; why should riding in it be any different?

But for some reason, I couldn’t sleep on this flight. Part of the blame goes to JetBlue, which instead of providing in-flight meals or more convenient flying times has individual TV sets for each seat, and a cable system that gets the Game Show Network. As a rugrat, and even into my ankle-biter years, I was hugely fond of game shows, particularly “Family Feud” — not the current incarnation with shrill fat man Louie Anderson, but the original, with the lecherous Richard Dawson. And lo, what should appear on the Game Show Network the moment the plane took off, but an old episode of “Family Feud.” It was a celebrity edition, with country singers playing against TV cowboys, and Jerry Glower was shouting “jewelry” as his answer, but his deep Southern accent made it come out “jewry,” which tickled me no end. (It was almost as good as the born-again Christian I heard shouting on the streets of New York about how you have to accept some person named “Cheesus.”)

Also hindering my sleep was — you guessed it — 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. And bless his little heart, everyone wanted to put him out on the wing for the duration of the flight.

After a very long time, we landed at JFK (I mean the airport, not the guy). An entire night had passed, and I hadn’t gotten much sleep, what with the cheesy game shows and the possessed babies. But as soon as I was in a cab, I was immediately lulled into a peaceful slumber by the soothing sounds of the driver shouting obscenities at other cab drivers. Survey says: delightful.

Excerpts from The Daily Harem, Utah’s polygamy newspaper, written by polygamists, for polygamists. (Circulation: 100 households/500,000 readers.)

• • •

FRONT PAGE:
Tom Green’s Wife Has Another Child; Green ‘Didn’t Even Know She Was Pregnant’

GREENHAVEN — Tom Green, on trial merely for practicing the religion God gave him, said Thursday he was “surprised” one of his five wives, LeeAnn, had given birth.

“Another one?!” he said, exasperated. “Crap O’Friday, I didn’t even know she was pregnant.” Green then asked for assistance in remembering “which one is LeeAnn.”

• • •

SPORTS:
Jensen Family Breaks Softball League into Jensen West and Jensen East Leagues

JENSENHAVEN — LeGreat Jensen announced Thursday his family’s softball league, populated entirely by his children and coached by his wives, would split into two leagues effective next season.

“When (first wife) Karynne and I first got married, we joked about having enough kids to start a softball team,” Jensen said. “Well, that didn’t take long. Between her and the sister-wives, we had a softball team inside of three years.” Since then, Jensen has had enough children to create 14 softball teams, with several kids still warming the bench. With the birth of MayTenth Jensen last week, the patriarch decided it was time to split the league.

Inter-league trading of players will not be permitted, but inter-league marriages will be.

• • •

FEATURES:
Dear Miss Manners: I am a 13-year-old girl, and I recently married my uncle, who is, I don’t know, like 50 or something. I did this of my own free will and choice because I love him deeply and desire my womb to bear the fruit of his loins so that we may populate the Earth with righteous seed. Also, he promised me some candy.

At the wedding ceremony, one of my bridesmaids, who is both my sister and my aunt, wore her hair up, with the use of hair-spray and other styling products. She also failed to wear the standard gingham dress, choosing instead to make a mockery of the occasion by wearing a provocative number such as one might see in the worldly magazines, which revealed several inches of her calves and other naughty parts. My mother, who is also my granddaughter, was appalled and thinks I should have said something. However, my brother, who is my step-niece, says I was right to remain silent. What do you think?

Dear Reader: Miss Manners is glad you did not ruin the occasion by causing a scene. Surely the ruckus your sister-aunt caused by going against standard polygamist dress and grooming standards was enough commotion for one sacred, holy event.

Quietly take your husband-uncle aside and ask him to take your sister-aunt behind the woodshed and thrash her to within an inch of her life. This should be done until she is blue, or blue-black.

• • •

ALSO IN TODAY’S PAPER:
– Local Professor Tries to Diagram Family Tree; Head Explodes (A2)
– Man Marries Fetus (A8)
– Survey: Residents Consider Same-Sex Marriage a ‘Weird Abomination’ (B2)
– New Polygamy Musical ‘Manifesto, Shmanifesto’ Opens at Halehaven Center Theater (C5)
– Man Marries Self (A4)
– Local Teen Ejected from All-You-Can-Eat Restaurant for Having Plurality of Muffins (A10)
– Man Reduced to Microscopic Size, Injected into Bloodstream, Marries Flu Virus
– Birth announcements (B16-50)

We all have different ways of dealing with anger. If you’re aggressive, you might lash out physically. If you’re passive, you might mutter profanities. If you’re the Vandals, you might sack Rome in A.D. 455. None of these behaviors will do you any good, though the Vandal thing could net you a cool toga.

I think one of the best ways to tell what a person is really like is to see them when they’re angry. For example, when I get angry over having to pay a bill I think is unfair — like a traffic ticket or a fine for public indecency — I retaliate by writing on the memo line of the check, “You thieving jackals,” or words to that effect. What does this tell you about me? That I’m a big nerd.

Another example is my research assistant/consultant Josh, whose mother once got angry and threw a pork chop at him. From this we learn that if you’re going to upset your mother, make sure you live in a kosher household.

But the best example with which I am recently familiar has to do with another friend of mine who asked not to be identified. We’ll call her Luscious Malone. Years ago, when Luscious Malone was still a teen-ager, she got into an argument with her parents. Knowing she would say something she regretted if the conversation continued, she sought to remove herself from the situation. Her father, however, insisted she remain, and so now the argument was over whether or not they should continue arguing.

After much passionate discourse, Luscious Malone’s father was at his wit’s end. According to Luscious, her dad would never strike her in anger, but he evidently felt he had to do something. So finally, he turned around, dropped his pants, and mooned her.

Luscious points out that this was no mere lowering of the trousers; the pants dropped all the way to the floor. Which means not only did Mr. Malone moon his daughter in anger, but he did it incorrectly, too.

It’s hard to know what, exactly, Mr. Malone thought would be the outcome of his actions. Did he think Luscious would feel chastised and stop arguing? Did he figure this would mean he’d start getting a lot more respect around the house? Was he on medication of some kind?

Whatever he expected to happen, what actually happened was that Luscious and her mother both burst out laughing. So now he had his pants down in an over-zealous moon, AND he was being laughed at. The only way it could have been more embarrassing for him would have been if his pants had then caught fire.

The lesson we learn from this is that we shouldn’t let our passions get the best of us. We rarely act intelligently when we act in anger. Not everyone will follow this advice, though, so next time you ask someone to pass the pork chops, you’d better duck.