Mars, 2001, with the southern polar ice cap visible on the bottom. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The world can be a depressing place. There are all sorts of terrible things happening at any one time. Just today, someone at work drank the last of the coffee and DIDN’T MAKE ANY MORE! I MEAN, WHAT ARE WE, BARBARIANS?! JUST MAKE THE COFFEE! IT TAKES ALL OF 30 SECONDS! AND WHILE WE’RE AT IT, MAYBE DUMP YOUR USED FILTERS IN THE TRASH! NO ONE WANTS YOUR LEFTOVER COFFEE TRASH SITTING IN THE MACHINE FOR HOURS AT A TIME! YOU DISGUST ME!

I seem to have gotten off on a tangent. The point is one could easily become upset with the way the world is going. We have global warming melting the polar ice caps and people denying that the polar ice caps are melting because of global warming, ignoring, of course, the fact that either way we are all bound to die in giant polar ice cap fueled floods. Countries are threatening to shoot nuclear missiles at each other on a semi-regular basis.  I like to call that nuclear warhead season. Everyone is either getting fatter and fatter until their hearts give out or starving to death. People are paranoid of dying of cancer, yet they still continually place an electronic device that sends signals into outer space as close to their brains as possible.

Sometimes, it seems like it’s time to cut our losses and head to the next planet that we can slowly destroy through greed and stupidity. Apparently, I’m not the only one that thinks this.

On April 22, a nonprofit organization named Mars One opened up an application process for people to become the first colonists on Mars. The plan is simple: in 2023, it will cost roughly $6 billion to put four people on Mars. This company plans to get this money by creating reality TV shows showcasing astronauts trying to figure out how to survive on an alien planet.

After just two weeks, over 78,000 people have applied.

“With 78,000 applications in two weeks, this is turning out to be the most desired job in history,” said Mars One CEO and cofounder Bas Lansdorp. Bas has done a great job bringing credibility to this project, in part because his name sounds as if he himself is from the red planet.

The group is right on their way to reaching 500,000 by the August 31^st deadline. That doesn’t mean, though, that they couldn’t use some help. With that in mind, I have officially named myself the first ever head of tourism for Mars. I’ve already written the first brochure:

Tired of the headaches and worries that come with life on the planet Earth? That rush hour traffic and smog got you feeling down? Where should a person go to find relief from these daily pains? Look no further than the Red Planet ©!

Located amongst the iron oxide of the planet’s surface, you will find everything you need! Wide open spaces allow for a long walk with a loved one. Then watch Phobos and Deimos rise into the night sky. That’s right, the Red Planet © has TWO MOONS!

There’s no reason to feel self-conscious about your body during bikini season here on the Red Planet ©! That’s because everyone weighs 38% of what they would on Earth! Sounds like one heck of a diet to me!

Nothing catches the beauty of a planet like a beautiful dust storm kicking up that iron oxide. Imagine a cloud of beauty wafting at you! That’s a can’t miss! (Note from scientists, these storms can be very dangerous and, like, kill you and stuff. Sounds like something the kids should probably stay home for!)

Plus we have ALIENS! No, not really. Or maybe we do! You’ll never know until you come!

So fly over to the Red Planet ©! We’ll be waiting for you!

We meaning humans, not aliens. Or maybe aliens. Just visit.

Related Articles

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• 78,000 Apply for Private Mars Colony Project In 2 Weeks (space.com)
• Mars One says 80,000 have applied for one-way mission to red planet (endtimebibleprophecy.wordpress.com)
• Volunteers wanted for one-way ticket to Mars (aljazeera.com)

While many of these foods were created out of necessity (sort of), others were strictly because we as a people are disgusting. Jack in the Box created a bacon milkshake. Denny’s said “Who cares about cholesterol?! Let’s put fried mozzarella sticks in the middle of a grilled cheese sandwich!” Someone out there, in their infinite wisdom, decided the only thing that would improve upon the flavor of goldfish crackers was to flavor them like pizza. Apparently all of the pizza they eat is stale and tastes like it has been stored in a sock.

The king of disgusting food creations, though, has to be the insanely popular Doritos Locos Taco from Taco Bell.

In my time on earth, I have never heard anyone say “Eating that Taco Bell taco was a great idea!” The sounds people make after eating them tend to be more along the lines of “Uhhhhhhhghhgh…” Still, though, people had spent years clamoring for a taco with a shell that was sprinkled with delicious nacho cheese flavored chemicals.

Last year, Taco Bell made it happen. They sent their taco scientists to Doritos headquarters and the next thing we know, the world is talking about the taco with a shell that tastes like a chip. It was the stoner’s dream come true. It was the dietician’s nightmare come true. For most everyone else, it was something else to chew and swallow. The taco was such a success that, according to some experts, it alone allowed Taco Bell to add 15,000 employees last year.

Based on the victory of their previous experiment, Taco Bell took it one step further this year, putting out the Cool Ranch Doritos Locos Tacos. It too was a success. At least I am assuming so based on the number of television commercials I have seen.

I have no problem with this. Sure, it’s not my idea of a good food to eat, but I am the person who enjoys Wasabi Peas, a snack that frequently makes me cringe as I feel the heat of the wasabi melting my sinuses. What do I know?

The problem comes from what I found in a store just the other day.

I was walking to the cash register when something caught my eye. There amongst the other chips sat two bags that were completely alien to me. Amongst the Fiery Habanero and Sweet Chili and Black Pepper Jack sat two new flavors of Doritos.

Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Tacos Doritos and Cool Ranch Doritos Locos Tacos Doritos. They had packaged chips together so that it will be like you are eating tacos that are made with chip flavored shells.

This is amazingly unnecessary. That’s like ordering an ICEE that is cherry ICEE flavored. Not only are these chips flavored like chip flavored tacos, this is a company that already has a taco flavored chip and has for years! People could have just been eating those with Nacho Cheese and Cool Ranch Doritos all of these years instead of waiting for them to be packaged together.

I am worried that this could set in motion a strange snacking cycle. What if Taco Bell wants to create a Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Tacos Doritos Taco? Then, naturally, Doritos would want to make the Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Tacos Doritos Taco Doritos. Before long, people would be eating the Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Tacos Doritos Tacos Doritos Tacos Doritos Tacos Doritos Tacos Doritos Taco. It would take longer to order it than it would to eat it. No one has the time for that.

If I were in charge of a different company, we’ll say Pringles, I would make a Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Taco flavored Pringle. Then maybe you could have Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Taco Pringle taco. Or maybe someone could create a Cool Ranch Doritos Locos Taco flavored Gatorade. Really, the possibilities are endless. These flavors can be used together on any product and people will want to buy it!

I guess it goes to show that anything is possible in America. In 1946, Glen Bell opened his first fast food restaurant. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that his restaurant would be so successful that they would be flavoring their foods like other foods, then selling that food flavor back to the original flavor creators.

It just makes so darn proud to be an American.

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• Deep Inside Taco Bell’s Doritos Locos Taco (fastcompany.com)
• His. Doritos Locos Tacos (webothlovesoup.wordpress.com)

This is what I felt like (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Tuesday started off very poorly.

I awoke to the sound of my alarm clock. After hitting snooze until the very last second I could, I crawled out of bed. I stood up straight and immediately realized two things. I was still tired. Not regular tired, but somehow after a full night’s sleep, I was more tired than before I went to bed. This is not good as the entire point of going to bed was to not be tired when I awoke.

I walked to the bathroom. As if the lack of awakeness (not a word, but should be) was not bad enough, with each step I was forced to wince. My back felt like I had received back walking massage from André the Giant. Somehow, I had gone to bed and woken up very tired and in pain.

I went to work and did my job to the best of my abilities. I thought about curling up under my desk and taking a nap for a bit, but there are a lot of cables down there and with my luck one of them would somehow electrocute me. Electrocution is the last thing I needed.

I got home and collapsed on the couch. I was exhausted. I turned on a show on Hulu and could feel my body giving in to the fatigue. This could be a problem, I thought. I began to weigh the pros and cons. On the one hand, falling asleep would make me feel much less tired. That is a plus. On the other hand, sleeping on a couch does not help a person with a sore back. I briefly thought about moving to the bed.

Then I woke up.

I have no idea how long I was asleep. Hulu had played through at least two episodes of “Happy Endings” and I was awakened by the ending of an episode of “The Middle.” How many shows played in between I do not know. As one would expect, though, I was less tired. I did, however, have the worst pain in my neck and back.

I tried to figure out ways to make my back and neck feel better. I could do a lot of stretching, but that would eventually just make me tired again. Then I would end up right back on the couch and the whole cycle would continue.

Maybe I could go get a massage. They would work out every kink in my back and neck. Of course, they would also play new age pan flute music in the background, music that is very conducive to sleeping. While I do not know this for a fact, I assume that if you fall asleep, the masseuse will stop massaging you. Then you will wake up on a hard table, your head in a weird hole, wondering why your back hurts so much.

There seemed to be no good answer. I could take a bath, but it would be so relaxing I would fall asleep and possibly drown. Breathing exercises might relax my back, but I would be so focused on breathing correctly that I would likely become mentally exhausted. I could just have my back surgically removed, but I would still be tired and, according to most medical journals, very dead.

In the end, I decided to try to end it the way it all began: I went to bed. Theoretically, this is the only place where one should get rest and wake up with all of their muscles feeling 100%.

Or I would just wake up more tired and sore. Apparently my bed has that effect.

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Gordon Ramsay (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m afraid of very few things in my life. Snakes don’t worry me. I am not too concerned about flying. I frequently sleep without a night light because there’s nothing the dark can do to me. Plus my apartment complex strategically placed a street light where it will always shine right through my shades and into my eyes no matter what I do.

The main thing I am afraid of, it seems, is angry British men.

Lately, I have found myself in front of the TV every Tuesday at seven o’clock (central time) watching the nightmare that is “Hell’s Kitchen.” For those who are unfamiliar with this show, the concept is simple. Amateur chefs are taken and put in a kitchen. That kitchen is run by Gordon Ramsay. For the next hour, Gordon Ramsay proceeds to scream profanities at every person there because they seem to always undercook chicken. Apparently Gordon Ramsay does not care for salmonella and he expresses that in colorful way that would make a sailor blush.

For me, this is like watching a horror movie. I find myself shuddering and ducking for cover the minute I see a person start to overcook lamb or burn risotto. I will sit there, screaming “NO! Don’t cook the tenderloin for another minute! OH NO! HERE HE COMES!” Then the dramatic music begins to play as Gordon Ramsay walks up to the dish and the FOX network sensors finally get their money out of that censor bleep noise machine they bought years ago.

This does not normally affect my everyday life. Believe it or not, I don’t run into a lot of situations where I am worried that Gordon Ramsay is going to jump out of a nearby closet and come after me. Unless he suddenly starts caring about whether or not I drink too much coffee at work, I am fairly safe.

Or so I thought until tonight.

The last few weeks, my wife has been very busy with work and graduate classes. She has not had a break at all. Tonight, she finally had a chance to sit down and relax. Being the perfect husband that I am (Yes I am. Don’t you argue with me!), I called her this afternoon to offer to cook dinner.

“You need the evening off,” I said, using my best sympathetic husband voice. It is a very good sympathetic husband voice. If there were awards for such a thing, I would surely be taking home a Hubby © award.

“Well, I can cook dinner, though,” she said.

“Are you…”

“Oh, if you’re offering,” she interrupted, answer quickly so as to not allow me an opportunity to back out of my previous commitment. She is very smart.

I thought through what we had in our freezer. There was a pound of ground turkey. I carefully devised a plan for a dish I called a Southwest Turkey Burger. I would make a spicy mayo, put some fresh tomato and avocado on there, melt a little cheese. It would be a surefire winner. I was already counting my husband reward points. (Fun Fact: husband reward points are not really good for anything. In fact every husband is only working to earn points to make up for the fact that someday their counterpart will have to push a human being out of them. You can never earn enough points to make up for that.)

I walked in the door and immediately set to work. I pulled the turkey out of the freezer and began defrosting while I got everything set up. This would be the greatest meal ever.

Halfway through creating patties, though, I noticed something was off. The turkey didn’t look right. It smelled different too. I finished pattying and looked at the wrapper.

I had created quarter pound patties of turkey sausage.

Instinctively, I began to look around. I knew that, somewhere, Gordon Ramsay was preparing to come down on me hard. “WHY DON’T YOU @#$@#$ LOOK AT THE @#$@$%^$ LABEL BEFORE YOU @#$@# DEFROST MEAT YOU @#$&@#*%@#@#&*&@*@#!” he would say as I began to weep.

Having watched “Hell’s Kitchen,” I know that one thing you never do is waste food. I couldn’t refreeze this, nor could I make my southwest turkey burgers. My mind racing, I began an entirely new dish: southwest breakfast sandwiches. It was the exact same thing, but with sausage and egg instead of turkey burger. Yes, this was dinner, but who doesn’t love breakfast for dinner?

I continued and began to cook the sausage. I went to get out my toppings. We had no avocado. No matter, I said. Then I saw our tomato. It looked like what I suspect the organs of a rotting corpse would look like. Having never wanted to eat the organs of a rotting corpse, I said goodbye to that.

I had lost nearly all of the ingredients to my original meal idea. “@#%#$%$&#@@%$&^&*%^!” I heard Gordon saying to me. FYI, in my head it is just one very long beep.

Then I heard the door open. My wife was home and I was barely halfway done with the meal. I began to hurriedly cook eggs and attempt to figure out a meal. She would be hungry. I could see my Hubby © award slipping away.

I had no idea what to do. Sometimes, though, your greatest motivation can come from your biggest fear. Like the ancient Native Americans, I began to hear a message from my spirit animal. It turns out my spirit animal is a wolf that has the voice of Gordon Ramsay.

“GET YOUR @#$@#$@#$@# HEAD @#$@#$#@#$@# AND @#$@#$$#^$^%^&^%*@# COOK SOME %^%&^&@#*^&&* FOOD! YOU DON’T ^&*%^&@#$^&*%^$%^#$%@%$%& HAVE TIME FOR ANY $%^&&*@#^&%*^%&!” Then, Gordon’s voice came down. “Listen, I know you can %^&%$%#$ do it. You just have to %^^&^@#%^&#%$ believe!”

“You’re right, Gordon! I can do it!” I said to my imagination.

“What?!” My wife said from the living room.

“Nothing! Just talking to imaginary Gordon Ramsay!” I said. She did not respond because I have said far stranger things in our time together.

My hands began to fly. I cooked the eggs perfect. I found crescent roll dough in the fridge and created a sausage dish that would go down in history as the greatest sausage breakfast sandwich ever. A few sautéed mushrooms later and my masterpiece was complete. We grabbed our plates and set down to eat. I was very proud as I took my first bite.

“What do you think?” I asked my wife, a smile on my face. There were a lot of words I expected to hear. Great, brilliant, wonderful, perfect all seemed fitting. I wouldn’t have even been surprised by complete silence as she found herself unable to speak, brought to tears by the sandwich I had crafted for her.

“I need something to put on it. It’s a little dry,” she said.

“YOU @#$@#^$%^@#$$#^$%&%^&%^! WHERE ARE THE @#@$^#$%^&$#$%@#$%$%^#$%^#% CONDIMENTS?!” imaginary Gordon Ramsay cried in my head.

I may need to stop watching “Hell’s Kitchen”…

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There are many things this has held me back from doing. Most of them I do not miss. I am not pining for a chance to get onstage and deliver a lengthy monologue like I did in acting class in college (terrifying experience). I definitely do not want to do choreography like I was forced to do in grade school plays (horrifying experience). I don’t even want to dance at all.

At least I didn’t until today.

I had hit the normal post-work rush on Harding Place. At a certain time of day, that road tends to become more of a car idling area than a thoroughfare. All I could see in front of me were cars lined up at what I knew was a red light a mile up the road. I sat there, listening to my Radiolab podcast and minding my own business as one is supposed to do in traffic. Out of curiosity, though, I glanced in my rearview.

Behind me sat a rusty, tan Pontiac. I could faintly hear music coming from inside. Nothing seemed unusual and I turned my gaze back to the bumper of the minivan in front of me. Then it struck me.

I glanced back and saw the driver.

I do not know what music he was enjoying. It might have been the latest single by Lil Wayne* or any number of tunes from the top 40 charts. All I know, though, is the man was convulsing as if he was having a seizure behind the wheel. I watched to make sure an ambulance did not need to be called, but soon he was belting out the tune, continuing to agitate.

He seemed fully unaware that the windows of a car are made of something transparent called glass. He was engrossed in a song, not giving a care about the world around him. I found myself slightly jealous of this freedom.

I was reminded of a time a couple of years ago. I had just finished work at a restaurant I was employed at and was headed home. The streets were dark, so I turned on my music. I felt safe and secure and began bobbing my head along to the beat as I stopped at a red light. The song had just reached a good part when I looked to my left.

There sat a car full of youths staring at me as if I had somehow brought the entire human race back to a time when dance was viewed as an act of evil. I slowly stopped bobbing and sat still, ashamed that I had been caught enjoying a tune.

This was a far cry from the gentleman behind me. I fully expected him to open his door and begin to dance up and down the street. His fists were pumping and you could see him screaming the words. The only time I would feel comfortable doing that would be going 70 down a highway. Sure, it would be dangerous and I would surely kill myself, but the longest anyone would see me looking ridiculous would be half of a second as they passed by.

Maybe someday I will work my way up to that confidence. I will be a world famous car dancer known for krumping, popping and/or locking at every traffic stop. People will say “Hey, there’s that idiot that dances in his car all the time.” I’ll hear them, but I won’t care because I’m in the groove, man. I’m in the groove.

Or I’ll continue to listen to educational podcasts while driving. This is the safer bet. There is very little pressure to dance while someone explains soundwaves to you.

*At what age does a rapper get to stop calling himself Lil? I mean, Lil Wayne is now 30. He is only 5’6” (thank you internet for that fact), so I guess TECHNICALLY he is still very lil. He isn’t that lil, though. Danny Devito doesn’t go around calling himself Lil Danny D and he is much liller. At some point, he should just be Wayne. Have some dignity, man. You’re an adult.

Also, the word is “Little.” You are missing half of the letters in the word. Just FYI.

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(Photo credit: dianecordell)

Easter is a magical time. There are very few holidays that involve mammals laying candy filled eggs and even fewer where biting the heads off of chocolate rabbits are considered acceptable.

Throughout the Easter season, stores are inundated with adorable candy. Marshmallow peeps and egg shaped everything are there at every turn. Tiny chocolate eggs and large candy rabbits sit, tempting you as you go throughout your normal grocery shopping. Even the line for the cash register is Eastered out, fully stocked with Cadbury eggs.

Once that Easter Rabbit has come and inexplicably attempted to reproduce by laying candy eggs (Someone should explain reproduction to the Easter Bunny), stores find themselves in a sticky situation. They have bought tons of Easter Candy. Over $2 billion was spent on candy, yet they still have more left over. Panicking, these store owners have no choice but to cut their losses, slashing prices to a deep discount. That is when the real holiday begins.

Today is Reese’s Egg day.

For those who have never had a Reese’s Egg, the simplest way to describe them is this: take everything you like about candy, then forget about it because the Reese’s Egg is better than that. The Reese’s Egg is pure heavenly peanut butter goodness wrapped in a thin chocolate layer. To give you an idea how it compares to other candies, I have run the numbers in what I call “The Candy Deliciousness Index.”

As you can see, no other candy on the chart compares.

Right now, someone out there is saying, “Yeah, but their just egg shaped Reese’s Cups.” You, my friend, are the world’s dumbest person for saying that. It’s a miracle that you have not been banished from society. Clearly survival of the fittest is not true because if it were, your lack of candy intellect would have gotten you bumped off years ago.

The Reese’s egg is far superior to the Reese’s cup for a very specific reason. The peanut butter to chocolate ratio is perfect. There is not too much of either one. It is the perfect candy creation, the very delicacy that God would have created had he been interested in sweet treats and not creating the universe.

“But wouldn’t it be better if there was some caramel in it?”

NO! Nothing would make it better! Everyone in the candy game is trying their darndest to catch Reese’s eggs, but it will never ever happen!

Of course Reese’s can’t even leave it alone. This Easter, there came ice cream eggs and white chocolate eggs. It’s like they took the Mona Lisa, then drew a funny moustache on it and used it as toilet paper. JUST LEAVE MY EGGS ALONE!

Sadly, the end of Easter means the end of the egg until next year. That’s why I stock up. I have heard people say to diversify their portfolio, so I choose to diversify it into Peanut Butter Eggs. I by low, at the end of Easter season. Then, when the world’s economies all come crashing down around us, suddenly the Reese’s Egg will be worth an unbelievable amount and I will sell high. I will be the richest man in the world. It’s a fool-proof plan as long as I don’t eat my invest first.

I’ll probably need to find a different way to make my millions.

Birthday Cake (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Barring some unforeseen terrible happenstance, tomorrow will be my birthday. This will be my 26^th one of these. I’ve been around the block, I know how this goes. To save myself time tomorrow, I would like to respond to all of the birthday wishes now.

To all of those who are going to ask “So… how does it feel to be 26?”, the answer is the exact same as it does to be 25. Believe it or not, not a lot changed instantly the day my birthday hit. Really, the only birthday you can say feels way different is the actual day you were born. Suddenly you are in a world void of amniotic fluid. If newborn babies could talk, they would probably say, “What was all that pushing about? Can I go back in now?”

To anyone who says “Happy birthday,” thanks for the thought I guess. It’s nice to know that you want me to have one day out of the year that is happy. That’s almost 0.3% of my year being filled with joy. I guess it would be weird, though, if people just walked up to me the other 364 and said “Happy day.” There is no doubt in my mind that I would feel very uncomfortable.

To everyone who thinks they are going to sing me a song, please don’t. Unless that song is a brand new birthday composition set to the tune of “Mr. Tambourine Man,” I have heard it. In fact, I have had this song directed at me at least 25 times already and, seeing as how three of the four lines of the song are THE EXACT SAME THING, I think I’ve gotten the message.

If someone really wanted to throw me, they would change a line in the song to something unrelated: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, My socks are a cotton polyester blend, happy birthday to you.” I would spend the rest of my birthday thinking about your socks and wondering how well they hold up.

To the people who will tack on “And many mooooooooooore…” to the end of that Happy Birthday song, just know I hate you. For every second you hold out “moooooooooore,” my hate grows exponentially. Once again, though, you could just change it and I would have no complaints: “Good job not dyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!”

To anyone who has bought me a present, it is exactly what I wanted. It is perfect. It fits perfect. You did a great job. Also, that card you picked out was very funny and/or touching. I laughed/cried. To those whose present was a gift card, good call. There’s nothing that says “Happy Birthday” like a $10 credit to Old Navy.

To anyone who will write on my Facebook wall, just know I probably will not see it for at least a week as I tend to forget Facebook exists. This is not a personal slight against you. I just have better things to do online. By that, I mean reading the Wikipedia page about whatever happens to be on TV

Inevitably, someone will say something about aging. “You’re getting old,” they’ll say. Of course, this is true. I am. In fact, so is everyone. We are all simultaneously getting old. That’s how time works. Imagine how weird it would be if someone wasn’t getting old. To these people, I say, “No, I’m not. I’m immortal! Long after you are gone and buried, I will still be here!” There is no good response to that, so that will squash that conversation almost immediately.

Last but not least, I know that everyone I come across will ask me if I’m doing something “exciting” for my birthday. This depends on your definition of exciting. If you are thinking of exciting like Die Hard, then probably not, though I will never rule it out. You never know when you’re going to be forced into a gun fight with East German terrorists.

Nothing ruins a birthday quicker than East German terrorists.

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Sewing tools (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Goal for 2013 number 5: Learn to sew

Ever since I can remember, I have been cheap. I don’t mean cheap as in, “Boy, that Nathan sure is thrifty. He doesn’t waste his money at all!” I mean cheap as in experiencing buyer’s remorse if I spend more than $25 on anything at all.

As one would imagine, this makes shopping for many things very difficult for me. I hate going to grocery store and watching the total creep higher and higher as they ring up my items. When I buy gas, I usually do it $25 or $30 at a time so as to not experience maddening anxiety, forcing me to drive my car off of an overpass while screaming, “If I survive, I’ll save so much money without this!”

Mostly, though, this causes great difficulties when shopping for clothing.

I will wear clothes forever. I still have a shirt that I wear from junior high. There is no sentimental reason. I see no reason to replace this shirt despite numerous stains and several holes, particularly in the armpit area.

As happens to most people, I eventually wear out my clothes. Buttons fall off, seams rip. After enough items of clothing have been destroyed, I find myself scouring the clearance section of any clothing store, debating over which $5 sweater I want to get because getting two seems to be a blatant misuse of funds.

If only there was some way to keep from having to spend money on these things, I had often thought. Then a lightbulb clicked on. Not a real lightbulb, mind you, because if it had clicked on, I probably would have flicked it off while complaining about the cost of electricity. No, a metaphoric lightbulb like in cartoons.

I could just fix the clothes I have. I could put off replacing shirts if I could just figure out a way to mend those holes.

For many years, I fixed these holes like a man: duct tape. If my shirt started to come apart at the seams, I would duct tape it. I am fairly ashamed of this, but no one would know anything was up with my clothing unless, for some inexplicable reason, I decided to wear it inside out.

Sick of this duct tape treatment, my wife took to mending my clothing. This was not fair to her, though. They weren’t her clothes. She shouldn’t have to spend hours fixing my possessions just to keep me from looking like a refugee that had been stuck on a desert island for years with a single shirt and pair of pants. That is why this last weekend, my wife mustered up all of her patience to show me how a needle and thread work.

Sewing is not considered the most masculine of activities. It ranks just above taking a bubble bath with scented candles and just below watching Katherine Heigl movies. Being the genius that I am, I began the lesson with the NCAA tournament on. College basketball would surely counteract any girliness associated with this project. If that didn’t work, I was fully prepared to belch the alphabet.

On the surface, sewing seems like the easiest thing every. You have a sharp object and a string attached to it. If you stick that sharp thing in and out of clothing, eventually the string magically causes the item you are sewing to be complete. They have been doing this for thousands of years, so it can’t be that difficult.

This is what we call “flawed thinking.”

My first project was to sew a button on a pair of pants. I have only had this pair of pants for three years, so I know I can get another 10-12 years out of them if that pesky button will stay on. My wife demonstrated button sewing, poking the needle through the hole, then through a different hole, then back up through a third hole, etc.

“I’ve got it,” I said, frustrated with the demonstration. I am no idiot. I am way smarter than a button, so this would be the easiest thing I had ever done.

She handed the pants over to me. I picked up the needle and watched the thread come out of it. After 10-15 minutes, I finally rethreaded the needle and went to work.

What was left out of the demonstration was one simple fact: the holes on a button are very small. When you are trying to jab a sharp object through them, things can get a bit hairy. Also, needles are very sharp and can hurt your finger when you miss the hole of a button.

After 17 jabs (This is not an exaggeration or a guess. I actually counted.), I finally forced the needle through the button. I felt jubilation. I had done it!

“Okay,” she said. “Now you put it through that hole.”

This time, I managed to get it through after five minutes and only poking myself once. I spent the next twenty minutes trying to get the needle through tiny holes, all the while wondering why pants aren’t made with Velcro. That would be so much easier and Velcro would never fall off. Maybe there is a business idea there…

Finally, I was done. She picked up a shirt that had begun to fall apart at the seams.

“Okay, the buttons are the easy part. Now we’ll do this.”

I was flabbergasted. There was no way the buttons were the easy part. The tiny holes in my fingers disagreed. She demonstrated a basic stitch and my turn came.

After rethreading the needle three times, I began to work. That’s when I felt it. It was like the spirit of Martha Stewart took over. I suddenly became a sewing machine. One stitch out, one stitch in, one stitch out, one stitch in. My hands moved on their own, faster and faster. I had become a seamstress…or seamster… whatever a guy would be. I was the king of sewing and nothing would slow me down.

Then the thread fell out of the needle. Again.

Maybe there is something to be said for buying clothing. Not being cheap is easier than fixing the clothing that you currently have. I think the people who live in a nudist colony may have it right. They don’t have to shop for clothing or fix the clothes they have. They live a simpler, much barer, significantly more disgusting, life.

It doesn’t really matter. I would be far too frugal to pay to live in a nudist colony. That kind of place cannot be cheap.

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Tax season can be a very trying time for anyone. Throughout an entire year of hard work, people often look at their checks to find that a sizeable chunk has been given to the government. Then, after all of the grueling days and long weeks filled with labor, the government has the gall to try to tell you that you need to figure out if you owe them MORE money.

To make it more difficult, the US government decided that it would be fun to make the tax code indecipherable to the common person. It’s enough to make someone lose their mind.

Fortunately for everyone, I am here to make sure each and every one of you gets every penny you can from the government. Why should they be able to just take money from us in exchange for government services like local police, fire protection, military protection and education? Last time I checked, I wasn’t consistently being robbed, having my personal possessions burnt, getting into wars or learning.

Throughout the tax code, there are many loopholes that a person can take advantage of. If you look deep enough, you can find all of them.

I would assume that you, like myself, are tired of hearing about those farmers raking in the big bucks all the time. There they are, living off of the fat of the land because they can keep a few animals alive or grow something. I mean, those are things nature does on its own every single day. Big deal, farmers.

There are a great number of tax credits for farmers to take advantage of. For instance, farmers get to deduct $0.44 per mile that was driven while working. They can also deduct all of that money spent on “Poultry (including egg-laying hens and baby chicks) bought for use (or for both use and resale) in your farm business.”

Seeing this loophole, I created a mobile chicken farm I like to call “Rovin’ Ovums.” Yes, I know it would work better if the word “ovun” was a thing, but it isn’t so get over it. I drive my chicken farm throughout the land, racking up that mileage and writing off each chicken I get. If you are worried that this wouldn’t get you enough money, you can also park your mobile chicken farm near a volcano. Any damages caused by a volcanic eruption can be written off, though I would recommend removing the chickens before allowing molten lava to engulf your vehicle.

Another commonly overlooked deduction can come in the form of that small person that you and your significant other created years ago. Children are a tax goldmine!

Sure, everyone knows about the normal credits that come with kids, but by thinking out of the box, you can write off even more. For example, a person is allowed to write off a portion of janitorial costs related to their business. Kids need to earn allowance. That would make them employees of your small business which is ANOTHER possible tax write-off. That’s two for the price of one!

Of course, nothing is better than not paying any taxes. That would be a dream come true. There are quite a few tricks people never try that can get them out of taxes altogether.

Did you know that the IRS is a group of fun-loving individuals? Very few people do and that is why no one ever takes advantage of this. If you ask, those jokesters at the IRS have been known to allow a person to skip paying altogether in exchange for knock-knock jokes. They love knock-knock jokes. They also like a good comedic limerick. Remember to keep them clean, though. The IRS hates dirty jokes.

You can also write them a letter explaining why you don’t want to pay taxes. I have gone ahead and drafted you a template here:

Dear Sir and/or madam IRS worker,

Well, it looks like tax season is here again! Boy how time flies! It seems like just yesterday that we were kids free of worries like taxes. I bet it’s even worse for you.  I mean, you have to deal with thousands of people’s taxes. That must be sooooooooooooooo boring!

Say, I have an idea…how about, instead of me filing taxes, I just don’t! Then, you don’t have to worry about them and I don’t have to! We can get back to the important things in life that we have forgotten all about as we aged. The simplicity of a lightning bug in jar. The fun of climbing a tree. Pure, unadulterated freedom from the boredom humdrum daily life we, as adults, are forced to lead. I would rather do that. 

Wouldn’t that be better than boring old taxes?

Love, 

(Insert your name here)

With these tips, you are definitely ready to show the IRS what’s what. You are invincible. You know, as far as taxes go. You aren’t ACTUALLY invincible, so please don’t try to walk in front of a train or anything.

Disclaimer: The preceding was not written by a tax expert. It was written by a person who can work TurboTax with only minimal help. What he says should not be taken as facts. If you thought what he said is right, you’re probably pretty stupid. Fortunately, there is no stupid tax, so you should be okay.

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Picture of second pope of catholic church. Pope Linus. I think I’ll have the same artist do my portrait. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For those who have been unaware of the world for the past few weeks, the reigning Catholic Pope has turned in his red shoes and left his post as ruler of the largest church in the world. Today was the first day of voting for a new pope and, after much deliberation, no consensus was reached. There is still no pope.

While the cardinals (Catholic priests, not baseball players, football players, or birds) spend their days debating the deeds of the candidates, I feel that I would be remiss to not throw my hat in the ring. There are many reasons I would make a great Pope. Off of the top of my head, here are five:

-I look great in large hats. I mean fantastic. I think it has to do with my large, oversized head. I am one of the only humans in the world that would have a shot at filling out a hat like the Papal Mitre. (That’s what it’s called. Look it up.) While some people would complain about being forced to wear a hat like that all the time, I would take it as a tradeoff, knowing that while I do have to wear a giant hat, I can now ditch the pants and wander around in just a robe.

-Since 1700, the youngest pope elected was 51. 51! Isn’t it about time someone pumps some youth into Vatican City? Just in case the answer is no, I have also been known to act like an old man. I am essentially an 85-year-old curmudgeon stuck in a 25-year-old body. If you have to be old, I am absolutely willing to sit in a makeup chair day in and day out to give myself an aged appearance. We can talk about it.

-Getting in and out of the Popemobile must be quite an ordeal. Fortunately for you, Catholic church, I have a very strong bladder. There would be no emergency pit stops on our Popemobile processions. Nope. I could sit in that Plexiglas box for hours without worry.

-The Catholic church is starting grow a bit stagnant. It’s just very…blah. There needs to be more of an effort to get the church out there in the public eye. That’s where some great cross-promotion ideas come in. Picture this: the Pope sitting in his big pope chair. Thousands of people lined up to kiss my papal hand. What do I need? Purell! Purell: If It’s Good Enough For Someone With Infallibility, It’s definitely is good enough for you. Suddenly the church is in Super Bowl commercials and all over billboards. That’s what we call thinking outside of the papal box.

-One major downfall to choosing me would be my lack of linguistic knowledge. Living in Vatican City, I’m sure most people speak Italian. As Pope, many people from many different languages would want to speak with me. This is not a problem, though, as I am great at nodding and pretending I know what people are saying to me. I do it to my wife all the time. (If you see my wife, maybe don’t mention that to her.) As far as speaking the other languages, Google translate will pretty much do the job for me. All I need to do is learn some basic pronunciations and dovrebbe funzionare alla perfezione!

See?

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