I’m guessing that by now pretty much everyone knows that we’re all going digital sometime in the near future … at least in a television sense. Maybe most of us don’t care. I know that as a satellite subscriber, I’m not affected. Likewise, those of you living within the confines of societal harmony with access to modern amenities such as cable also won’t notice a difference. Maybe the picture will be clearer, but I think you’ve actually been watching digital TV for some time now. (Who would really know?)
However, I feel really bad for those in the far reaches – the kind of places that I really like to inhabit. There are those among us who still rely on a 14-inch black and white television for news and connection to the rest of the world. Sure, they’ve seen the commercials warning of the government-enforced changes. It’s appeared on their screens amidst the blizzard of white static that I recall accompanying such sets. The problem is – I’m guessing – that there are many who cannot afford to go out and drop money on a new set. How, I ask you, will they get their news? How will they know if a storm is approaching; if an eminent threat lies in our future; if the Meramec is going to suddenly swell with thirty-foot tsunami’s and wash the Redhorse Suckers downstream to Fenton? The answer is simply, they won’t.
It’s not often that I climb aboard the proverbial soapbox – at least not publicly. I’m not even sure that this qualifies as said soapbox, per se’. However, I find it hard to determine what exactly the threat of the analog television signal really was, and why it was so important that our bloated government step in and demand a disruption in American lives? Was analog causing cancer? Stupidity? Didn’t have enough Washington lobbyists to keep it viable? Wouldn’t their time, (and our tax dollars), have been better spent mandating what’s on the tube, rather than how it’s broadcast?
Now, let’s not get heated on the matter. I’m not saying that I’m a proponent of censorship. I believe that everything has its place. However, little kids watch things like football as much as we grown kids do … maybe we should consider what commercials air during those games more than whether or not the signal is 40-gazillion pixels per square centimeter? Maybe that way parents wouldn’t have to change channels during commercial breaks, lest they find themselves explaining Viagra to a six-year-old.
I understand that, (from some pretty respected local experts on the matter), places like Steelville, Cuba and the majority of Washington County are going to lose their ability to pick up local broadcast channels – even after spending several hundred bucks on equipment to convert. Why? Digital signal is weaker than analog. What? Is it just me, or are we taking a step backward here? I sure feel good about paying those taxes last year. I mean, thank goodness our government is keeping shows like Desperate Housewives and American Idol off the sets of those living somewhat away from the grid. Well, perhaps a little less Hollywood influence would be good for all of us? Maybe they should just shut down the whole thing? We could always go back to courier pigeons for our news … that way we’d have something to eat if we got hungry enough.
Look, I’m not saying it’s the end of the world here. I mean, I’d rather like to see more people turn off the television and pick up a good book. (I could recommend one). Maybe the absence of a television signal will actually allow people the time to read or, perhaps even listen to the radio – both are things that exercise our imaginations. But, how long is it going to be before Big Brother steps in and tells us that KTUI has to go digital – thereby turning our trusty old transistor radios into worthless landfill-fillers? (One could argue that Bob Cosgrove’s voice would carry the broadcast area without any radio transmitter, but Little John might have to shout). And, with all of this digital technology, what happens when Martians come to invade us and jam the digital signals? Maybe they’re too advanced to know about analog … just maybe we’re putting our national security at risk? Maybe the government is working with the Martians for just that reason? It’s a conspiracy, man.
Unfortunately I also have to tell you that all newspapers are going to be printed in digital ink as of February 17th. Yeah, I know – it just keeps getting worse. So, without stopping into the Journal office and purchasing a pair of $400 digital decipher glasses with an Orphan Annie decoder ring built into the stems, you’re no longer going to be able to see the paper’s ink. It’ll just be a bunch of blank, white sheets. Good for wallpaper or birdcage liners maybe, but not much else. Of course, with the glasses, the new, vivid newsprint will stand out like Ted Kennedy at an AA meeting. There’s that, I guess.
I guess we should just remember, silly things like common sense can never be allowed to stand in the way of progress …
Monday, January 26, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Mental Notes
I’m big on mental notes; just one of the “mental” things commonly associated with me. Mental notes are those little post-its of brain energy that you store for later use – in case anyone is not familiar with the term. When a child burns his hand on the stove burner, a mental note is posted; “DON’T TOUCH THAT!” it says. (Yes, in all CAPS just like I wrote it). You see, at some point in my life I realized that failure is not to be feared – failing the same way twice, however, is shameful.
So, in the spirit of good will toward men and all that joyful stuff left over from the Holidays, I thought I’d share some of the little lessons that I’ve learned along the way. Those that have been mentally posted in bold, headline type, as well as those that I’ve learned to shake from my head and chalk up to my own stupidity. My thought here is that if I can save just one person a trip to the ER, I’ve done my good deed for the day. And after all, (now pay attention, this is going to be a great quote), “A smart person learns from his mistakes – a wise person learns from the mistakes of others.” Yep, that’s mine. Just made it up. Impressive, huh?
These are in no specific order. Just random samplings among the first 10,000 Mental Notes that exist in my brain …
• MN0001: When loading a dishwasher, don’t point the knife-blades upward from the basket.
o MN0001A: A knife-wound at the base of your thumb can bleed until you feel dizzy.
• MN0864: Don’t pet things until you see if they bite someone else first.
• MN0249: If you pass blame to someone else, make sure you’re not holding the evidence.
• MN0631: If the ladder looks wobbly, it probably is.
• MN9131: If you dial 4-1-1 with a question about poker, the operator will usually laugh and try to answer it. Dialing 9-1-1 with the same question does not end well.
• MN2333: Truck engines do not run beneath the water.
• MN2334: If it looks too deep to drive through, it probably is.
• MN4444: The phrase, “when in doubt, gas it!” does NOT apply to ALL situations.
• MN7369: The phrase, “Watch this!” can often end in surgery.
• MN7730: Dinner plate sets are ridiculously expensive.
• MN0661: Not transferring laundry to the dryer for two-days results in stinky-jeans.
• MN1212: Because something will fit in your nostril, does not mean that it will also come out.
• MN9926: Accidentally swallowing a quarter is painful.
• MN0841: Putting Icy-Hot in a classmate’s gym shorts can be funny. Someone putting Icy-Hot in your gym shorts is not.
• MN1678: If the policeman pulled you over, he’s NOT in the mood for jokes.
• MN9999: Old people do not bounce.
• MN0048: Cats do not have a sense of humor, but they do have claws.
• MN8881: It is entirely possible for a knee to fold in the wrong direction.
• MN6148: Chainsaws are not toys.
• MN3488: Because you have checks does not mean that you have money.
• MN9000: Showing disrespect brings disrespect.
• MN8112: The drop is as far as it looks.
• MN0099: I will not make sounds in class. I will not make sounds in class. I will not make sounds in class. I will not make sounds in class. I will not …
• MN9889: Do NOT leave a GPS on the dash in downtown St. Louis.
• MN0911: If you don’t know what it is … don’t eat it.
So, in the spirit of good will toward men and all that joyful stuff left over from the Holidays, I thought I’d share some of the little lessons that I’ve learned along the way. Those that have been mentally posted in bold, headline type, as well as those that I’ve learned to shake from my head and chalk up to my own stupidity. My thought here is that if I can save just one person a trip to the ER, I’ve done my good deed for the day. And after all, (now pay attention, this is going to be a great quote), “A smart person learns from his mistakes – a wise person learns from the mistakes of others.” Yep, that’s mine. Just made it up. Impressive, huh?
These are in no specific order. Just random samplings among the first 10,000 Mental Notes that exist in my brain …
• MN0001: When loading a dishwasher, don’t point the knife-blades upward from the basket.
o MN0001A: A knife-wound at the base of your thumb can bleed until you feel dizzy.
• MN0864: Don’t pet things until you see if they bite someone else first.
• MN0249: If you pass blame to someone else, make sure you’re not holding the evidence.
• MN0631: If the ladder looks wobbly, it probably is.
• MN9131: If you dial 4-1-1 with a question about poker, the operator will usually laugh and try to answer it. Dialing 9-1-1 with the same question does not end well.
• MN2333: Truck engines do not run beneath the water.
• MN2334: If it looks too deep to drive through, it probably is.
• MN4444: The phrase, “when in doubt, gas it!” does NOT apply to ALL situations.
• MN7369: The phrase, “Watch this!” can often end in surgery.
• MN7730: Dinner plate sets are ridiculously expensive.
• MN0661: Not transferring laundry to the dryer for two-days results in stinky-jeans.
• MN1212: Because something will fit in your nostril, does not mean that it will also come out.
• MN9926: Accidentally swallowing a quarter is painful.
• MN0841: Putting Icy-Hot in a classmate’s gym shorts can be funny. Someone putting Icy-Hot in your gym shorts is not.
• MN1678: If the policeman pulled you over, he’s NOT in the mood for jokes.
• MN9999: Old people do not bounce.
• MN0048: Cats do not have a sense of humor, but they do have claws.
• MN8881: It is entirely possible for a knee to fold in the wrong direction.
• MN6148: Chainsaws are not toys.
• MN3488: Because you have checks does not mean that you have money.
• MN9000: Showing disrespect brings disrespect.
• MN8112: The drop is as far as it looks.
• MN0099: I will not make sounds in class. I will not make sounds in class. I will not make sounds in class. I will not make sounds in class. I will not …
• MN9889: Do NOT leave a GPS on the dash in downtown St. Louis.
• MN0911: If you don’t know what it is … don’t eat it.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Where've The Armadillos Gone?
It wasn’t so long ago – five years, maybe – that I started noticing an increasing number of armadillo’s smooshed along the highway. In fact, there was about a year’s time when I’d point them out to my wife and she’d argue that it was a possum or some other animal. “There are no armadillo’s here,” she’d say. It got to the point that I was ready to pull over and scrape one up. (I even carried a small shovel in my pickup for awhile, though I never disclosed that to her. Unfortunately there is no triumphant ending to that tale … she simply began acknowledging their existence one day, as though it had never been a source of debate at all.
For a few years, the armadillo population of Missouri seemed to thrive – at least for the ones hit by cars. Armadillo had become the new possum. Sometime the summer-before-last, however, I noted that there were fewer instances of armadillo-cide along the Interstate. In fact, by late in the fall of 2007, I was well aware that I’d not seen a single one in quite some time. This summer past, I kept the odd little mammal at the forefront of my mind and held a vigilant watch for the critters. Unfortunately, (not so unfortunate for them, I suppose), I only saw a few deceased ‘dillos during the entire year of ‘08.
Now, many will say that the long-term infatuation with counting dead armadillos makes me, well … weird. I’d agree. However, there is a bigger picture here and I’d like to enlighten you all in the hopes that it somewhat blurs that weirdness to a dull oddity. When something intrigues me, I like to find the answer – so, I placed a call to a conservationist friend of mine …
RING-RING:
“Hello?”
“How come there aren’t any dead armadillo’s?” I asked.
“Who is this?”
“Bill”
“Bill who?”
“Never mind. Wrong number.”
I then redialed.
“Hello?”
“How come there aren’t any dead armadillos?” I asked.
“Look! I don’t know why you think this is funny, but if you call me again, I’m calling the Sheriff!”
Dang iPhone buttons … so much for that method.
In talking with a rather liberal friend of mine, he explained that the armadillo’s had come North due to the climactic changes caused by the ever-increasing release of greenhouse gasses. Something he likes to preach about called “Global Warming”. He said that the shifting of animal habitat was just one of many signs that we are killing the planet through our careless over-use of fossil fuels and destruction of the rain forests.
“Yeah,” I said, “but wouldn’t the fact that the armadillos are now disappearing support the theory that the entire issue of global warming is merely a farce that was illogically and maliciously forced down our throats by a liberal media during a naturally recurring period of Earth’s surface temperature warming? I mean, that side claims that we’re now in the second year of a 17-year cooling cycle, and I would think that the armadillos vanishing would most likely mean that they’ve returned to their natural climate, right?” My friend turned somewhat red-faced and soon concocted an excuse to leave. I also find it funny that he drives a Hummer. Hypocrite. I do so enjoy ticking him off.
Personally, I’m guessing that the recent decline in armadillo populous is simply an evolution thing … survival of the fittest and all that. You see, science would totally disagree with this theory but to me it makes sense. You take the armadillo (family Dasypodidae) and the opossum (Didelphis virginiana) and you find that they look very much alike in some ways. (Forget for a moment that one is a mammal and the other a marsupial. Logic has no place in this.)
I figure, somewhere along the line they were the same animal all living in the Southern U.S. At some point, two of the families got into an argument that became quite heated. The braver of the two stayed put and defended its ground, while the cowardly family ran North to make their home among the trees, where they could hide from threats. (Stay with me … I’m going somewhere with this.)
The family that stayed in the South procreated and as they evolved among the spiny thorns of cacti, they eventually developed a hard shell. The cowardly family that went North – into the colder climate, of course – grew a thick coat of fur and got really ugly from falling off of tree branches.
So, as millions of years went by, the descendants of the brave family finally got tired of burrowing in the sand and scrounging food. They decided that maybe the cowardly family in the North might have more to eat and a better life, so a band of them left the South sometime about the turn of the millennium to check it out.
When they got here, they watched the cowardly family, (who had also evolved to be quite stupid – probably from all the tree branch falls), and tried to figure out how they lived. They noticed that a vast number of the Northern cousins would walk into the roadways and try to attack the fast, giant beasts with lighted eyes – assumedly for food. So, for a few years, the brave Southern cousins stayed and also tried to catch the big, juicy beasts, figuring that if they could catch just one, they’d eat for a lifetime. After a while, however, they realized that the Northern rats weren’t trying to catch the cars, they simply froze with fear each time one came along.
Being the smarter of the two families, the Southern cousins shook their heads in disgust and headed back home to tell the others how dumb their Northern cousins were. And that, my dear friends, is where the armadillos have gone.
The way I see it, we’re lucky. With the way those Southern ones evolved, a million years from now, that shell would be hard enough to total our cars. Good riddance.
For a few years, the armadillo population of Missouri seemed to thrive – at least for the ones hit by cars. Armadillo had become the new possum. Sometime the summer-before-last, however, I noted that there were fewer instances of armadillo-cide along the Interstate. In fact, by late in the fall of 2007, I was well aware that I’d not seen a single one in quite some time. This summer past, I kept the odd little mammal at the forefront of my mind and held a vigilant watch for the critters. Unfortunately, (not so unfortunate for them, I suppose), I only saw a few deceased ‘dillos during the entire year of ‘08.
Now, many will say that the long-term infatuation with counting dead armadillos makes me, well … weird. I’d agree. However, there is a bigger picture here and I’d like to enlighten you all in the hopes that it somewhat blurs that weirdness to a dull oddity. When something intrigues me, I like to find the answer – so, I placed a call to a conservationist friend of mine …
RING-RING:
“Hello?”
“How come there aren’t any dead armadillo’s?” I asked.
“Who is this?”
“Bill”
“Bill who?”
“Never mind. Wrong number.”
I then redialed.
“Hello?”
“How come there aren’t any dead armadillos?” I asked.
“Look! I don’t know why you think this is funny, but if you call me again, I’m calling the Sheriff!”
Dang iPhone buttons … so much for that method.
In talking with a rather liberal friend of mine, he explained that the armadillo’s had come North due to the climactic changes caused by the ever-increasing release of greenhouse gasses. Something he likes to preach about called “Global Warming”. He said that the shifting of animal habitat was just one of many signs that we are killing the planet through our careless over-use of fossil fuels and destruction of the rain forests.
“Yeah,” I said, “but wouldn’t the fact that the armadillos are now disappearing support the theory that the entire issue of global warming is merely a farce that was illogically and maliciously forced down our throats by a liberal media during a naturally recurring period of Earth’s surface temperature warming? I mean, that side claims that we’re now in the second year of a 17-year cooling cycle, and I would think that the armadillos vanishing would most likely mean that they’ve returned to their natural climate, right?” My friend turned somewhat red-faced and soon concocted an excuse to leave. I also find it funny that he drives a Hummer. Hypocrite. I do so enjoy ticking him off.
Personally, I’m guessing that the recent decline in armadillo populous is simply an evolution thing … survival of the fittest and all that. You see, science would totally disagree with this theory but to me it makes sense. You take the armadillo (family Dasypodidae) and the opossum (Didelphis virginiana) and you find that they look very much alike in some ways. (Forget for a moment that one is a mammal and the other a marsupial. Logic has no place in this.)
I figure, somewhere along the line they were the same animal all living in the Southern U.S. At some point, two of the families got into an argument that became quite heated. The braver of the two stayed put and defended its ground, while the cowardly family ran North to make their home among the trees, where they could hide from threats. (Stay with me … I’m going somewhere with this.)
The family that stayed in the South procreated and as they evolved among the spiny thorns of cacti, they eventually developed a hard shell. The cowardly family that went North – into the colder climate, of course – grew a thick coat of fur and got really ugly from falling off of tree branches.
So, as millions of years went by, the descendants of the brave family finally got tired of burrowing in the sand and scrounging food. They decided that maybe the cowardly family in the North might have more to eat and a better life, so a band of them left the South sometime about the turn of the millennium to check it out.
When they got here, they watched the cowardly family, (who had also evolved to be quite stupid – probably from all the tree branch falls), and tried to figure out how they lived. They noticed that a vast number of the Northern cousins would walk into the roadways and try to attack the fast, giant beasts with lighted eyes – assumedly for food. So, for a few years, the brave Southern cousins stayed and also tried to catch the big, juicy beasts, figuring that if they could catch just one, they’d eat for a lifetime. After a while, however, they realized that the Northern rats weren’t trying to catch the cars, they simply froze with fear each time one came along.
Being the smarter of the two families, the Southern cousins shook their heads in disgust and headed back home to tell the others how dumb their Northern cousins were. And that, my dear friends, is where the armadillos have gone.
The way I see it, we’re lucky. With the way those Southern ones evolved, a million years from now, that shell would be hard enough to total our cars. Good riddance.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Sullivan's Sweet Side
Well, I’m a junkie. At first I was in denial but I’ve later come to realize that it’s true what they say; admission is the first step to recovery. And, it’s not like I didn’t see it coming. The advertisements last summer, the price drop on the larger – more addicting sizes. These things all lent a hand in drawing me in and like a hungry wolf spider the overwhelming temptation raced down and wrapped me in a cocoon of bliss before I had even the slightest chance to escape. My addiction? McDonald’s Sweet Tea. The Extra-Large, (they don’t say Supersize anymore as it’s associated with fat – they’ll even correct you if you say the dreaded “S-word”), now just 99-cents plus tax, of course.
Oh sure … many of you are going to bash me for referring to my meaningless Sweet Tea “situation” as an addiction. Some will even think that I’m disrespecting those who have “viable addictions” to things like nicotine, alcohol and drugs. Well, before you even get your little fingers flying on the hate-mail-spewing keyboards, let me just fill you in on a little something. With the volume of McDonald’s Sweet Tea that I consume and the sheer power of the cravings that I suffer for the stuff, it IS an addiction. I’m helpless. I can’t control myself. I’d strip off my clothing and dive into a pool of it so long as I were allowed to drink my way out. You think I feel good about that? I’m lowering my self-esteem and my bank account $1.06 at a time. (That’s the local tax total, by the way. I know it well).
Like most addicts, I don’t blame myself – yet, not totally anyway. I’m sure that through counseling and some additional group support, maybe someday I can take full responsibility. However, there are some extenuating circumstances that suspiciously hint toward a conspiracy. I feel it’s only in the interest of public safety that I bring this to your attention. Namely, the recipe for the satisfying, sweetly delectable juice of the gods served at our local McDonald’s is vastly different from the other McDonalds locations; it is much sweeter. Test me on this – you’ll see what I mean. Sullivan McDonald’s has the sweetest Sweet Tea on the face of the planet! Now, I’m not saying that this is a marketing ploy to sell more Sweet Tea, but to those of us with an insatiable sweet tooth, this stuff is like CRACK! (Woops, there goes another $1.06).
I’m afraid that when I run out of money, I’m going to have to start robbing children’s piggy banks and selling off my rare thimble collection just to support my habit. And then what? (Okay, I don’t really have a rare thimble collection. I made that up).
Some of you will look at me with a condescending eye of emotion after reading this. It’s a common reaction to running across a known addict. Yeah, you’ll feel sorry for me with regards to the inward fight that I’m battling and that sympathetic look of concern is the emotion that you’ll display outwardly. Beneath that, however, you’ll likely be hiding a feeling of enhanced self worth as the back of your mind will be telling you that you are better than me. You could have become a Sweet Tea addict, but you have willpower and I – the weakling junkie – do not. You might even feel guilty about that emotion, but it will be there.
And, of course there will be that look of suspicion in your eyes that you won’t completely be able to camouflage. I’ll see it – if only a fleeting sparkle for a moment – and I’ll know that you won’t invite me to your house without first locking away the Lipton Tea Bags and C&H Sugar. I can’t blame you. After all, I’m the one with the Sweet Tea addiction.
Well, it’s important that you know that I’m trying to beat the addiction through several methods. The hypnotist I met on the corner of 4th and Washington in St. Louis didn’t solve my problem, but I do crow like a rooster when a bell sounds and he took my wallet. (Yeah, the guy was actually “on” the corner, not in an office. That should have been my first clue). The Iced Tea Patch doesn’t seem to work, either. I’ve eaten a whole box of them with nothing but a stomachache. And the 12-step, group therapy program was a total bust. It’s hard to stand up and admit your addiction and serious commitment to recovery when you’re in a room with a clown, some purple guy named Grimace, several odd-looking trolls calling themselves the Fry Guys and a big-nosed fellow with a mask who has an addiction to hamburgers. They somewhat kill the mood.
So, for now I’m stuck as a slave to my Sweet Tea addiction – unable to find a way out. I’ve researched all of the bad things that such abuse can bestow on a person, and aside from the typical health risks associated with high sugar/high caffeine intake, I have determined that there is an upside to this whole mess. You see, I figure it this way … I drink about 10, 32-ounce Sweet Teas per week - normally while driving. I drive about 40,000-miles per year. Based on those numbers, I’m netting about 307.69 miles per gallon of Sweet Tea. (That’s about 1.4-cents per mile). Based on that, I’d say that I’m probably the most fuel-efficient addict out there. That’s gotta’ count for something.
Oh sure … many of you are going to bash me for referring to my meaningless Sweet Tea “situation” as an addiction. Some will even think that I’m disrespecting those who have “viable addictions” to things like nicotine, alcohol and drugs. Well, before you even get your little fingers flying on the hate-mail-spewing keyboards, let me just fill you in on a little something. With the volume of McDonald’s Sweet Tea that I consume and the sheer power of the cravings that I suffer for the stuff, it IS an addiction. I’m helpless. I can’t control myself. I’d strip off my clothing and dive into a pool of it so long as I were allowed to drink my way out. You think I feel good about that? I’m lowering my self-esteem and my bank account $1.06 at a time. (That’s the local tax total, by the way. I know it well).
Like most addicts, I don’t blame myself – yet, not totally anyway. I’m sure that through counseling and some additional group support, maybe someday I can take full responsibility. However, there are some extenuating circumstances that suspiciously hint toward a conspiracy. I feel it’s only in the interest of public safety that I bring this to your attention. Namely, the recipe for the satisfying, sweetly delectable juice of the gods served at our local McDonald’s is vastly different from the other McDonalds locations; it is much sweeter. Test me on this – you’ll see what I mean. Sullivan McDonald’s has the sweetest Sweet Tea on the face of the planet! Now, I’m not saying that this is a marketing ploy to sell more Sweet Tea, but to those of us with an insatiable sweet tooth, this stuff is like CRACK! (Woops, there goes another $1.06).
I’m afraid that when I run out of money, I’m going to have to start robbing children’s piggy banks and selling off my rare thimble collection just to support my habit. And then what? (Okay, I don’t really have a rare thimble collection. I made that up).
Some of you will look at me with a condescending eye of emotion after reading this. It’s a common reaction to running across a known addict. Yeah, you’ll feel sorry for me with regards to the inward fight that I’m battling and that sympathetic look of concern is the emotion that you’ll display outwardly. Beneath that, however, you’ll likely be hiding a feeling of enhanced self worth as the back of your mind will be telling you that you are better than me. You could have become a Sweet Tea addict, but you have willpower and I – the weakling junkie – do not. You might even feel guilty about that emotion, but it will be there.
And, of course there will be that look of suspicion in your eyes that you won’t completely be able to camouflage. I’ll see it – if only a fleeting sparkle for a moment – and I’ll know that you won’t invite me to your house without first locking away the Lipton Tea Bags and C&H Sugar. I can’t blame you. After all, I’m the one with the Sweet Tea addiction.
Well, it’s important that you know that I’m trying to beat the addiction through several methods. The hypnotist I met on the corner of 4th and Washington in St. Louis didn’t solve my problem, but I do crow like a rooster when a bell sounds and he took my wallet. (Yeah, the guy was actually “on” the corner, not in an office. That should have been my first clue). The Iced Tea Patch doesn’t seem to work, either. I’ve eaten a whole box of them with nothing but a stomachache. And the 12-step, group therapy program was a total bust. It’s hard to stand up and admit your addiction and serious commitment to recovery when you’re in a room with a clown, some purple guy named Grimace, several odd-looking trolls calling themselves the Fry Guys and a big-nosed fellow with a mask who has an addiction to hamburgers. They somewhat kill the mood.
So, for now I’m stuck as a slave to my Sweet Tea addiction – unable to find a way out. I’ve researched all of the bad things that such abuse can bestow on a person, and aside from the typical health risks associated with high sugar/high caffeine intake, I have determined that there is an upside to this whole mess. You see, I figure it this way … I drink about 10, 32-ounce Sweet Teas per week - normally while driving. I drive about 40,000-miles per year. Based on those numbers, I’m netting about 307.69 miles per gallon of Sweet Tea. (That’s about 1.4-cents per mile). Based on that, I’d say that I’m probably the most fuel-efficient addict out there. That’s gotta’ count for something.
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