Foolery

The Events of the Day As Seen Through the Eyes of One Twitterer

I watched in fascination today as this man, a stranger to me, seemed to come undone on Twitter, as it became clear to the world that Michael Jackson was gone, not coming back. I don't know this Twitterer. All I know about him is that he has an extensive military background. I would not have pegged him as someone who would get his legs kicked out from beneath him by this news, but I would have been wrong.

The following Tweets appeared this afternoon on Twitter amid a sea of OMGs and RIPs and sales pitches and nervous jocularity, in a period of about two hours. The only thing omitted from this man's Tweets are identifying links.

Michael Jackson rushed to hospital http://bit.ly/1WsqG

Pop icon Michael Jackson has been rushed to L.A. hospital in cardiac arrest, according to CNN affiliate KTLA.

If someone does not get attention within 3 to 5 minutes for a cardiac arrest, they mostly likely will not live. It is not a heart attack

Michael Jackson... I am patiently waiting for further confirmed news.

Michael Jackson... has died.

Michael Jackson was always that young Michael Jackson. I cannot fathom this. This is such bad news. I am very upset.

I cannot believe Michael Jackson has died.

He had changed 100s of millions. 100,000,000+ people. Even after his gloomy days in trial, he had already influenced enough.

Michael was 50.

I am devastated. 

 

Come In Here, Dear Boy, Have a Cigar, You're Gonna Go Far

This, to most people, is a fold-down arm rest.

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

In the cars of my childhood there were always two arm rests which folded down independently, and which we called The Two Things. When The Two Things were folded down together they formed a nifty little platform from which to launch small children through the windshield, or, more commonly, a comfy place for my little brother to ride. This was in 1971 and there was no seat belt for a passenger of The Two Things.

(I was sure I'd told you this story before, but maybe not.)

My brother Mantel Man, the one who grew up to climb Mt. Whitney and hike the Himalayas, the very same brother who had a career as a Navy bombardier/navigator pulling Gs in a plane that sometimes flew upside down -- THAT Mantel Man -- was prone to carsickness as a little fellow.

I know. But wait, it gets better.

The only way he kept his nausea at bay on long car trips was by watching the road from the front seat, between my two parents, one of whom was smoking a cigar.* There rode Little Mantel Man, perched on The Two Things, watching the road, breathing cigar smoke and trying not to barf.

Only it was the motion sickness that tended to make Little Mantel Man green, and not the cigar smoke. I sat in the back seat mostly unaffected by the curvy mountain roads of the Coast Range or the Sierras, but green around the gills from the White Owls or Tiparillos that Dad smoked only on car trips.



(Photo stolen from these guys)

Not Little Mantel Man. He liked the noxious smoke.

Yes he did.

And he pestered our dad to let him have a puff. Dad, of course, said NO, because Little Mantel Man? He was only FOUR on the day this story took place. NO you may not have a puff. NO you may not have your own cigar. NO.

Until . . .

Oh, all right, Fella, this should put a stop to this nonsense! Here.

And Dad handed his stogie to Little Mantel Man.

Who liked it, of course.

And continued to puff on this stogie as we cruised along, Mom becoming more and more agitated with the backfired lesson as the minutes dragged on and Little Mantel Man smoked that stogie. And smoked it and smoked it.

And cars passed and stared at us. Stared at the skinny 4-year-old with the so-large head, enthroned on The Two Things like a little prince and puffing away at a White Owl cigar stub. Did they even notice the woozy 5-year-old secondhand smoke victim in the back seat? Doubtful.

The thing that put an end to this disastrous attempt to outsmart a child -- the last straw for Mom -- was the car whose passengers glared fiercely at us as they passed.

In 1969 some of the passing cars might have given my parents a thumbs up for bucking The Man and letting their kid smoke out.

In 1979 those people would have flipped my parents off.

In 1989 they would have used their huge car phones to call the police to report child abuse.

In 1999 they might have taken a shot at us in a fit of drive-by road rage

. . . but in 2009 they'd be on their iPhones to CNN and YouTube with video footage.

My how the world has changed.

Please don't let your 4-year-olds smoke cigars. And if you do, just make sure you're the fastest car on the road so no one can pass you and glare at you. Thank you for your time. This has been a public service message from Foolery.


*Hint: not Mom.

"The Talk" Approacheth

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

Here's another meaningful conversation from Casa Foolery -- this one happened tonight as I washed dishes.

SMEDLEY, AGE 8 1/2: Mama, Sparky said something really gross when we were playing Barbies, and I don't want to tell you.

ME, AGE 43 11/12 AND GETTING OLDER BY THE SECOND: Okay.

SMEDLEY, WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A PAUSE: Oh, all right, I'll tell you. Sparky took a girl Barbie and a boy Barbie [that'd be Ken for those of you scoring at home, and I do hope you are] and she took their clothes off and she made them kiss and she made them say, "Let's have sex."

ME, STILL AGE 43 11/12 BUT FEELING LIKE NEANDERTHAL OR CRO MAGNON MAN OR CHER OR SOMETHING: Okay ["Okay" is the standard Foolery response that works equally poorly on kids and parents]. So maybe if that kind of play makes you feel uncomfortable, you should ask her not to play that way?

[Wait for it . . .]

SMEDLEY: I DID! [You saw that coming, didn't you?] She said, "Well, Mommy and Daddy had sex once, so it's okay!"

[Beat.]

[Beat.]

[I'll just let that sink in a little more.]

[Beat.]

[Beat.]

ME, TRYING NOT TO DROP A SOAPY GLASS OR ONE OF LIFE'S MOST IMPORTANT MOMENTS, OR BOTH: Honey, it's okay to be curious about sex and all that stuff [no, for real, I really did! I KNOW, can you believe it?! And here Chas and I had sex ONLY THE ONE TIME AND ALL, and I'm qualified to give her "The Talk"?!] but I'd rather that you didn't play Barbies that way. Other kids might think that you girls are . . . not so nice, and we know that that isn't true [suddenly remembering using the word HARLOT in front of Smedley the other day, for some reason -- "Mama, what's a harlot?"]. Instead, if you or Sparky have questions about sex, you could come ask me [or Daddy! Yes, DADDY! Good idea!] right then, how about that?

SMEDLEY, DOUBTFULLY: Okay . . . I'll go tell her . . . Mama?

ME, AGE 207: Yes?

SMEDLEY: Are you SURE you're ready to talk to Sparky about it, right now?

ME: Yes. [NO! NO! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NO!!!!!] I'm sure.



But they weren't ready for The Talk either, apparently. Def-Con alert back to yellow. After relating this story to Chas, who giggled especially hard at the implication that he was a one-hit wonder with two children, he added this gem, from earlier today.

SMEDLEY: Daddy, does Mama know you're fixed?

(Photo stolen from these guys)

A Foolery "Thanks For Sharing" Moment

Spotted a very special license plate frame on my commute:

I'D RATHER BE

HAVING AN ORGASM

This lady probably has lots of special guys follow her home making her FANTASTIC offers.  Sooooo . . . anyone spot any good ones lately? Vanity plates? Bumper stickers? Do tell.

A Visit From the Chicken Fairy

Ring ring

FOOLERY:  Hello?

MOM:  Hi, it's me. Um . . . we're gonna bring those chickens over to you, to put in your coop.

FOOLERY:  Okay . . . so, in the morning.

MOM [PAUSE]:  Right now.

FOOLERY:  Right NOW?! It's after nine; it's DARK.

MOM:  Well, that's why. Your dad can catch 'em in the dark.

FOOLERY:  Oh. Okay. But is the coop even prepared for chickens?

MOM:  Yes, he already went over to your yard and fussed with it. It's ready.

FOOLERY:  Oh. Okay.

*click*


Ring ring

FOOLERY:  Hello?

GUBBY:  Heyyyyyyyyy!

FOOLERY:  Hi Gub . . . can't talk long; I've got chickens coming over.

GUBBY [LONG PAUSE]:  I need a permanent microphone and video camera installed at your place . . . WHAT?!

FOOLERY:  Mom just called, and they're bringing chickens over.

GUBBY, IN BETWEEN FITS OF HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER:  In the dark?!

FOOLERY:  That's what I said! Yes, in the dark, because they can easily catch the chickens when they're roosting. Oh -- they're coming. I see the garage light on. They must be loading up the Murano.

GUBBY:  Well, your dad's dog Jim traveled in a Lincoln Towne Car -- the chickens must not rate, I guess.

FOOLERY:  Yeah, they're forced to ride in a Nissan. Okay, they're almost here. I gotta go -- the Chicken Fairy just arrived.


*click*


Ring ring

GUBBY:  Hello?

FOOLERY:  Hi, it's me. So we have chickens now.

GUBBY:  WHY?!

FOOLERY:  I dunno. It's Dad, of course. All I know is, on Sparky's birthday Dad announced that the six new baby chicks he got were for Sparky's birthday.

GUBBY:  Why?!

FOOLERY:  Because she didn't have any, of course. In Dad's world a lack of chickens is a need for chickens.  Never mind that HE doesn't have any chickens anymore. "But Dad," I said, "I don't have the chicken coop ready!" "Don't worry," he said, "They're not old enough yet. I'll keep them here, in the rabbit hutch," he said. That was two weeks ago. I guess they're old enough now. Look, I gotta go, but I'll keep you posted if there are any new chicken developments.

*     *     *     *     *

So we have six pullets (that's farm speak for underage hens) who are locked in for the summer, until they're big enough to be let out and not eaten by ravenous scavenging cats, owls, or rat terriers. This winter, eggs! Yippee! And half of the birds are aurecanas, which lay pastel-colored eggs.

Yes, these truly are the phone conversations of my life. If you have any questions as to why I am the way I am, please reread the above text. You must not have been paying good attention.

Any of y'all need any chickens? Dad can fire up the Nissan.

BULL . . . pucky

(Photo stolen from ShanghaiChew on Flickr)

Week two of summer vacation is here. I really need to send thank you notes to the girls' teachers, who are a credit to our education system.

We are so very lucky to have the school that we have, which is a jewel. Involved parents, fantastic teachers, and a very wholesome environment. I discuss this with the girls' grandparents quite a bit, and often when I talk with my father about his own elementary education, the following story comes up.

Dad grew up in Berkeley, California, before and during World War II, when Berkeley was known for the excellence of its schools and for little else. Even so, he remembers little about his teachers or his school days . . . except this incident, which comes up often in conversation.

David's (my dad) second grade (or thereabouts) teacher very unfairly asked her pupils if they had ever heard their parents swear. This was hugely unwise and would get her fired today, but in about 1942 people were a tad preoccupied with a war or something.

When it was little David's turn to answer, he told the teacher, "My father never swears, but one time? I heard my mother say 'bullshit.'"

My poor grandma, when she later heard the story, was horrified. She was not a woman to swear, but obviously she did at least once. She was quite pregnant with her third child in June for little David's birthday, and she made her husband, my quiet grandfather, take the day off to bring cupcakes into the classroom that day because she refused to show her face.

In later years she was able to recognize the humor of the situation, which is part of why I loved her.

ReTweet at the Gaia Hotel in Anderson: Twuly a Tweat*

Another weekend has come to an end -- frenetic, fun and scheduled to the hilt. I think back to last weekend fondly, as if it were someone else's life. We didn't actually get out of town, did we? Yes, we did.

We drove an hour north to Anderson, California, at the top end of California's Great North Valley.  The Gaia Hotel has been open less than a year but seems well-established and popular, judging by the number of cars in the parking lot in the morning.

The first thing you notice about the property is its environmentally-friendly landscaping: no lawns. The grasses, plants, succulents and flowers were sensible planting choices for our water-starved environment, and very attractive. This eco-friendly approach to landscaping is in harmony with the small boutique hotel chain's philosophy of environmental sustainability and conservation. And you couldn't tell that even one tree had been removed for construction, nestled as the hotel is among valley oaks, evergreens and cottonwoods.



Upon checking in we were asked to relinquish any communication devices. No, this isn't the Soviet Union -- this is the Retweet with Broughton* vacation package that challenges guests to unplug from their electronic temptations -- like texting, e-mail, internet and voice mail; you've heard of these? -- and simply enjoy their families and the many activities at their fingertips. For this sacrifice guests receive a deep discount on their stay (this summer special lasts through August but must be booked in June).

"What?! Give up my internet? Impossible! I'm an addict, you know."



Actually, it was quite possible, since I have a desktop computer, which is tough to stuff into my purse. And hey, deep discount, right? Unplug me!

Knowing that I couldn't have any communication devices with me while partaking in my Digital Detox, I left my phone at home.



(Photo stolen from gsherman on Flickr)

We didn't bother bringing our blackberries; everyone knows that blackberries aren't in season until mid-July.

The kids were enthralled with the room, which overlooked a large koi pond with fountains.



I was enthralled with the bed linens, but that's just me.



A walk around the grounds meant a visit with the swans -- yes, swans, four of them. They kept making the heart-shaped necks even when there were no paparazzi present.

We strolled by the pool but didn't go in; we've been having unseasonably cool weather for June. Next time, though, look out. Cannonball.



Next time we visit -- and I believe we will again -- we'll try the exercise room, which should be good for a blog entertaining write-up, and maybe even a front page newspaper accident report.

Before we checked out we strolled into the hotel's own Woodside Grill for the continental breakfast buffet. It was just what you want with kids: easy, delicious, and FREE. Even so, the service was excellent and two very friendly servers made sure we had everything we needed. In fact, I'd say that the best thing about our stay was the way we were treated: as if we mattered, as if we would likely become return customers and even old friends. I'm serious. From the moment we checked in the staff were  top-notch -- efficient, warm and relaxed. I can say that with authority as I have spent my life in customer service, and you don't see good service very often, let alone GREAT service. Way too go, Gaia Hotel employees, and thank you!

Our stay was too short, but we are heavily-scheduled people. I hated to get back to my fast-paced internet-connected world, but I had recharged my batteries and was ready to plug back into the grid.



And I had to get to the grocery store; I was kind of craving blackberries, for some reason.

*     *     *     *     *

*In case you're wondering about the word "ReTweet," it's a play on words stemming from the popular on-line social networking service Twitter. I'm not Twying to Twick you.

For photos from our visit to the spectacular Sundial Bridge in Redding, just minutes from the Gaia Hotel, visit my "locals only" blog Reasonably Educated Bumpkins.

For more information about the Gaia Hotel or the "digital detox" vacation packages available at Broughton Hotels, please click the links. I worked hard to put them there. I hope they work. The end.

Parenthood Is Not For Wimps

(AP photo courtesy of Richard Mudrinich stolen from these guys)

If you had told me that at about 11:00 p.m. I'd be standing on a window sill no wider than a credit card -- hugging my living room window frame and trying not to fall through the glass or to wake the sleeping wasps in the nest I had just discovered in the eaves a foot above my head -- in order to convince my yowling elderly cat to climb down onto my shoulder so I could help him off the roof, since he refused to step into the basket I proffered 20 minutes before . . . if you had told me that, plus the fact that not five minutes later I would be stripping a bed and giving a grumpy child a shower, I wouldn't have believed you.

Parenthood is not for wimps.

A New Bob the Drip -- Er, DROP -- Ad

Still working on my Gaia Hotel story. Because it's after midnight and I'm stupid in a stupor, let me share with you the latest animated TV commercial for our client Mt. Shasta Spring Water.

Each spring my very talented coworker Robb creates one computer-generated animated spot starring Mt. Shasta Spring Water's mascot, or spokesdrop, Bob. This year's spot is called "Bob Rocks," and I'm happy to say I got to do the voiceover for the girl drop. No, that isn't me singing, and No, my speaking voice doesn't sound like that -- it's been pitched up two whole notches to sound more Munchkin-like.




Cool, huh? I love working with Robb on these. In the past I have written the script, but this year it was more free-form. Robb and I bounced ideas off of each other and tweaked the "story" until it became what you see here. Lots of fun for me to be a part of it all, but the talent is all Robb.

And should you need any animation, e-mail me!

WHO On Verge of Declaring H1N1 Flu Pandemic*

GENEVA (Reuters) – The WHO is on the verge of declaring the first influenza pandemic in more than 40 years, but wants to ensure countries are well prepared to prevent a panic, a top flu expert said on Tuesday. "The last thing we need is a stampede," said an anonymous source close to the band.

The WHO are working hard to prepare for a pandemic, for instance developing vaccines and building up supplies of anti-viral drugs, said a spokesman Tuesday. Also, passing out earplugs and Bic lighters.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

In a related story, Keith Richards of The Rolling Stones has volunteered his services giving flu shots. "We're all meant to do what we're good at, you know?" said Richards Tuesday.

*This is a parody. I am completely lying. The WHO has probably never even heard of The Who, much less Keith Richards. Carry on.

Topics To Go

I'm still working on my write-up about our "Digital Detox" Retweet weekend stay at the Gaia Hotel, but in the meantime, look what our hosts gave us as a checking in gift? (I think they knew that some partaking in the Digital Detox ReTweet would have twitchy thumbs and would have NO idea what to do with their lost computer time.)

This cute little package is called TravelTopics To Go, and you can find them online at www.tabletopics.com (along with many other conversation starter kits).

Open the box, pick a card, read the question aloud, and get the conversation started. So, that's what I'm doing this morning. Your question is:

if
you could spend
one year
in any country
which would you
choose

Oh, this is easy. 20 years ago my answer would have been Japan, or at least somewhere non-European. Then I went to Europe, and now my answer is France. Contrary to what you hear, I didn't meet ONE rude person in France. Everyone was friendly, polite, and some were downright charming. And that was in Paris! I want to live somewhere where I walk to work and the store every day. I want to learn a language to the degree that I dream in it. I want more of that bread.

Okay, Peeps, spill it. What do you say?

I Have Minion Breath

I'm back, reveling in a quiet house that's tidy and almost clean (in an almost sort of way), and starting to work out the stuff I want to tell you about our stay at the Gaia Hotel in Anderson (the Cliff Notes version: LOVED IT). But I'm in this sort of argument with a friend over minions.

Yes, minions, and my claim to them. I say I have minions. My friend Dan Leadbetter, he says, NO WAY JOSE, you do not have minions. I thought about crying so I could put this argument in my WIN column and move on, but then I thought to myself, Self? -- that'd be me talking to me -- Self? You do SO have minions! And we can prove it to Dan. We can't Slim Jim Dan, since while he Twitters and podcasts and Facebooks he doesn't yet blog (unless I missed something?) so we can't exactly Slim Jim him . . . but we can do something else.

If you're, you know, up for it, and, you know, you have the time and stuff, and you're feeling like minions and all . . .

I want you to vote for Dan.

Or, if you don't want to do that, Twitter the link to vote for Dan. Or, if you're REALLY generous, you could do both. Skywriting is a nice touch, too. Or perhaps a phone tree. Let's show him that I HAVE MINIONS! Darnitall.

Dan is someone I've known since high school, and he's one of those special people who lights up a room, much the way that lighting a fart lights up a room. No-no-no-no-no, I meant that Dan gives off an inner light and draws people to him like moths to a flame . . . so what we have here is:

Dan attracts moths. Dan is a woolly, glowing guy who attracts moths.

This isn't working. Can you tell I'm tired? Also, too? I had cereal for dinner. Please send help, Minions.


(Photo stolen from maxintosh at Flickr)

OKAY.

Please, if you are so inclined, click this link, go watch this one-minute video, which is Dan's on-line job application

TO A WINERY

(yes, I knew that would get your attention, most of you)

and we will PROVE to Dan that

I HAVE MINIONS.

Vote once using each e-mail address that you have! I can't vote anymore or I would. Dan would make a fantastic marketing person for Murphy-Goode Winery. Of course, I have no way of counting all y'all, but I plan to take FULL CREDIT for ANY votes that Dan gets in the next couple of days.



Dan, if you're reading this? Knock 'em dead, Dude! And let's do lunch. I'll have my minions contact your minions.

Mommy Golifeguard

I stink at birthday parties, but I had a recent success that I'd like to share with you. I'm proud.

The little girl up the road turned 8, and as happens every year, her family threw her a rip-roaring birthday party. "Bring swimsuits," said the invitation. Ah, the slippy slide -- cool. Swimsuit for Smedley? CHECK.

Sparky had not been included on the invitation, so I promised her we'd have a Mommy-Daughter Lunch Date.

I got dressed up a little.



I walked Sparky over to Grandma's house to wait for me. I walked Smedley up the road to the neighbor's house for the party. Yup there was the slippy slide. But -- wait, oh no!



A POOL. This was unexpected. Smedley can swim, but she's not a strong swimmer yet. Hmmm. What to do?

"Smedley, I don't think you should swim today," I tried.

"But I want to swim! All my friends are swimming! It's HOT!"

Yes, all of these were inarguable. What to do, what to do?

I KNOW!

I sidled up to the hosts. "Do you mind if I go home and get Sparky? I asked. "Smedley isn't a strong swimmer, and I need to watch her, but I have to watch Sparky, too. I'll be your lifeguard all day, I promise."

"Of course!" they said. "You should have brought Sparky anyway!" Well, I don't like to assume . . .

So I pulled Smedley out of the pool and back I walked to get Sparky. On went the swimming suit and the sunscreen. I wrapped an extra gift I had bought, JUST IN CASE. Back up the road to the party, where there were now 25-35 kids running between the slippy slide and the pool. I took my position at the edge of the pool.



Oh, crap, I knew I'd forgotten something: I forgot to change out of my Mommy-Daughter Lunch Dress. Oh well.

I was vigilant. I was dedicated. I helped another mommy secure the pool cover, which lurked dangerously at the end of the pool, a tragedy waiting to happen.

I got a little muddy.



Time for food! I made sure my little darlings each got a burger.



Back onto the slippy slide they went. Oh, the irony. Neither one went into that pool, and yet I was watching the pool like a mother hen with an attitude.



Soon it was time to go. We said our thank-yous and goodbyes and walked home in the sultry May heat. Mommy collapsed in a chair in the living room with a beer.

"Ready to go?" asked Daddy.

"Go?" I asked.

"Clay and Susan's party. Are you ready?"



"But of course!" I answered. "I'm ready for anything!"

Except for the sun. I forgot about the sun. Oh my GAHHHHHH I got sunburned. I'm so proud.

I suck at birthday parties. The end.

Getting Ready for my Digital Detox

You can't imagine how much I'm looking forward to a ReTweet Weekend this weekend.

Well, maybe you can.

You can imagine it if you have a kindergartener graduating tomorrow.

You can imagine it if you've had a lot of expenses reach a sort of Mt. Everest of expenses, pretty much this week.

You can imagine it if you had a 6-year-old birthday last Saturday, but didn't arrive at a plan until Thursday.

You can imagine it if the temperature has been triple digits already this year.

You can imagine it if you work in a recession-affected industry, such as advertising.

You can imagine it if the mystery smell affecting your carpets is radically affected by Global Warming.

You can imagine it if the new venture you have taken on involves WAY more upfront everything than you thought, in the busiest month of your existence to date.

You can imagine it if other peoples' deadlines are now YOUR deadlines.

You can imagine it if your 92-year-old great aunt tells you her burial plans over the phone, which include the phrase "don't tell my daughter until it's all over."

You can imagine it if a new opportunity expresses itself as a hardship, if only for the moment. But still.

You can imagine it if your child has Snack Day Obligations within two days of Birthday Cupcake Obligations, and let's face it, that means YOU, both times.

You can imagine it if the kitten known as Superman met his kryptonite today, and lies in a lovingly-painted shoe box in a shallow grave that coyotes will surely find.

You can imagine it if you've bought gasoline within the last month, and noticed your wallet was a whole lot lighter suddenly.

Okay, so you can imagine it. I knew you could. But can you imagine being the overnight guest of a lovely new boutique hotel, an hour's drive from home, with your family around you ALL AT THE SAME TIME, and it's not even a wedding or funeral or anything?!

I can hardly imagine that.

But that's exactly what we're doing this weekend. We will be staying at the Gaia Hotel, Restaurant and Spa in Anderson, California, on Saturday night.

We're meeting our very good friends to go to the Turtle Bay Exploration Park . . .

and likely stroll across the celebrated Sundial Bridge.



I CAN'T WAIT.

Don't worry, there will be a full report. But not from the Gaia Hotel; this weekend will be a ReTweet Weekend, a "digital detox for the electronically exhausted" -- that's me --  and portable communication devices are frowned upon. This weekend in Anderson and Redding will be all about communicating FACE-TO-FACE.

I need to practice.

UroClub™, from the Makers of PoopMitt™

This is The UroClub™. I am not making this up. The text below is faithfully copied from the web site. Gubby sent the link to me several weeks ago, and I had a good laugh all over again tonight. Any thoughts, golfers? Golf widows? Groundskeepers? Well, as a long-time former men's gift retailer who made her living selling golf trinkets and Fart Books, I have a few thoughts . . .

How many times has this happened? You're playing 18 holes with your best buddies, drinking sport-"ades," water, beer, etc. You're coming up to the 3rd hole with no rest room in sight. There are no trees or bushes around* and you just have to go, what are you going to do?

I'll tell you what he's gonna do -- he's gonna drop trow behind the cart and whiz like a racehorse and then brag about it, THAT'S what he's gonna do. He's not bloody likely to fiddle behind a tea towel while his buddies snap photos of him with their cell phone cameras and send them off to the Internets. "Look at Marv, peein' into a stick!" they'll roar. Suddenly Marv has performance anxiety. His urethra slams shut and he can't pee to save his life. His kidneys explode on the back nine and it's ALL YOUR FAULT for buying him a $25 Pee Stick.

The UroClub™ is the discreet, sanitary way for your urgent relief. Created by a Board Certified Urologist**, it looks like an ordinary golf club, but contains a reservoir built into the grip to relieve yourself. The UroClub™ is leak proof, easy to clean and no more embarrassing moments. Except, of course, for the embarrassment of being Fancy Nancy with a Pee Stick in his golf bag.

Purchase The UroClub™ now for only $24.95 while supplies last!

Yes, please do. We need more capital to work out some kinks with The PoopMitt™ in R&D.




*Jeeeeeepers, are ya playing golf on the MOON?!

**An important man who rates LOTS of capital letters in The Land of Urologists.

~     ~     ~     ~     ~

Just kidding, of course. It seems like a cleverly-designed product, and I probably would have sold it in my gift store. But honestly? Can't picture a single man I know using one, and the first time a wife had to dump the thing out would be the LAST time.