Uh oh. I’m only in my late thirties and I’m already becoming a grumpy old man. Here’s a copy of the e-mail I just sent off to AOL headquarters. My name has been changed to protect the innocent.

Is there any possible way to remove my street address from your bulk-mailing list? I have no intention of ever using your service again. Isn’t it ironic that the company that claims to be fighting the spam problem is littering our landfills with unsolicited/unopened software CDs every day?

You need to rethink your marketing plan, AOL. What’s wrong with just having the CDs at the checkout counter? If people want to join, they’ll grab a CD. Sure, you might get a lot of new members with your bulk-mailing system, but at what cost? And by “cost,” I don’t mean your ROI. I mean the planet.

So if you could see what you can do about geting me off that list, I’d appreciate it. I’d include my street address in this e-mail, but I’m afraid of what you might do with it. No, you tell me who I need to talk to, and I’ll send it to them.

Thanks for your time.

Smivey

I was looking through my old files a couple days ago, when I happened upon this abandoned poem from 1991. I polished it up a bit and gave it an ending, and now I present it to you.

It was Christmas day dinner.
I remember it well.
The whole house was filled
with that Christmasy smell.

There were cranberries, stuffing,
and cider for all.
A twenty-pound turkey
we won at the mall.

I had just filled my plate up,
when over the chatter,
I heard someone knocking,
so I put down my platter.

I opened the door,
and who should I see?
Uncle Bill Mockley
smiling at me.

He said “Merry Christmas!”
and reached for a hug.
I backed away quickly
and stared at the lug.

He asked what was wrong,
as if I need tell.
He was naked and dirty
and drunker than hell.

Yes naked, I tell you,
from his head to his toes.
Not a stitch was he wearing.
’twas all out for show.

He pushed his way past me,
displaying all things.
Then he opened his arms,
and he started to sing.

My mother just fainted.
My aunt sat and stared.
My sister kept eating,
as if she could care.

I stood there embarrassed,
my face red and hot.
My dad tried to tackle him,
but, alas, he could not.

He chased him through the kitchen,
and out to the pool.
They ran passed the wet bar,
knocking over some stools.

Then Bill turned around
and he let out a roar.
He peed on the carpet
and ran for the door.

And I heard him exclaim,
as he streaked through the night,
“Happy Christmas to all,
and to all a good night!”

Happy Christmas, Uncle Bill. You plagiaristic bastard.

Hey, kids, you like gross stuff? Yeah! Well, have we got something gross for you! Pu! No, silly, not real poo. It’s Pu! It looks like poo. It smells like poo. It even tastes like poo! Ewww! But don’t worry. It’s not really poo. That would be bad, and illegal. Poo comes from your bottom. Pu come from a factory. No, not a chocolate factory, you nut! Ha ha ha ha! A chemical factory! Yay! So next time you’re at the toy store, be sure to tell your mommy (or daddy’s life partner) that all you want for Christmas is a bowl of Pu. That’s Pu. It’s spelled just like it smells: P-U. Pu!

And just like that, Smivey had lost it. So sad. He was such a nice boy.

Step 1: Purchase a very nice gift for his parents and his baby sister. Make sure everyone else’s gift is much larger than the gift you got him.

Step 2: Give him something nice that he can’t use, such as two game cartridges for the GameBoy Advance system when he only has a GameBoy Color.

Step 3: Go to dinner with his family. Wait for the child to get in a better mood.

Step 4: Offer to walk the boy across the street to EB Games so he can pick out something for his GameBoy Color instead.

Step 5: Discover that EB Games does not carry cartridges for older GameBoys.

Step 6: Walk deflated child back to car.

Easy peasy.

So, there I am, standing in line at Trader Joe’s, when I turn around to make sure I didn’t forget anything. As my eyes are scanning the aisles, they catch the face of the guy standing behind me. He looks familiar. But I can’t place him. He has the same inquisitive look on his face, only he isn’t as shy.

“Don’t you work here?” he asks.

“Uh, no,” I reply.

“I know you from somewhere.”

I should’ve turned around at that point and not given him anymore clues.

“I know!” he says excitedly. “Whole Foods! You used to work at Whole Foods!”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He was right. I did used to work at Whole Foods. Many, many years ago. When freelance work was scarce, I made my living as a cashier. It’s a part of my past I’d like to erase.

“Uh, yeah.” I begrudgingly answer. But I still can’t believe this guy remembers me from six or seven years ago. “Beverly Hills?” I ask.

“Yeah!” He replies.

Fuck. Ten years from now, when I’m a world famous author, I’ll be at a book signing and someone will come up to me, book in hand, and ask, “Didn’t you used to work at Whole Foods?”

Yes, kids, it’s that time of year again. Time to take part in that yearly ritual where you draw a name out of a hat and pray to Allah that it’s someone you actually like. It’s Secret Santa time.

Not familiar with the Secret Santa concept? You obviously don’t work in an office environment. The idea behind having a Secret Santa is that everyone gets a gift and nobody feels left out of the festivities. Still, there are some drawbacks to the Secret Santa idea. To keep things “fair,” you’re given a budget of $20. But with that $20, you’re expected to purchase something your person will actually like, possibly even use.

This is easy to do if you happen to draw the name of someone you know. But there’s always that year where you’re the last to draw and you end up getting the name everyone else has thrown back. It’s that weird girl who sits in the corner and talks to her paperclips. Since you hardly know the person, you have no idea what to get her. But while I can’t help you choose the perfect gift, I can offer some guidance as to what not to give.

INAPPROPRIATE SECRET SANTA GIFTS

A case of deodorant. Though it’s a great way to give a man or lady a hint that they need to shower more often, it’s not considered to be in good taste. Besides, how do you know which brand they like? (If they have a brand.)

The Ziggy Anthology. While you may assume that the Ziggy comic strip is quite popular, studies show that the only people who actually like Ziggy are its creator and its publisher. Stay away from this bulb-nosed freak.

Flowers. Girls might take it the wrong way and think you like them. Guys will end up kicking your ass. (at least the heterosexual ones)

An inspirational wall calendar. There’s no better way to say “I don’t give a shit” 365 days a year. Come on people, a calendar is a personal thing. After all, you’re not the one who has to stare at a bad picture of a waterfall for an entire month with a caption that reads “Good ideas are like rainbows.” Who comes up with this crap?

A twenty dollar bill. Though this may be the most appreciated gift you can give, nobody wants to admit it. However, if you do end up giving her a twenty dollar bill, make sure it’s a new one. And don’t stuff it in her cleavage, pat her on the tush and say “Get yourself somethin’ nice.”

Anything shaped like a penis. Granted, a lot of great gifts are phallic shaped. But while everyone enjoys the convenience of a pepper mill or an oversized dildo, some might think of them as symbols of sexuality. I suggest you save the pepper mill for the bedroom.

That’s all I could come up with. The rest were rather crude and inappropriate for this family-oriented blog. However, nobody’s stopping you from sharing your own advice. The link’s right there. Click on it.

A friend of mine sent me this article about a starvation experiment that was conducted on a group of men. I found it fascinating to read about how the human mind reacts when the body is deprived of food. Here’s an excerpt:

Day 15: The subjects appear to be growing restless. One refuses to eat his daily cracker and eyedropper full of water. Another crawls around the room, sniffing for crumbs. Subject AQ5 was released last night when he bit off an orderly’s finger and proceeded to gnaw on it like a chicken bone.

Day 21: It doesn’t feel safe here anymore. One subject claims to be experiencing “Looney Tunes fever,” where people appear to morph into various meats, such as a giant raw steak or a roasted chicken.

Day 32: Oddly enough, the subjects appear rather calm today. Nothing seems to bother them. However, when Subject AQ10 was kicked in the groin, he managed to utter several expletives before passing out.

Anyhow, it just goes on and on. You know, your typical science stuff. I just thought you might find it interesting.

The label on the ice cream I just purchased claims it’s so good, my taste buds will thank me for it.

God, I hope not.

Sure, some people can deal with that sort of thing. Not me. If my taste buds suddenly started talking, I’m pretty sure I would either run screaming out the door or jump through the nearest window.

For one thing, it sounds rather painful. I mean, they’d all need mouths to speak. right? And those tiny mouths aren’t going to appear magically. No, my guess is there would be a lot of tearing and bleeding involved — two of my least favorite things.

But the torture wouldn’t end there. Oh no. To enunciate properly, those tiny mouths would also need to have teeth. And tongues! Fuck, what if the taste-buds’ tongues grew mouths of their own? How would my taste buds react? Would they freak out like I would? Of course they would! They’re my fucking taste buds, damn it!

Yeah, I don’t know if I’m really in the mood for ice cream right now.

You know, there is a nice thing about having a car with a bashed-in rear end: When you’re trying to change lanes, people really get out of your way.