WWJD in a game of Twister?

You know what I hate? The sadists over at Mattel and Parker Brothers. Have you ever really looked at the games made for kids? No wonder the youth of today is totally whacked! Actually, many of the games on the shelves these days are the same ones you and I played with ions ago... the ones that made us crazy, too.

Let's begin with Perfection. Talk about an OCD instigator! You've got a timer that sounds like a bomb is about to explode coupled with a shitload of weird shapes and you're trying to jam them in the right spot before that game detonates sending a mushroom cloud of math symbols into the air. I think I once read that they use the game of Perfection on Prisoners of War to make them lose their minds. And let me tell you, it works. I seem to recall my oldest sister playing a lot of Perfection and let's just say that she's not the wellest of women. Unless, of course, it's normal to do things like count how many bites of food you take and to lose sleep over things like a magazine that arrives in the mail with a few bent pages.

Then there's another favorite among the obsessive-compulsive crowd. It's Operation. In the game of Operation, you get a loud 'buzz' and a mild shock anytime your surgical materials touch the pathway into the cardboard body. Yeah, that's what we want the future doctors of America thinking of as they're removing our gall-bladders and bypassing our arteries. Have you ever seen a doctor wince as they begin a surgery? Those are left-over tremors from these poor doctors' Pavlovian experience with this sadistic game! Operation is cruel and unusual punishment for a poor child to have to endure. I mean, come on, you won't put a shock collar on your dog, but you'll ruin a perfectly normal future for your kid just to be in the hip game crowd? Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.

The last of the games that should be burned in a massive bonfire is Twister. Parents, come on. You haven't figured this one out yet? You ever wonder why this game has been around since the 50s? Especially considering it's got a totally boring premise? Yeah, it's not about touching the left leg to the blue dot and the right hand to the yellow circle. It's about little Johnnie brushing past little Sally's pre-pubescent boobie in the name of "innocent fun." If you haven't discovered it yet, I'm here to tell you that Twister may as well be called Pregnancy in a Box. Because when little boys and girls start locking limbs and getting in strange positions with each other, it's all downhill from there. I'm surprised the conservatives haven't managed to take Twister off the market yet. Perhaps I'll send them a letter.

Dirt and Infinity

You know what I hate? This...

What is it? The everlasting dirt line. Why, no matter how many times you scoot the little broom over the lip of the dustpan, is there still a dirt stripe? You can sweep and brush and scoot and glide for hours and still have a hairline dirt crack. They teach you about this kind of thing in school -- you know, in those discussions about infinity. Like, there are an infinite number of numbers, an infinite combination of notes in music, an infinite amount of time in the universe. I don't recall the infinite dirt line as making the discussion on infinity; however, if educators really aim to make the learning experience mirror real life, then I'd certainly suggest it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go work on yesterday's dirt stripe. Two more days of scooping into the dustpan and I should be ready to mop.

Sales and Suckers

You know what I hate? Persuasive Personalities. Why? Because they can generally get me to do/say/buy anything. It's a combination of naivete and not wanting to hurt Persuasive Persons' feelings that causes me to generally concede to whatever it is they are trying to "sell" me. I've always been a sucker for Persuasive Personalities. In college, I was cornered by an extremist Christian coalition that strong-armed me into their bible study which I attended for about 6 months even though I hated it. I didn't have the "guts" to say no to them. Shortly after college, I dated a guy I hardly could stand -- for, like, a year. Then there was the guy on the mountain the other day. That is where this story begins...

I was hiking North Mountain, minding my own business, when I came upon a seniorly gentleman wearing sweat pants that were about 2 sizes too small and some funny looking tennie shoes that looked yellow and crusty -- possibly purchased at the T,G&Y dimestore about two decades prior to this occasion. I smiled politely, as all exercisers do, as I passed his slow ass on the right. Through my headphones, I thought I heard something, so I turned back. He was yapping away at me. I slowed to his pace and, begrudgingly, removed my headphones.

Within 20 minutes, I knew EVERY last detail of this boring guy's life. I also knew that the few yellow teeth he had left were in dire need of a brushing -- and a mouthwashing while we were at it! He proceeded to yap away at me for the next 40 minutes. I couldn't break away. I felt like a child who had been abducted. People coming the other direction would look at me like they knew I was being held against my will, but I didn't have the nerve to cry for help.

What's interesting about this seemingly "innocent" old man is that he, indeed, was the father of all Persuasive Personalities. I didn't realize what a sales job he had done on me until after my hike, when my idiocy finally started to sink in. I'd told him my whole name, husband's name, children's names, where I was parked and what days/times I hiked North Mountain. I may as well have told him where, when and how I'd like to be raped and murdered. Needless to say, I've since switched to hiking Squaw Peak. This brush with death (or at least stalker-hood) was enough of a scare for me.

When my husband got home that evening, I told him of my strange experience with this old, yellowy stalker. When I told him I had given out my whole name -- including my middle name -- he got a little upset. This is one of those instances that causes my husband to say, in complete earnestness, "are you sure that you're not partially retarded?" The last time he said it was when I divulged my social security number to a nice woman who called me on the phone. I didn't realize what a "boo-boo" I'd made until she promptly hung up on me after I'd given her the number. I had to put a fraud alert on my credit report after that Persuasive Lady suckered me.

So, now you know why I hate Persuasive Personalities. I think they smell a sucker when they see one. And I'm a really strong-smelling sucker. I probably shouldn't even have told this story. If I get any suspicous calls asking for my credit card number, I might just give it to you!

Backin' It In

You know what I hate? People who back it in. Now, before your mind heads toward the gutter, I'm referring to VEHICLES. Backing in defies nature. We are taught to read from left to right, taught to wipe from front to back and taught to park front-in. So, why then, do certain annoying people with no life decide to go against the grain and back it in? I ran into a backer-inner the other day at QT. My mouth was watering for a big 44-ounce Diet Coke. The saliva would hardly hold itself in as I neared closer to the front door. A truck in front of me ditched the empty parking space to our right and headed left. I started to front-it-in to the empty space. But...wait...what in the? He was heading toward me -- ass first! He was taking the space afterall. Bass-ackwards. He progressed slowly. Pulling forward then back, then forward then back. Opening the door to look, then forward and back, forward and back. Hellbent on dead centering himself. Meanwhile, I'm stuck behind him, dying of thirst. Ten minutes has elapsed. I am HATING that back-in bastard.

Why do people back it in? They might try and tell you that it's a time-saving effort; that they simply situate themselves in a manner most conducive to leaving quickly. But how can they justify backing in as a time-saving maneuver when it takes 10 minutes to get into that position?

Have you ever noticed that it's often-times old men who back it in? I suspect for them, it's a daily tinkering ritual, much like putting the American Flag out or polishing a bowling ball or checking the golf cart's tire pressure. I have nothing against tinkerers -- as long as they tinker on thier own clock! Besides, is backing in really a satisfying way to waste time? Wouldn't these old-timers be happier volunteering for the Sherriff's posse, or driving little clown cars in the Shriner's parade? Would they park the clown cars back-first, too?

If you are someone who backs it in, I encourage you to front-it-in like the rest of us, and find another outlet for your boring life. I've heard that underwater basketweaving is quite stimulating...

Vicki McNichol

What? You actually think I'm going to show my ugly face on here? So you can all laugh at me? Yeah, right. This is my hair, and my backyard at least!