Waaay-back Wednesday: Here comes Bubba Claus

Note: This column was orginally published in 1998. There are now a gazillion plagiarized version on the Internet. I didn't think it was that great, but I reckon a lot of folks disagreed.

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An open letter to the citizens of the Bi-City area from Santa Claus:

Dear ya'll:

I regret to inform you that, effective immediately, I will no longer be able to serve your area on Christmas Eve. Due to recent changes in my union contract renegotiated by North American Fairies and Elves Local 209, I now serve only certain areas of northern Wisconsin and west Michigan. I also get longer breaks for milk and cookies.

However, I'm certain that your children will be in good hands with my replacement, my third cousin from the South Pole, Bubba Claus. He shares my goal of delivering toys to all the good boys and girls, but there are a few differences between us, such as:

• There is no danger of a Grinch stealing your presents from Bubba Claus, who has a gun rack in his sleigh and a bumper sticker that reads: "These toys insured by Smith and Wesson."

• Instead of milk and cookies, Bubba Claus prefers that children leave an RC and pork skins on the fireplace. And Bubba doesn't smoke a pipe. He does dip a little snuff, though, so please have a spit can handy.

• Bubba Claus' sleigh is pulled by floppy-eared, flyin' coon dogs instead of reindeer. I loaned him my reindeer one time, and Rudolph's head now rests over Bubba's fireplace.

• You won't hear "On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen ..." when Bubba Claus arrives. Instead, you'll hear, "On Earnhardt, on Wallace, on Martin and Labonte. On Rudd, on Jarrett, on Elliott and Petty."

• "Ho, ho, ho!" has been replaced by "Yeehaw!" And you also are likely to hear Bubba's elves respond, "I heard that!"

• As required by Southern highway laws, Bubba Claus' sleigh does have a decal depicting "Calvin and Hobbes" comic strip character Calvin relieving himself ... but not on a Ford or Chevy logo. His decal shows Calvin going wee wee on the Tooth Fairy.

• The usual Christmas movie classics such as "Miracle on 34th Street" and "Ernest Saves Christmas" will not be shown in your area. Instead, you'll see some lesser-known movies about Bubba Claus made in the late 1970s. Many feature Burt Reynolds as Bubba Claus, Jackie Gleason as a Grinch who says "You scumbum!" a lot and dozens of state patrol cars crashing into each other.

• Bubba Claus doesn't wear a belt. I'd turn the other way when he bends over to put presents under the tree.

• Lovely Christmas songs have been sung about me, including Elvis' "Here Comes Santa Claus" and Madonna's remake of "Santa Baby." Until this year, songs about Bubba Claus have been played only on AM radio stations in Mississippi. They include such classics as Mark Chesnutt's "Bubba Claus Shot the Jukebox," David Allan Coe's "Willie, Waylon, Bubba Claus and Me," and Hank Williams Jr.'s "If You Don't Like Bubba Claus, You Can Kiss My Icicle."

Waaay-back Wednesday: A picture worth saving

My wife ordered me to clean my room last night. "My room" is the spare bedroom where I keep my computer, books, old trophies, various sports memorabilia and "tacky" art such as the $2 print of dogs playing roulette.

I like my room just the way it is. I can find all my old papers amid the 10 gallons of trash covering my 1-gallon trash can. And there's a unique sense of order, mostly maintained by an array of spider webs.

I decided to shift the trash around a little to appease my wife and even made vacuum cleaner noises when she walked past the door.

Among the many items I discovered while climbing over the trash pile were really bad stories I wrote in college, photos of people I don't know but probably am related to and various woodland creatures.

Most of this junk found its way into a trash bag after all. Then I came across an item worth saving — my fifth-grade class photo.

I've seen only a handful of these boys and girls in the past decade. Most seem to have fallen off the face of the earth. Very few stayed home.

Of course, there's me, the class clown, sitting up front with my bowl haircut styled by Mom. I was also the kickball king, spelling bee champ and elementary school Valentino. I married every girl in the class at least twice in playground ceremonies. Gee, I hope those weren't official; I can't afford the alimony.

There's Paul on the left. The whole schoolyard circled us one day as we fought over a ponytailed cutie named Paula. Because we were friends, we never landed a punch. Dennis, the class tyrant, was so disappointed no blood was spilled that he told on us for fighting in the first place. Ten years later, Paul was a groomsman in my wedding. I don't know where Dennis is, but I bet the mafia or FBI does.

There are the teacher's pets — Darrell and Angela. I've seen Darrell once since high school. We played golf when he flew home on a break from his doctorate studies in Native American literature in New Mexico back in 1996. Angela is a well-paid geologist with a dog that goes to a pet psychiatrist. I hope I never get that rich and successful.

There's Stephen, the outcast no one played with, on the right. He went on to become a football star in high school. A couple of weeks before graduation, he and some buddies were goofing off in a hot rod when he lost control and crashed. He was paralyzed from the neck down. Last year, he decided he'd had enough of this world and rolled his wheelchair off a fishing dock at his college.

Even without the photo, I'll never forget Robin. With bright blue eyes, long blonde hair and a Texas accent, she's still the cutest 10-year-old girl I've ever seen. She was my first crush and my first heartbreak as she moved back to Texas before sixth grade began. I wonder where she's at. I wonder where they're all at.

I should clean my room more often.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Don't trust those cows

Last week I had business back home, which meant a long, lonely drive down two-lane roads through the countryside.

The sun was shining, and I decided to roll down the window and breathe some of that fresh country air shortly after I left Buena Vista on Highway 41. I rolled it up two seconds later ... in a hurry.

I had forgotten what we country folks mean by the term "fresh country air." There's no such thing. It's an inside joke we country folks play on city slickers. We enjoy seeing the looks on the faces of city folks when they come to the country and take a big whiff of "fresh country air," better known to us as cow poopee.

It was the first time this year I'd seen cows. Living in the big city of Columbus, you don't see many cows, front porches with swings or drivers who use turn signals. I miss all of them.

But I still think cows are up to something. Every time I passed a herd, they all looked up at me very suspiciously. I'm sure as soon as my car was out of sight, one of the cows would say, "All right, roll the nuclear missile back out from behind the haystack and let's get back to work."

Intelligence-wise, cows are the most underrated animals on the planet. Sure, you think that all they do is lie around all day, eat and pass gas — kinda like your typical married man. But when you look into a cow's eyes, you can tell it is deep in thought — totally unlike your typical married man.

When I look at cows, I always think they're talking about me. Or maybe I'm just paranoid because I carry a leather wallet.

"Hey, Betsy. Moo. See that redneck over there? Moo. I think he tipped me over once while I was sleeping. Moo."

Yes, I admit it. I used to go cow-tipping. We small-town folks didn't have racquetball and we were too poor to play golf at the country club, so for recreation we piled into a pickup, crawled through a barbed-wire fence and tipped over sleeping cows ... and prayed we weren't in a bull pen.

These small-town Saturday nights have led to the formation of such crazy groups as FACT (Friends Against Cow-Tipping). They even have an Internet site with a link to a cow-tipping alternative for animal lovers — online electronic cow-tipping. They even moo when you push them with your mouse.

Some of you city folks also may think cow-tipping is cruel, but they get their turn. Each year a bunch of bulls chase humans who loiter in the streets of some podunk town in Spain to a stadium where a guy in a funny hat and tights (called a matador) dances around as bulls chase him and Spanish folks in the stadium shout "Ole!" which in English means, "Hey you idiot in the funny hat, look out! There's a bull behind you!"

Now, that is cruel. Cow-tipping is harmless fun. The only cruel thing about cow-tipping is what happens to your clean sneakers. And you thought your mom got mad when you tracked mud across the living room carpet.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Big bad bag boy

When the phone rings at my desk after 11 p.m., it's never good news.

The only people who know they can find me there at that hour are the newspaper's production department, various law enforcement agencies and my wife. I just hope it's not my wife.

"I need you to drop by the grocery store on your way home and pick up some milk, orange juice, toilet paper and various feminine hygiene products."

"Sorry," I say, "no can do."

I would print her response here, but in strict accordance with the Georgia Newspaper Decency Act of 1937, I'd better just print my side of the conversation.

"Yes, dear. Yes, dear. Yes, that would hurt. A cheese grater, huh?"

Needless to say, I follow orders because I know who the man of our house is, and I don't want her to get mad.

No offense to our local establishments, but I hate going to the grocery store. Maybe it's because I have flashbacks to my days as a Food Transferral and Arrangement Engineer (bag boy) making $3.25 an hour. I often scream out with night terrors, still seeing Mrs. Jones chasing me around C-Mart in Oglethorpe, Ga., with a squashed loaf of Wonder Bread in her hand. The only tip she'd give me was the tip of her walking cane to the back of my head. You know what they say: "Hell hath no fury like a woman whose bread got mashed."

Most of these tragic bread-mashing incidents occurred on Fridays. I also seem to recall Mary Jane in Checkout Lane 2 wearing tight blue jeans every Friday. But I'm sure that bagging groceries behind her and putting Wonder Bread in the same bag as a 10-pound tub of lard was pure coincidence.

Though the parking lot of the store was filled with angry victims of my ruthless scheme to mash the world's bread, it was safer than the inside of the store. Remember that Tyrannosaurus rex from "Jurassic Park?" Compared to my boss, that T-Rex would be considered cute and cuddly.
I'm fairly certain that he didn't like me. I deciphered that from subtle, tiny hints he would drop in our conversations, such as, "Hey, kid, did I remember to tell you today that I don't like you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I must have forgotten to scratch that off my to-do list. Now cut the chatter and get back to work!"

I'm not sure why he didn't like me. Maybe it's because Slim Jims began mysteriously disappearing from the checkout aisles after I was hired. Again, pure coincidence — just like it's pure coincidence that Slim Jims were suddenly overstocked after I quit.

Though I worked there for just a few months, I developed the skills that serve as the foundation for my career today — such as knowing where the boss is at all times and how to respond when caught sleeping on the job.

"Chris, are you snoring?" my boss asks a couple of times a day.

"Uh, no. I'm just thinking really hard. My brain always makes that sound when I think."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't think so hard. You're starting to drool on your desk."

Granted, I may not be much more of an asset to the newspaper than I was to C-Mart. But since we don't sell Slim Jims at the Ledger-Enquirer, I'm not too much of a liability, either.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Interstate pit-stop

"What'll it be, hun?"

This is the sound of music to me at 2 a.m. on some forgotten exit along the interstate. Not only will this sweet lady keep my cup filled with hot coffee and bring me a plateful of eggs, grits, sausage and toast, but she calls me "hun." Even my wife won't call me "hun" unless it's accompanied by "Atilla."

It's one of my favorite guilty pleasures, stopping at these 24-hour breakfast joints far away from home. You know the place by some name — Waffle House, Huddle House, Omelet House, Coffee Kettle, etc. As Shakespeare said, "A Waffle House by any other name would smell just as much like cigarettes and grease."

I like sitting here alone, a total stranger that no one will remember one minute after I walk out of here — though they do steal glances at me as I jot down notes in my reporter's notebook. What kind of freak stops in a Waffle House to write at 2 a.m.? "If that's sober," the man staring at me from three booths away is thinking, "I'll stay drunk, thank you."

The crowd in here is the same as it is every 2 a.m., though this is my first time in this particular Waffle Huddle Omelet Coffee House. A few stools down sits an old man with his coffee and Camels. When one goes out, he lights another. I figure he's been sitting there awhile, probably since the Beatles split.

Behind me is a table of teen-age boys discussing graphically — though unrealistically — their exploits with the ladies before Saturday evening turned into the wee hours of Sunday morning. Nothing wrong with a little macho fantasy talk, I guess. Been there, done that. Besides, when they're ready for reality and have $50 to spare, there's always that lady over there by the pay phone.

In the corner booth sits a couple laughing and pumping quarters into the jukebox, which, thank goodness, has a slew of Merle Haggard songs. I don't think these two folks knew each other too well before tonight, but I get the feeling they'll know each other all too well by morning.

And, of course, there are the two ladies waiting tables. Linda's in her 40s, Sally Ann's in her 50s. Linda is happy to see me. Everybody else in here is simply riding out the night and probably spent most of their money before coming here. I'm a sober stranger who might actually leave a decent tip. And I always do — a least a quarter per "hun."

And there's the intense cook, who seems to be cooking for 500 customers instead of the dozen that are here. He can't stop to breathe while Linda and Sally shout out, "Number three, scattered and smothered, over easy, scorch it with extra cheese!" Where he found time to get those four dozen tattoos, I have no idea.

"Here you go, darlin'," Linda says as she delivers my meal. "Darlin" — that's worth two quarters. Linda looks at me funny as I sample the grits and say, "My compliments to the chef." The "chef" glares at me briefly, wishing it weren't too late to spit in my cheese grits.

I drop two bucks on the table as I leave — two "darlins" and four "huns" — and then stick two quarters in the jukebox and request the same song ("Achy Breaky Heart") three straight times. They're gonna remember me for more than a minute after I leave, by golly.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Bathtime burglar

As much as I've come to enjoy living in Columbus, I can't get used to the fact that you have to lock your doors around here.

Growing up in tiny Oglethorpe, Ga., we never bothered to lock our doors. We felt safe. Even when we did bother to lock the front door, we were courteous enough to leave a note for friends and relatives such as, "The key is under the flower pot." Good thing many criminals are illiterate.

But once you venture away from the friendly confines of the Oglethorpe city limits — an area some call "The Modern World" — danger lurks. Thieves lurk. Stuff's just lurkin' all over the place. You better lurk out.

The only time I ever heard of anyone almost getting robbed back home was when my Uncle Johnny spotted a man climbing into his bedroom window. He quickly devised a scheme to scare him away.

"Sue! Hand me my shotgun!"

My aunt responded, "Johnny, you know we ain't got no gun!"

My first brush with thievery came when I was in college at Georgia Southwestern in Americus. I had a new car, and — just as I had always done with my piece-of-junk 1978 Celica — I kept the keys under the seat.

On the first day I drove it to school, I returned from classes only to find an empty parking space where I was sure I had parked my car. After a desperate hour of searching, I found the car at the other end of campus with a note from my sneaky ex-girlfriend attached to the steering wheel: "Love your new car. Drives great."

My closest brush with theft came in 1992 in Valdosta, Ga., where we were wise enough to keep the doors to our apartment locked.

I had a rare day off and was taking a hot bath with Mr. Bubble (that's a soap, not a man) when I heard the venetian blinds of the living room rustling. I got out of the tub and, sure enough, there was a burglar unhooking my VCR and television — which made up pretty much all of our wordly possessions — from the wall.

"Hey!" I yelled. And at that very moment, he and I both came to a realization: I was nekkid. He gave me a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look that the word "fear" just can't explain.

He dashed out onto the patio, and I followed. Although, like a dog chasing a car, I didn't know what I was going to do with him if I caught him. Fortunately for both of us, he got away. Unfortunately, the fear turned to laughter for several housewives taking their afternoon walks around the lake.

I guess the thought of tangling with a wet, naked man will make just about any guy run like a gazelle chased by a lion. I've got a bum left knee, yet I can guarantee you that no wet, naked man will ever lay a hand on me.

I'll make an exception, though, for Mr. Bubble.

Waaay-back Wednesday: The story of Odysseus Bob

This is for you college students out there who may have to read Homer's "The Odyssey" for the first time this year. I'm here to help. Having taken English 201 three times in college, I'm an expert.

I have written an easy-to-understand version of "The Odyssey." Better than Cliffs Notes, it's Chris Notes:

There once was this fellow, Odysseus Bob, who was a real hot shot in his hometown, but he got lost for 20 years on Lake Eufaula after taking off for the weekend with his buddies.
It turns out that he spent years shacking up with this girl Calypso Lou while his boy, Telemachus Joe, was taking care of Odysseus Bob's doublewide, mowing the grass and all. Telemachus Joe couldn't wait for his pa to come home because these drunk rednecks kept hanging out at the doublewide, hitting on his mama, Penelope Sue, and watching wrasslin' and "Jerry Springer" on Odysseus Bob's satellite dish. But Penelope Sue kept hoping her common-law husband would come back someday.

A lot of bad stuff happened to Odysseus Bob around Lake Eufaula. Like there was this one time a one-eyed hillbilly trapped Odysseus Bob and his buddies. Well, when the hillbilly — Larry Polyphemus — asked his name, Odysseus Bob replied, "I ain't nobody."

Then one night Odysseus Bob jabbed Larry Polyphemus in his one good eye with a broken beer bottle and blinded him. Larry Polyphemus ran and told his brothers, "Ain't Nobody done blinded me." They just laughed and laughed and went back to watching their bug zapper.

Then this guy, Aeolus Jim, gave Odysseus Bob a bag of wind and told him not to open it just yet. But his buddies thought Odysseus Bob was hiding some treasure in there like an RC and some pork skins. They opened it and the wind blew them into the back yard of a witch named Circe Mae who turned his buddies into hogs. Odysseus Bob then threatened to beat up Circe Mae if she didn't turn them back into men — which she did, except for Bubba, whom they barbecued.

Then they went by this old shack where the Sirens lived — Jolene, Irene and Irmalene Siren. They sang pretty songs men just couldn't resist. His buddies put in earplugs, while Odysseus Bob tied himself up so that he could hear the Sirens, but could not stop the boat and yield to temptation when they sang Loretta Lynn's "Don't Come Home a Drinkin' With Lovin' on Your Mind."

After some big dude named Hey Zeus slapped Odysseus Bob's Basstracker with a stick of dynamite, killing all his buddies, he washed up on a sand bar called Ogygia where he borrowed a fancy new Jet Ski and went home disguised as an old man by wearing knee-high black dress socks and polka-dot shorts pulled up to his armpits.

Penelope Sue then said that whoever cranks Odysseus Bob's old pickup can marry her, knowing that nobody but he could crank it. He hopped in, tapped the gas pedal a few times, banged on the dashboard and jiggled the key until it cranked. They knew Odysseus Bob had finally come home. He then grabbed a tire tool out of the back and opened up a can of whup-ass on the rednecks.

Then Odysseus Bob kissed Penelope Sue right smack on the mouth and they lived happily ever after.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Health Coverage Changes

First of all, I'd like to thank you for gathering today in the Dead White Guys Memorial Conference Room for this very important meeting.

Today we're going to discuss changes in the company's health insurance plan. I use the term "changes" in much the same way the company uses the term "efficiency," which doesn't sound all that evil but actually means "ways to make your life more miserable at a faster pace."

In 2005, you will still be able to choose the traditional plan or the green plan, but in our continuing effort to give you more choices we've added the chartreuse plan — or as the provider refers to it, the I-Wouldn't-Get-Sick-If-I-Were-You plan.

Before we continue, I'll present this line chart to show how health costs have affected our company. This sharp-rising blue line shows how much more it's been costing us to insure you peons. This plummeting red line represents the services covered. This stagnant green line shows how much we actually care.

Now, I assure you the company understands the health insurance crisis. Why just yesterday CEO Wink Finklemeyer III expressed great dismay that massage therapy, for instance, is no longer covered under the My-Granddaddy-Founded-This-Here-Company Plan. He has had to pay from his own pockets for the services of Trixie's Magic-Handed Geishas ever since that traffic accident in which he was thrown from the limousine's hot tub.

Well, as you can see, under the traditional plan, you'll still be able to choose any doctor and pay just 20 percent for any medical services with no deductible. All you have to do to get the traditional plan is pay this monthly amount here, which as you see you couldn't afford even if you were Mr. Finklemeyer's illegitimate child. Oops, sorry Jim. Didn't know you were in here.

Under the green plan, there is a mere $20 co-pay once you meet the $40,000 deductible. Granted, some medical conditions aren't covered — such as heart attacks, diseases, accidents, infections or anything that causes coughing, rashes, fever, sneezing, or sickness in general. However, on a positive note, you can see there's no longer a deductible or co-pay if you're hit in the head by a Death Comet.

Would it kill you people to show a little appreciation?! It's not like we have to provide Death Comet coverage! Anyway, moving on. You'll notice the chartreuse plan is much cheaper, but any services must be provided within network, meaning either Dr. Ralph Fingersticker or Jim Bob's Family Doctorin' and Transmission Service.

Yes, Judy? Ah, that's a good question. Did everyone in the back hear that? Judy asked if we knew that Dr. Fingersticker died in 1935. The answer is yes, but he's the only doctor in town who's charges are "reasonable and customary."

By the way, the vision plan has not changed. The basic yearly exam ("How many fingers am I holding up?") is still absolutely free.

Thanks for coming. And if there are any supervisors in here today, please sign up on your way out for next week's seminar — "Motivating Your Peons More Efficiently."

Waaay-back Wednesday: Buffalo Burgers

Another one from the '90s:

I recently read that the federal government is buying millions of pounds of bison meat (that's buffalo to you uncultured folks) to use for making hamburgers in our nation's school cafeterias.

I knew buffalo were still roaming America because I've eaten their wings at several area restaurants. (It's no wonder those big ol' animals can't fly.) But I had no idea that schools were using real meat these days.

Maybe it was because I went to school in an area so poor (we all got free lunches) that we were served those meatless mushy soybean-fungus burgers. If they had used real meat when I was in high school, I wouldn't have ditched school lunch every other day to eat at a cheap back-alley burger joint in downtown Montezuma.

Even though I returned before the next class began, my principal warned me there would be repercussions for leaving the school grounds to go to Troy's Snack Shack (even though I had a permission slip). What were they going to do? Give me an F in lunch? Or — heaven forbid — put it on my permanent record?

(Editor's note: For more information, please refer to Chris Johnson's Permanent Record, now available online at www.fbi.gov. It's right after the part about his writing "Bocephus rules!" in his 10th-grade English book.)

I'd have probably had perfect attendance at lunch if I could have got a big ol' buffalo burger. But school lunch just didn't cut it.

I remember my first school lunch back in the first grade. I thought it was a pick-and-choose cafeteria deal like Piccadilly's or Morrison's. I was saying things like, "I'll have the mashed taters, please. No cole slaw, please. Is the fried chicken included in the Super Dilly?" But they just slapped whatever they felt like on my plate. Plop! Cole slaw.

I loved eating, but school lunches were too small in those pre-buffalo days. Who in the world eats one slice of pizza? I wanted the whole pizza and breadsticks. And they put gravy on everything. Gravy on mashed taters is great, but not on vanilla ice cream. And milk? Yuck! Who eats pizza and washes it down with milk? Everybody knows you serve beer with pizza.

Another school lunch problem is the seating arrangements. I never knew where to sit. They should have posted signs above each table such as Jocks, Nerds, Cool Kids, Geeks, Young Republicans or Metallica Fans. I could have walked to the correct table every time if I'd have seen a big, flashing sign that said: Boys With Ugly Cars And No Date For Friday Night.

I must confess, though, that I loved school lunch my freshman year. Our cafeteria burned down, and we had to eat in the school gym — even as the P.E. classes went on below us. It was fun to boo and laugh at the students and bet pickles on who'd win the basketball games. But it was dang near impossible to concentrate on eating a taco when Jenny Jerome was playing volleyball.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Adventures in Insomnia

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'll be posting old columns once a week for a while. Here's one from last millennium.

Adventures in insomnia

Lately, I've been suffering from insomnia. And I mean "lately" as in since I was about three and couldn't sleep because I was worried about what was gonna happen to Brer Rabbit in the next bedtime story.

And you normal people miss so many wonderful things by going to bed early at night. To illustrate what you're missing, here's a moment-by-moment account of my night on Thursday.

12:31 a.m. — Get home from work. Close garage door. Check for Boogey Man in storage room.

12:32 — Thank God there is no Boogey Man in storage room.

12:33 — Make supper: 12 stale saltine crackers, a jar of olives and meat in bowl found in bottom of refrigerator (Could be taco meat. Or maybe chili). Scrape green, fuzzy stuff off discovered meat.

12:38 — Put olive on ceiling fan blade. Cut on ceiling fan. Run around living room in circle. Catch olive in mouth. Bow to imaginary audience.

12:39 — Realize ceiling fan blades really need dusting.

12:45 — Pick up guitar and sing "Margaritaville."

12:47 — Tell sleepy wife when she stumbles into the living room, "No, I don't hear anything that sounds like a hound dog run over by a garbage truck."

12:48 — See what's on TV.

12:50 — Flip through those 63 channels one more time just in case I missed something important. Stop on MTV. Pray for future of universe.

12:57 — Cut on computer and check e-mail. Learn how to be my own boss and earn $1,000 a day selling state-of-the-art toothpicks from the comfort of my own home. Check fantasy baseball statistics, see that I have firm grip on last place. Check stocks and mutual funds, make alternate plans for retirement.

1:01 — Put in subliminal tape to help me sleep.

1:11 — Tell myself, "I am a strong woman." Realize this is wrong subliminal tape.

1:28 — Flex muscles in front of bathroom mirror. Ask reflection, "You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me?"

1:55 — Deep thoughts: If Elvis really staged his death, why would he have done it by dying on the toilet?

2:18 — Notice frog hopping on patio. Wonder what would happen to a frog in a microwave.

2:30 — Finish cleaning microwave.

2:36 — Call telemarketer at home and tell her I've reconsidered. I would indeed like to know more about how I could save on all my long distance calls.

2:41 — Make note to self: Tell folks frog-in-microwave item was just a joke to avoid getting hate mail from angry amphibian lovers.

2:45 — Drive down street to home of teenie bopper with loud car stereo and one rap CD. Play Ernest Tubb song at 150 decibels.

2:56 — Enter Waffle House. Ask for nonsmoking section.

3:35 — Tell drunk man at Waffle House, "I'd really like to hear more about your alien abduction, but it's getting late."

3:42 — "Really, I must be going."

3:47 — "Look! It's E.T.!" Run like the wind.

4:15 — Crawl into bed. Warm cold feet on wife.

4:16 — Check in bathroom mirror to see if nose is broken.

4:17 — Strike Incredible Hulk pose again to see if muscles grew in last three hours.