In Ending Fit for Shakespeare, Tragedy Strikes Librarian Convention

BOSTON.  As the plenary session of the American Association of Librarians annual convention wound down here yesterday afternoon, the long faces some attendees wore were not the result of dog-eared pages or overdue books.

Hynes Convention Center

“What happened is so sad,” said Priscilla Hindmarsh, head librarian for the Milwaukee Public School System.  “I would file it under ‘Tragedies, Senseless’,” she says, pulling a tissue from her purse to wipe away a tear.

John Dewey: He started it.

Hindmarsh is referring to an altercation between adherents of the two principal library cataloging systems in use today, the Dewey Decimal System and the Library of Congress Classification, that broke out at a cocktail hour and dinner dance Saturday night. 

The Library of Congress.

“We were having a great time, cracking jokes about how the Library of Congress nerds group ‘recreation’ with ‘geography’ and ‘anthropology’, when one of the ‘Congress’ boys started eyeing one of our chicks,” says Lowell Hirshorn of the Boonslick Regional Library in central Missouri.  The literary lothario, Duane Holcomb, a reference librarian at the General Services Administration in Washington, made a move on Madeline Bousa, an early reading specialist for the Spokane Public Schools, and sparks flew.

“What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose by any other name would be found under ‘S-Agriculture’ in the Library of Congress Classification.”

“We knew it would end in tragedy,” says Hirshorn, and he and some of his Dewey Decimal colleagues tried to intervene, but Bousa was smitten and took to the dance floor for a evening of excitement with Holcomb.  The night ended with a spirited rendition of The Village People’s “YMCA” that saw the two lovers holding hands to form the most difficult letter, “M”.  “That was the last straw,” says Ed Smythe, a story hour leader at the Snooky Lanson Branch of the Atlanta, Georgia, Public Library System.

The Village People

As the two lovers were leaving the convention center, jealous colleagues of Bousa gathered in the shadows near the taxi stand, then attacked Holcomb with 4″ x 6″ file cards, inflicting paper cuts that caused him to bleed to death.  They then dragged his corpse to Copley Square where they stuffed it in a book return slot at the Boston Public Library’s main branch.  “It was really barbaric,” says Ed Herlihy, head of collection enforcement for the library.  “If you drop a book in the slot on Saturday night you can rack up big fines because it won’t be checked in ’til Monday morning.” 

Police say they have a few leads, but are reaching out to potential witnesses to try and crack the case.  “We have a composite sketch of the perps,” says Boston Police Sergeant James Hampy.  “They’re a group of middle-aged white males with round shoulders and a tendency to shush people who talk too loud in public.”

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

Dylan Returns to His Roots for His Golden Years

HIBBING, Minnesota.  There’s a buzz going around this town of 17,000 in northeastern Minnesota as rumors spread that its most famous musician has decided to spend his retirement here.  Will that be a boon or a nuisance, this reporter asks Al Sklarski, a shift supervisor at a local iron mine.  “You mean Gary Puckett is coming back?  That’ll be great for kids who’ve never heard ‘Lady Willpower’,” he says.

Gary Puckett and the Union Gap

When informed that the returning celebrity is not Gary Puckett but Bob Dylan, the world-renowned singer-songwriter, Sklarski draws a blank.  “Never heard of him,” he says as he takes off in his pick-up truck.

Bob Dylan, ne Robert Zimmerman

The confusion stems from the fact that when Dylan left Hibbing at the age of 18 he was still known as Bobby Zimmerman, son of a local appliance store owner.  Dylan changed his name after moving to New York City, and skyrocketed to fame when the folk themes and styles he revived found a new audience among college protestors in the 1960’s.

Hootenanny

With his wealth, Dylan could retire to one of the golfing compounds favored by the affluent, but friends say homely Hibbing is better suited to the working man’s image he has always cultivated.  “I played in a foursome with him at the Doral del Boca Vista Rey,” says former Chrysler CEO Lee Iacocca.  “He kept scribbling down lyrics when it was his turn to putt.”

Iacocca and Snoop Dogg:  “C’mon folk-boy, shoot yer fershizzlin’ shot!”

Dylan got his start singing at hootenannies in the Hibbing area, usually without compensation other than complementary apple cider and chocolate chip cookies.  His big breakthrough came in 1954 when he placed third in the Winter Talent Contest at Temple Beth El, Hibbing’s only synagogue.  “A star is born,” reported the Hillel Enquirer in the following week’s edition.  “Bobby Zimmerman enchanted with his interpretation of ‘Jimmy Crack Corn, and I Don’t Give a Damn’.”

Shakespeare:  Two-time Grammy Award-winner.

Other artists have retired to their home towns from larger metropolises, most notably William Shakespeare who returned to his native Stratford after a successful career as an actor, playwright and theatre-owner in London.  Shakespeare, a two-time Grammy Award-winner, died in Stratford, famously willing his “second best bed” to his wife, his Cuisinart Food Processor to his daughter Judith, and his Craftsman Weedwacker to his elder sister Susanna. 

The Rolling Stones at Sir Morgan’s Cove, Worcester, Mass.

Artists sometimes choose out-of-the-way locations to hone their acts in the hope of reviving their careers.  In 1981 The Rolling Stones performed at Sir Morgan’s Cove in Worcester, Massachusetts, a small nightclub whose previous claim to fame was a 2-for-1 Margarita and Wet T-Shirt Night promotion.  The Stones cut their set short when they were informed that they were not in Worcester, England.

Dylan, now 66

Dylan, a reclusive artist known for his obscure lyrics and cryptic comments, would neither confirm nor deny that his retreat to rural America was intended to set the stage for a new phase of his storied career.  When asked if he would be working on a new album in Hibbing, Dylan replied ”What time is the Early Bird Special at Applebee’s?”

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

New England Takes Steps to Reverse Beauty Queen Drought

WORCESTER, Mass.  Karen Spilika has dreamed of being a beauty queen since she was a little girl, dressing up in swimsuits and high heels and parading before her bedroom mirror singing “There She Is–Miss America”, the theme song of the most widely-known pageant.  “Other girls may want to cure terrible diseases or help students overcome learning disabilities,” she says.  “I’d rather win first and then pick out something like that as my ‘Platform’,” the signature cause each Miss America chooses to promote during her reign.

“Here I am, Miss A-Whole-Lot-Better-Looking-Than-You-Are!”

But the odds are long that Karen will ever realize her goal, and it has nothing to do with her looks, her figure, or her accordion-playing talent.  “New England has just got a jinx against it,” she says, and indeed, statistics bear her out.  In the 86-year history of the Miss America Pageant, only one girl from the six-state region has ever won–Marian Bergeron of West Haven, Connecticut in 1933.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall–does this mean I’m gonna look like Amy Winehouse when I get tall?”

“It’s not as if our girls aren’t pretty,” says Oliver Buchter, executive director of the New England Regional Beauty Queen Task Force, an intergovernmental body created to raise the region’s profile in the world of beauty pageants.  “Yes, there are a lot of sarcastic girls in Massachusetts, and snooty ones in Connecticut, but there are also a lot of fresh-faced ingenues up in the mountains of Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont if we could only lure them out of the woods.”

“I just want to say I was for ending world hunger before Miss Texas and Miss Florida were.”

One concrete suggestion that the Task Force has come up with is the creation of the sort of “minor league” pageants that girls in other areas of the country use to hone their skills before they reach the national stage.  “In Cole Camp, Missouri, you’ve got the Miss Sorghum Contest.  In Hoxie, Arkansas you’ve got the Miss Largemouth Bass Festival.  In Macon, Georgia, you’ve got the Miss Pellagra Pageant,” says Buchter.  “Other areas of the country are developing their farm teams–we’ve got to do the same thing.”

“Stop pulling my hair–you can have the stupid tiara!”

So each New England state has been charged with responsibility for the creation of a network of minor beauty festivals that the region’s governors hope will produce the sort of deep bench strength that an Alabama or Mississippi can draw on come summertime, when slender, beautiful young women from around the nation tread the catwalks of Atlantic City, Las Vegas and other venues.

State representatives have so far created the following “junior varsity” pageants, which will debut this summer:

Miss Abrasives Festival, Worcester, Mass.  “Worcester is known as the Industrial Abrasives Capital of the World,” says Karen’s dad Richie Spilika.  “We want to highlight our girls against that backdrop, which makes just about anything look pretty.”

“I hear they’re hiring over at the beauty pageant.”

Miss Unemployment, Bridgeport, Connecticut.  This gritty industrial city was once home to P.T. Barnum, the circus promoter famous for saying “There’s a sucker born every minute.”  ”People are always throwing that in our faces,” says Paul Scorzito, a convenience store owner.  “I’d like to see us get known for our girls’ baton-twirling skills.”

Baton twirlers, Bridgeport, CT

Miss Potato Harvest Festival, Bangor, Maine.  Maine produces more potatoes than any state except Idaho, and teenagers are traditionally released from high school to help with the harvest.  “It could be a problem in the swimsuit competition,” says Armand Aubuchon, the town’s mayor.  “You can hide your carbs in the winter, but not in the summer.”

“I’ve been doing Pilates and it’s really helped my figure!”

Miss Snowmobile Festival, Craftsbury, Vermont.  Snowmobiling is a fun family activity, but one that tends to discourage teenage girls from developing the Barbie-like hourglass figures favored by beauty pageant judges.  “We’ll hold the swimsuit part indoors,” says Lyle Mahoney, owner of a snowmobile repair shop.  “Then there’ll be a series of sprints and a ‘poker run’ through the woods outside of town.”  

Miss Hunting Accident, Laconia, New Hampshire.  Hunting accidents are New Hampshire’s fastest-growing industry, as payments by out-of-state insurers fill the coffers of state hospitals and physicians every fall.  “This is our way of saying ‘Thank you’ to all those idiots who shoot friends and family members in the mistaken belief that they’re deer,” says state Fish and Game Warden Jeffrey Marston.  “Come enjoy the Q&A during the ‘Presence and Poise’ segment of the competition while you recuperate.”

Miss Coffee Milk Pageant, Pawtucket, Rhode Island.  Coffee milk is the state drink of Rhode Island, and a delicacy that is found nowhere else in America.  “It goes great with hot dogs,” says Frank Trimarco, a local accountant.  ”The winning girl will be the one whose complexion most closely matches our native concoction.”

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

Media Panel: Should Chelsea Respond to “Horndog” Questions

CAMBRIDGE, Mass.  Marvin Kalb, a former reporter for CBS and NBC News, looks more than a little flustered as he adjusts his lapel microphone.  “I did this for three decades,” he says as he fumbles with the familiar device.  “For some reason I’m a little nervous tonight.”

“Marvin, a ‘horndog’ is not, technically speaking, a dog at all.”

Kalb’s disconcerted air may have something to do with the topic of the panel discussion he will chair tonight as senior fellow at the Joan Shorenstein Center on the Press, Politics and Public Policy, namely: “Should Chelsea Clinton respond to questions about her horndog father at public appearances in support of her mother’s presidential campaign?”

“I’m here to answer any questions you may have–except that one.”

“These are uncharted waters we’re sailing in,” Kalb says to a reporter who is interviewing the former reporter before an audience composed largely of reporters.  “Can the press, under the guise of covering an eternal political campaign, break the tedium by asking questions with a decidedly prurient interest?”

“Next softball question–over there.”

Arguing the affirmative–that a candidate’s decision to subject his or her children to the bright glare of a political campaign makes them fair game–is Verrill Conroy, a long-time Associated Press reporter.  “The Clinton campaign has relied on plants to ask softball questions at media events,” he notes.  “We should be able to ask what size bra she wears if we want.”

“I do not now, nor have I ever, highlighted my hair.”

Opposing him will be Sandra Day-Feldman, who supports the concept of a “zone of privacy” for political candidates first proposed by former President Bill Clinton when news of his subscription to “Hot Sweaty Biker Babes” first became public in 1993.  “I think there are things about the candidates that we don’t need to know,” she says.  “Like if Ron Paul smokes pot and listens to Iron Butterfly albums, that’s really none of our concern.”

Iron Butterfly: Inspired the In-a-Gadda-da-Vida-Free School Zone Act of 1968.

Kalb forces the issue, asking Conroy whether he would like stories of his extra-marital affairs to be broadcast to the world.  “I have lived a blameless life,” Conroy responds.  “Other than one time at a Christmas party when I high-fived Veneta Miller after she won the ’Accounting Department Trivial Pursuit’ contest and my hand inadvertently landed on her, shall we say, milk jug.”

“Ohmygod–Verrill Conroy has his hands all over Veneta Miller!”

The debate was sparked by a student journalist’s question during a campaign appearance Ms. Clinton made at Butler University in Indianapolis.   “Wow,” she responded to the query as to how her mother’s credibility had been affected by the Monica Lewinsky scandal.  “You’re the first person actually that’s ever asked me that question in the, I don’t know maybe, 70 college campuses I’ve now been to.  I went to Stanford and Oxford and you’re like, stuck here in this second-tier–I almost said third-tier–dump of a school.  It must be a really dumb question.”

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

The Decline and Fall of Holy Roman Basketball

Hello sports fans.  I’m sitting out on the balcony of the Vatican, having my morning espresso, going over the sports page of L’Osservatore Romano.  Let me tell you, I don’t like what I see.

The Catholic Church started out with ten–ten!–schools out of 64 on the Road to the Final Four.  So far, 8 have been knocked on their donkeys like St. Paul and are lying in a ditch next to the breakdown lane.  We have only two teams in the Sweet 16.  This is not good.

“Nothing but net!”

Let me tell you, Villanova or Xavier better make it at least to the Final Four, or there will be hell to pay.  Literally.

Mark Few

I’m thinking, for example, of Gonzaga.   Every year, the Zags are the darlings of March Madness.  This year–eliminated in the first round!  I’ve got a call into the Archdiocese of Spokane.  This guy Mark Few–the head coach–as far as I’m concerned he’s leftover tuna noodle casserole about to be scraped into the cafeteria garbage bin of college basketball history.  And there won’t be any nun standing by to tell me to take my tray back to my seat and clean my plate because there are point guards starving in Bosnia-Herzogovinia.

Emeka Okafor

Here comes Francis Arinze, the Cardinal from Nigeria.  He’s been completely insufferable since he picked UConn to go all the way in 2004.  Big deal, he knew Omeka Ekafor, or Emeka Okafor, or however you spell it.  Wants to be called “the patron saint of Hoops”.  Puh-lease.  Makes me want to gag.  Thank God we have St. Blaise, the patron saint of people who get things stuck in their throats.  How ya doing, Frank–nice to see you too.  Yeah, see you in the gym later.

St. Blaise: “Try a throat lozenge.”

Blow it out your shorts you overgrown ball boy.

I’m looking at my sheets and wondering where I went wrong.  Davidson beat Georgetown in the second round–I sure as hell didn’t see that one coming.  Screwed up my whole Midwest bracket, and the entire game I was throwing everything I had at the TV.  Leaning into the low-post to help the Hoyas get better position, setting invisible moving picks to get G-town open looks.  Then Arinze walks in and says “It won’t do you any good–the game’s on tape delay.”  What a wise-guy.  All because he figured out how to work the DVD player in the Vatican rec room first.

I’m pretty sure I’m still the Pope, the direct descendant and living embodiment of St. Peter.  They were eliminated in the first round, too.  No wait–that was St. Joseph’s.  And St. Mary’s.

If Kansas beats Villanova, and West Virginia beats Xavier, I’ll have nothing to watch but boring half-court NBA basketball until next fall.

Remember to check Baltimore Catechism and see if suicide is still a mortal sin.

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

Obama Says Clinton’s Pastor Has Also Stirred Controversy

WASHINGTON.  Stunned by a precipitous drop in his poll numbers in the wake of incendiary remarks made by his former pastor at Chicago’s Trinity United Church of Christ, Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama today went on the offensive, accusing Hillary Clinton’s campaign of covering up controversial statements made by the senior minister at Foundry United Methodist Church here, where Clinton is a member.

Dean Snyder

“Dean Snyder is just as volatile as Jeremiah Wright,” said Obama spokesperson Mandy Miller.  “We have tapes of him spewing venomous hatred from the pulpit, attacking people who take up two spaces in the church lot by their sloppy parking.”

“You kids stop running–now!”

In a tape posted on the internet video site YouTube, Snyder is seen yelling at a group of children on the steps outside the church.  “I’ve told you kids a thousand times,” Snyder shouts angrily, his face turning red.  “No running, no playing, no youthful hijinx–no fun, period!”

John Wesley CD, and live.

Methodism is a Protestant Christian sect based on the teachings of John Wesley, an Anglican clergyman and guitarist who with ex-White Lion front-man Mike Tramp served as opening act on the 1998 Peter Frampton/Lynyrd Skynyrd tour.  Wesley subsequently teamed up with Scottish neo-prog legend John Calvin to form Synod of Dort, a ska-influenced emo-polka denomination that permits animal sacrifice as part of church ham ‘n bean suppers and shad bakes.

“Pass the beans, please.”

Methodism attracts politicians from both ends of the political spectrum, as President Bush and Vice President Cheney are practicing members of the denomination as well as Clinton and former Democratic presidential candidate John Edwards.  “It’s hard to describe the comfort my faith provides me,” Cheney said in a 2002 Parade Magazine interview.  “Maybe it’s the wonderful feeling I get when I wake up from a nap during a reading from the Book of Common Prayer.”

“My preacher can whup your preacher.”

Clinton defended Reverend Snyder, saying his preaching had to be understood as part of the tradition of white ministers who confront their congregations on the issues of the day.  “Sure we could have remained mired in the past, drinking Chase & Sanborn at our post-service coffee hours,” Clinton said.  “Reverend Snyder pushed for French Roast, and while many resisted at first, we have learned to embrace a more diverse selection.”

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

Ask the Car Guy!

Is your car making a funny sound?  Does it give off a bad smell?  Ask the Car Guy for help, and as soon as he gets the grease off his hands, he’ll type out an answer to your question.

 

Dear Mr. Car Guy-

My husband “Carl” is a certified public accountant, which as you probably know can be a very “stressful” job at certain times of the year.  During these periods I have to take care of “manly” things he is too busy for, although he always seems to find time for bowling.  “Carl” was recently going over our bills from the gas station and saw that I paid for tune-ups for our 2004 Buick LeSabre in both April and December.  Why the hell did you do that? he asked, and not very nicely.  I said to him, “You told me to get the car serviced, so I did.”  He says a tune-up, which can cost over $100, isn’t the same as getting a car serviced, although he couldn’t explain how.  Can you tell me what a “tune-up” is, and how I am supposed to know technical things like this?

Thank you in advance,

Mrs. Beverly Johnson, Ouachita, Oklahoma

Dear Mrs. Johnson:

“Regular” auto service usually means just an oil change, lube job, a check of fluid levels and belt wear.  “Tune-up” is indeed a technical term that refers not to a general check-up but to a specific automotive procedure in which a car’s engine timing is calibrated, spark-plugs, points, distributor cap and rotor are replaced, and valves are adjusted.  Here’s a handy yardstick: regular service every 3,000 miles, tune-up every 30,000 miles.  You have indeed paid for a tune-up when you didn’t need it, but I think the bigger problem is a simple lack of spousal communication.

 

Hey Car Guy-

Long-time reader, first-time writer.  I like to think I’m pretty knowledgeable about cars, but I took my 1999 Ford Explorer in for the Meineke $49.95 Lifetime Muffler Special recently and when I came back from getting a cup of coffee, which is how I pass the time when my car’s in the shop, I was in for a surprise.  There was an add-on of $73.25 for something I couldn’t make out on the bill.  I asked the guy there who didn’t look none too bright and I swear he says he had to put in a new “frammis gadget attachment”, my old one was worn out.  Car Guy, when I got home I went straight to my Chilton’s Auto Repair Manual and I can’t find anything that even looks like “frammis gadget”.  Help me out here.

Lloyd Putnam, Jr.,  Hibbing, Minnesota

Lloyd-

My guess is that the serviceman was referring to the Explorer’s throttle body spacer or perhaps the knock sensor, two parts that have not proven to be durable for your model year.  Without listening to the fellow talk I can’t be sure, however.  Let this be a lesson to you-drink the free coffee at the garage where your car is being serviced, no matter how bad it is.

Dear Mr. Car Guy:

I am sure that our car makes noises, but my husband claims he doesn’t hear them.  He says I am having auditory hallucinations, and should see a psychiatrist.

Ethel Robertson-Needermeyer, Rye, New Hampshire

Dear Mrs. Robertson-Needermeyer (that’s a mouthful!)-

What kind of noises?

 

Mr. Car Guy-

I am a philosophy major at Central Illinois State University and must commute 18 miles to school each way.  Yesterday a guy in a greasy “DeKalb Seed Corn” cap rolled down his window at a stoplight and said “You ought to get your tires rotated.”  What does that mean?  Don’t all tires “rotate”?  If they didn’t rotate, how would the car move?

Leon Racunas, Kankakee, Illinois

Leon-

Even though you are a philosophy major, the difference between “rotating” and “revolving” tires is one you should be able to grasp.  Tires should be rotated from one wheel to another every 3 to 4 thousand miles in order to preserve balanced handling and even out tire wear.  There are three basic patterns for tire rotation-the forward cross, the rearward cross and the “X” exchange.  These look very much like a “backfield in motion”, so you should perhaps have someone from the football team explain them to you.

Mr. Car Guy-

The sound is like “ta-pocketa-pocketa”, and is heard whenever we parallel park.

Ethel Robertson-Needermeyer

Ethel:

If your car is an automatic, my guess is you are low on transmission fluid, unless your husband is a ventriloquist and is trying to drive you insane.

Big Kitty

Mr. Car Guy-

My wife and I have had a place at the Lake of the Ozarks for many years.  When we first got it we were newlyweds, and she used to take her cat “Big Kitty” down for the weekend ’cause she didn’t want to leave it alone.  Anything to keep her happy I said at the time, but after a while I put my foot down.  Leave the damn cat at home, I said.  That’s why you get a cat instead of a dog.  Over the years she (my wife, not the cat) has developed a number of subterfuges for sneaking Big Kitty down to the cabin.  She’ll hide it in a picnic basket, or her sewing bag, and as soon as we are too far from home to turn back, she springs it on me-surprise!  This is what I have to put up with.

Big Kitty, when little

Anyway, last week we got about as far as Tipton when I stopped for gas.  There was a guy there who offered me a Bass Pro rod and reel if I would take him down to the Bagnell Dam, where he said he was gonna meet some people.  Sounded like a good deal to me, so my wife got in back and he rode shotgun.  We no more than got out on the road again than he pulls out a fishing knife with a serrated edge and says “I’m the Beaman Strangler-don’t pull any funny business and you won’t get hurt.”  Mr. Car Guy-I have never been so scared in my life as the Beaman Strangler has terrorized Central Missouri for several years now.

Recreating the crime.

He had barely got the words out of his mouth when Big Kitty comes over the top of the seat and lands on the Strangler’s hands–I guess she smelled fish on the knife and just went crazy.  It was enough of a distraction so that I could grab the knife away from him but we ran off the road in the struggle and crashed into a car that was parked at a memorial marker where Jesse James robbed a train once or something.

My insurance company tells me that I am 100% at fault because the other guy was stopped for a legitimate purpose, and that I am liable for the deductible.  In other words, I get the aggravation of being threatened with a knife and I’m out $500.  Should I try and patch the radiator myself or take it to a professional?

Ray Lee Suggins, Smithton MO

Ray-

Sorry to hear of your misfortune.  A car radiator is a delicate thing, and any error you make in fixing it can lead to further damage to your engine block.  As hard it may seem to you after such a traumatic incident, you should always seek the assistance of a trained automotive service professional for major repairs.  And thank your lucky stars that your wife is a cat lover!

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

Tax Code Found to Be Safe Yet Powerful Aphrodisiac

WASHINGTON, D.C.  It’s getting close to tax time, and across the nation women are nursing three-month-old babies they delivered in January.

“You are just so cute and precious–and you’re worth $3,200 as a deduction from ordinary income!”

Demographers have noticed that a disproportionate number of the nation’s children are being born during the first month of the year, and the Internal Revenue Service believes it has discovered why.

 

Stiff:  “The tax code has always been a tremendous turn-on for me personally.”

“Our nation’s tax code, while complex, can be a safe but potent means of increasing the libido of married couples who file joint returns,” said IRS Commissioner Linda Stiff.  “There’s the fighting over ‘Why don’t you make more money?’ and then–the make-up sex.”

Looking at naughty forms on the IRS website helps couples get in the mood. 

Taxpayers seem to agree with Stiff’s analysis.  Linda Barnes of Lee’s Summit, Missouri, says tax time is a period of increased intimacy with her husband Duane, who prepares their taxes using off-the-shelf software.  “Just say it real slow and sultry-like–’Turbotax–Turbotax’.  It kinda gets to you.”

Church ice cream social:  “Lloyd, is that a Drumstick in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?”

Others say they use the stimulus of tax preparation to avoid the side effects of other erectile dysfunction remedies.  “My husband Lloyd thought he was going blind from Viagra,” says Cindi Kennon of Hoxie, Arkansas, ”and with Cialis he’d walk around all weekend with a lump in his pants–not good for a Sunday night ice cream social,” at the Bethany Baptist Church where the Kennons worship.  “On the other hand, alcohol is like prunes–is two beers enough?  Is six too many?  You never know.”

Muu-Muus:  Also available in men’s sizes.

There are even couples who use tax-based role playing to add an extra kick to the Internal Revenue Code’s 9,545 pages of erotic stimulus.  “We introduce cross-dressing into our love-making routine during April,” says Anna Simon of Grosse Point, Michigan.  “I buy my husband Jim some plus-size panty hose and a muu-muu, and he plays the poor, pitiful housewife while I pretend I’m an IRS auditor.”  After scolding him for improper deductions of commuting expenses from W-2 wages, Mrs. Simon spanks her husband and allows him to file an amended return correcting his error.

 

“All of our private suites are booked right now, but I can put you on the table in the conference room.”

Tax-preparation giant H&R Block says it will add private “consultation” rooms to its offices to handle the needs of couples whose personal tastes include exhibitionism.  “The guys come in here and want to show me how big their mortgage interest deductions are,” said branch manager Herb Webb of the firm’s Council Bluffs, Iowa office.  “Frankly, they don’t pay me enough to watch that kind of sicko stuff.”

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

The Frugal Billionaire: How the Wealthy are Getting By

NAPLES, Florida.  Paul Westcott, 67 and retired, is known by his neighbors as a penny-pincher.  “He buys all his jets used,” says neighbor Armand Sanders, a former CEO of a consumer products company.  “And he takes them down to the drive-through car wash and vacuums them out himself.”

Low-mileage, one-owner.  This baby’s loaded!

Westcott represents a phenomenon that financial planners say bears out the lessons they try to teach young people starting out.  “Mind the millions, and the billions will mind themselves,” says Wade Northrup of Wealth Management Associates in Old Naples.  “Most people become rich by simply managing their expenses wisely, like not having more than three homes.”

Beach cabana

The topic is of interest here as Congress considers whether to change the treatment of the “carried interest” of private equity firms to ordinary income, making it taxable in the year of receipt.  “My carried interest isn’t something I can eat, or drive or sleep in,” says Marc Marston of Agamemnon Partners, manager of a fund that makes leveraged investments in technology companies, financial services firms and Pokemon cards.  “When we liquidate our current portfolio I’ll have enough money to buy most of Ireland and Wales, but that’s several years off.”

“Todd, we’re going to have to sell one of your strings of polo ponies.”

Political handicappers say a populist mood in the country has improved the prospects for passage of legislation that will adversely affect the wealthy, causing some families to take steps now to manage their children’s expectations. 

 

“But Mom–Courtney had a rhino at her party!”

“I told Heather that her Sweet 16 party might not be as lavish as she had hoped,” says Lindsey Campbell, mother of two and wife of a hedge fund manager.  “The water slide will be two stories instead of three, she can have an elephant but not a rhinocerous, and she can only invite 350 of her closest friends.”

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

Bumpy Ride Ahead as Jet-Lagged Hamsters Try Viagra

Researchers have successfully used Viagra, the male erectile dysfunction drug, to treat jet lag in hamsters.  Reuters

I was on a 48-hour turnaround to the west coast to call on Pet Place, Inc., my biggest customer, and I’d been running my tail off trying to close a deal.  By the time I got on the red-eye back to Boston I felt like a two-week old newspaper in the bottom of a hamster cage, but I didn’t care; I’d just made the biggest sale of my life–100,000 Super Rodent hamster wheels, water bottle included–and I felt like a million bucks.

“I just flew in from the coast and boy are my little arms tired!”

As I walked down the aisle to my economy class seat, I couldn’t help but give the eye to one of the stewardesses.  A cute blonde, she gave me a big smile and said hi.  Seemed to me she put more emotion into it than her job description required, but maybe I was imagining things, or just on a sales-quota high.  I looked down at the ring finger of her left hand–she was single.

“Coffee, tea–or a complimentary copy of our boring in-flight magazine?”

What’s the expression?  While the cat–or in my case, my wife–is away, the mice shall play?  Hey–I’m a rodent too! 

“Excuse me?” I said as I settled into my seat.  “Can I get a cup of water?”

“Certainly,” she replied.  I took out my pill box and popped a Viagra into my mouth. 

“Here you are,” she said as she handed me a plastic cup.

“Fank you,” I replied with the pill on my tongue.  Not too suave,  I said to myself, but when you fly as much as I do, you need something for your jet lag.

“I call this dance the ‘Funky Robot’.”

For once in my life I paid attention to the pre-flight safety instructions–she looked great in her orange life vest.  I unlatched my tray table and jumped on it to get a better look.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a breathy, sultry voice.  “The captain has turned on the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign, so all trays must be in the upright position.”

 

“There’s some sort of rodent in seat 12C.”

That’s not all that was in the upright position.  “No problemo“, I said, trying out a little Spanish I’d picked up in Southern Cal.  It is the language of love, you know.

“We know you have a choice of bankrupt airlines, so we appreciate your business!”

As she removed her life vest I couldn’t take my eyes off what lay beneath–two big, soft you-know-whats, looking for all the world like Indian burial mounds covered in white linen.  “Kowa bunga”, I said to myself, and I meant it, whatever it means.

I know what you’re thinking–just another horny salesman on the road, looking for love on the run–but who are you to judge?  I keep myself in great shape–when you’re selling hamster wheels you have to look the part.  I’ve been sexually mature since I was six weeks old and I’ll probably be dead before I’m three.  I’ve got to have some fun while I can.

We prepared for take-off, and I started to fasten my seat-belt when I, uh, encountered a little problem.

“I need you to fasten your seat-belt,” she said to me politely as she patrolled the aisle.

“I can’t seem to get it closed.”

“Let me see if I can help you,” she said.  Dear God in heaven, I thought, as she leaned over me and struggled to secure the clasp.  This makes up for lousy airline food.

“I tell you what,” I said after a few moments of this exquisite business.  “Why don’t you sit on my lap and we’ll talk about the first thing that comes up?”

“I’ve had my eye on you since Express Check-In at John Wayne International.”

Before you could say “Federal Air Marshall” some dorky guy with a crew-cut is all over me like a can of flea powder.  “You have the right to remain silent,” he’s shouting in my ear.  “You have the right to retain counsel, and the right to retain your complimentary bag of peanuts and SkyMall Shopping Guide.”

“But officer,” I said, “I couldn’t help myself.  I’m on medication.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.  “You can’t make a pass at a stewardess unless you’re sitting in first class.”

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman