#119 Fried Green Twinkies

So I was at the Clark County fair a while back. I had a good reason; my family and I were going to a Styx concert. We arrived early for I’m not sure what reason, I guess because the price of the concert ticket included fair admission and it seemed like such a waste to pass up a free trip to the fair. Yeah right.
Naturally, the kids peeled off right away, teenagers have no business with adults in public, and we were left to our own devices to amuse ourselves for the three hours before the concert started. So it was off to the pig barn. Nothing more amusing than spending some quality time with our nearest cultural neighbor on the food chain. Pigs and humans have a lot in common. Not just police humans either, I mean the family nature and the omnivorous-ness and the tendency to waller in squalor. These pigs were none too perty. Hairy, but the hair was sparse. And hanging lankly like it did against their bright pink flesh, the word chemo patient came to mind.
There were only two pigs in the entire pig barn. The rest of the space was occupied by cattle. I don’t know if it was meant to be some 4-H version of humor—to trap the urban masses into asking what type of pig had horns and a big fly-swatting tail—or if indeed Clark County is just more dairy and less bacon, but one thing’s for sure: Putting the livestock barn only a few feet from the food concession barn seemed a little cruel even by raise-a-pet-pig, win-a-ribbon, sell-him-to-a-butcher, 4-H standards.
The smell of bacon burgers and hot dogs wafting from the fair food concessions had all the animals looking mighty alert, let me tell you. You gotta wonder if animals, with their keen sense of smell, can pick out the sweet/smoky odor of one of their rendered friends being griddled to culinary perfection.
Anyhow, the smell was too much, so after a quick trip to the rooster hut we made a beeline for that very same food area, there to stuff ourselves on onion beef burgers, chicken strips, corn dogs and oh yeah, emu jerky. Nature, thy bounty. If you think that’s odd, well hey, if you’re gonna eat it, you got to be able to look it full in the face first.
As we emerged from the food barn we noticed one of the carny food booths selling elephant ears. And something else. The newest in fair food this year: Deep-fried Twinkies. I kid you not. Operating on the principle that if it’s good normal, it’ll be that much better if it’s slathered in batter and deep-fried, fair folk have gone completely over the edge of cardiac sensibility. Hell, this is the fair dammit, I ain’t at the health club. Oh look, they gone done deep-fried a Twinkie, Maybell. I have died and gone to heaven. I’m as happy as a pig in slop.
America, ya gotta love it.

#118 Which White

It may be that the end of civilization as we know it will come about because we all go crazy and have our brains implode from having to process too many choices. A walk through any supermarket has become a path fraught with fear. Fear of not making the right choice, fear of having too many choices, fear of not being up on the latest research that tells you this week whether the products you thought were okay are now unsafe in some way or the unsafe products are now okay—Try the new, bacon only, Atkins modification, Southeast BBQ beach diet.
Like the other day. I needed toothpaste. Ordinarily not a problem. My experience in consumerism over the last forty-plus years tells me that sooner or later product osmosis prevails. Industrial espionage, plagiarism, and downright rip-offs mean that if a product is popular because of some magic ingredient, soon all products in that genre will have it.
So my basic philosophy of product picking is: whatever’s cheapest. Grab the damn thing with the lowest price and get on with your life.
Unfortunately, I had picked one of those days when everything was the same low price. Except for Toms of Maine and one other hippie toothpaste crafted from the chemical clay of aloe, gingko biloba and baking soda, every single tube, pump, and gel was the same sticker. Great, I thought. Now even the toothpaste companies have got into the employee discount frenzy.
So I was forced to actually read the packaging on the various toothpastes. And I discovered something. I now have to decide how white I want my teeth to be. Crest, as one example, had whitening, extra whitening, dual action whitening, whitening expressions and multicare whitening. They also had sensitive, cavity protection, tartar removing, baking soda, herbal, citrus, scope, and various mint flavors—Cool mint, regular mint, and fresh mint. Oh, and something I’m totally unsure of, a formula called rejuvenating, which remineralizes, refeshes and restores your teeth. Who would have thought the fountain of youth was in aisle 3-b?
Still, as if the bewildering choices of flavors of mint isn’t enough to drive me to Frances Farmer land, I’m left with the quandary of which white is the white for me. I mean, whitening is okay and I’m a little intrigued by “dual action” whitening. Sounds really impressionistic somehow, like Bob Ross is going to start daubing my mouth with a special brush. But extra whitening? If I wanted my teeth white, would I even consider regular whitening when extra whitening was available. “No, just regular white please, if my smile’s too luminescent I could blind people.”
Of course the big question is this: Are they really all just the same damn concoction anyhow? Cause I don’t think there’s a federal board somewhere examining toothpaste formulas. “Proctor and Gamble, we’re going to fine you. You’ve got more whitening in the tube than you promised.”
America, ya gotta love it.

#117 PSA Holes

They never seem to have public broadcasting campaigns for the stuff that really affects me. They’ve got a public service ad out now that talks about “Drive Hammered, Get Nailed,” and another one that says “Don’t get a ticket, leave more space,” but there isn’t one for cellphone pedestrians—if you ask me, our newest and most problematic road hazard. Using a cell phone is a good thing. Using one when you’re a pedestrian and having that use affect your judgment as to when it’s safe to cross the street, is not. When I write about nearly creaming some idiot cause she walked right in front of me while she was chatting on the phone, understand it’s not you and your phone usage I’m talking about, just the moron I nearly ran over. Problem is, it’s assumed that the driver is at fault in a pedestrian accident. So even though cell-phoid Annie is chatting up a blue streak and crossing against the light, the red streak she leaves under your bumper is your fault. We need a radio ad campaign for that. Something on the order of: “Dumb as a cow? Get creamed.”
The current campaign on the air about “Drive Hammered, Get Nailed” I find a little unsettling. It features a heartfelt testimonial by a lady who lost her daughter to a drunk driver. I really feel for the woman. Drunk driver homicides should be treated like any other homicide, and prosecuted accordingly. None of this involuntary manslaughter stuff. Nobody held a gun to the drunk’s head and forced him to get blotto. Nothing involuntary about it. But then the commercial in question brackets the heartfelt plea with this “Drive Hammered, Get Nailed” song. Surrounding a wrenching testimonial with what is essentially a bad pun is too jarring for me. Puns have their place, this isn’t one of them.
But it’s better than the other PSA out there now about preventing little snaky automobile drivers from causing accidents with poor helpless friendly old big trucks. The song talks about little guys cutting the big guys off. Leave ‘em plenty of room and all that. I agree. Big rigs can’t stop on a dime. Still, it seems to me more than once I have been the cuttee and/or the near-crushee as a methed-up longhauler has nearly crashed my ass to the guardrail. So though I appreciate the friendly reminder Traffic Safety Commission, let’s also target an ad campaign to the pot that’s calling the kettle black. And let’s come up with a more memorable slogan while we’re at it. The current catch phrase for this don’t cut off campaign is “Don’t get a ticket, Leave more space.” Not nearly as catchy as the seatbelt enforcement campaign, Click it or Ticket. Or the equally effective private oil change campaign, Lube it or Lose it. A campaign embraced by sophomoric folks from here to Sigmund Freud High School. “Don’t get a ticket, Leave more space” just doesn’t quite resonate. Was the creative department on vacation? Are the state’s coffers so empty we can’t afford a good ad agency consultant? How about: “Aggressive Driving? Aggressive Enforcement.” Or “Not enough space? We’ll get in your face.”
America, ya gotta love it.