sub~Urban Blog

Letter in the Newspaper

While reading this week’s newspaper, I found this letter to the editor:

“Dear Editor:

“A stinky problem has emerged in our fair city—a very stinky problem. I’m talking about all of the skunks that have been infesting our crawl spaces, garages and shrubbery. They are a problem that affects us all for sanitary and other olfactory concerns.

 

“The lady on channel 5 said that there are so many because of the wet fall we had last year and that they had lots of food. She said they could be a nuisance –haha, and that it was best not to feed them. I guess they don’t have skunks from wherever she’s from because who would feed a skunk? The problem really is that drug dealers use the smell to cover illegal things up and that’s a threat to us all.

“Folks who want to get rid of them can do several things. Yu can trap them and take them far away, but your car will smell bad. Better to have a truck. Skunks like to eat acorns so if you have oak trees you should pick them up. We should also pass a law against those acorn people because it was OK when they were just feeding squirrels, but now we have a problem.

“The city council and mayor need to work on this problem, and not with some socialist money spending program where they import the special lady skunks who don’t smell to interbreed with the skunks around here. That would not work, like it did when they bought mongooses to Hawaii.

“Please call your councilman and urge them to find a solution for this problem. The safety of our community depends upon it.

Demonstrator Diversion

It was Tuesday, and I had to go shopping. The Bride was home and awake, so I didn't have to take the baby. I love taking the baby with me when I shop because I love the attention. I have a fancy leather strap that I use to hold her, with a couple of chains. It looks kind of mean and gothic, but the baby loves it. It gets even better when I start talking about my boyfriend. But not today.

“Don't forget to pick up a binkie.” The Bride said as I grabbed my keys.

“We need another binkie? Don't we have something like sixteen already?” The baby chirped in agreement. She was quite content in the baby trampoline that we bought at a garage sale a few weeks ago.

No, we don't have a blue one.”

I looked at the Bride. “Um, I don't think the colors make them taste different.”

“No,” She said. “It's a brand—spelled B-L-U. They're not actually blue.”

“What color are they?”

“I don't know. I just know they're called Blu. If you can't get them at the grocery store, so you'll have to go to the babypolloza place.”

So I went to the grocery store first to pick up some essentials needed for dinner that night. I looked at the selection of binkies, but didn't see the one the Bride wanted me to get. I did get a blue one anyway just because they might actually taste different.

My quest for dinner was suspended by a sampler. “Excuse me sir, would you like to try some emmenthaler? It's made from ostrich milk and sherry.”

I had to stop. “Ostrich milk? I didn't know ostriches had mammarys.”

“They have fathers, too.” The sample lady had bright red hair that was inadequately contained by an old hairnet.

“Yeah, I know. But they don't produce milk, either.”

“Sure they do. It's really good, too. We also have an ale infused Parmesan that's good on bratwurst. “ Her hair glinted vaguely metallic under the halogen track lights that were installed because they were fashionable. I was still trying to get used to the idea that grocery stores were fashionable.

“Bratwurst? Parmesan on bratwurst? That sounds like some hardcore marketing food. Anyway, it can't be ostrich cheese. Ostriches are birds—they don't have mammary glands. You know, udders.' I didn't want to point to her own personal set because that thought grossed me out.

“Sure they do—you can even see them on the package” She held up a package of bird cheese—and sure enough, there was a picture of an ostrich with teats hanging down.

I took the package to examine it closely, and realized that what I thought were teats were actually strategically placed feathers. A closer examination of the package indicated thats this was a cheese like product made from ostrich eggs.

I pointed out the strategically placed feathers. “It's not made from ostrich milk.” I said. “It's made from fermented ostrich beaks and shells.”

“What?” The sampler peered at the package in mt hand. “I've eaten almost full package.” She looked at me suspiciously. “That's not true.”

“Sure it is.” I turned the package over and pointed out the long list of ingredients on the back, starting with the bold black letters that sad 'This is a processed cheese type food product.' Her eyes adopted a vacant stare as she was confronted by the text.

“Oh. You said fermented? What's that?' Her voice seemed pitched higher in alarm.

"It's a process where they use bacteria to make alcohol. It's perfectly safe.”

“Alcohol? With bacteria? I can't eat this anymore!” She said. She began to take down her display.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I can't support that kind of product. It's an abomination and immoral."

The Founder of Flounder

The Bride returned with a collection of groceries. I usually don't let her shop because of her tendency to purchase impulse items. A quick survey of the bags indicate purchases of some kind of spray nozzle for the shower, a package of pre-threaded needles and a backup battery pack for a sump pump that was guaranteed to run for three minutes.

But among the collection of useful groceries was rum mint and limes. So I froze my ass off grilling steaks while she mashed potatoes, and we had a nice dinner at home, followed with a round of mojitos. Of course, being 8.378 months pregnant, she's drinking virgin mojitos, while I arrange to have mine with a double ration of rum.

"You know," She said, "It's Fat Tuesday."

"It is? Wow, that snuck up fast."

"Yeah, I know. I'm going to go over to St. Whatchamallits to get my forehead smudged tomorrow. You want to come?'

"No, I think I'll be busy."

"Anyway, I was thinking … why don't you get a job for Lent?"

I contemplated her idea overnight, and the next morning called the agency that had placed me at my last data schlepping job. They quickly told me to report to one of the gray office fortresses that guarded the edge of our sub-urban area from the wilds of cornfields. After parking my car in a treeless lot, I was greeted at the front door by a woman wearing large swaths of polyester. She led me through a series of cubicle-laden offices to a drab box near a windowless wall. The wall sported a motivational picture of a bunch of zebras, with the motivating message "Be One of the Herd!" in stylized script.

"Please have a seat." She handed me a packet of mimeographed pages. "Here's the basic instructions for accessing the QAS and SPLF systems. Your network login id is J41GQ5, which is also the password for your voicemail, fax/copier access and the lock on the office supply closet. To log into the timecard system, you just use your number minus the status prefix, so your login id there is 41GQ5t, with the 't' always in lowercase because you're a temporary employee. To access the Mainline system, use your mainline id of mcr1chb, and make sure it's a separate password then your J41GQ5 login password. Set up your voicemail now, and there's a meeting in 20 minutes about your project. Please review the special voicemail instructions on top of your packet."

"There are special instructions for the voicemail?" I asked.

"Yes. You have to include your network login. You're a J series, which means a contractor with a life expectancy between three and six months, though the 41 is reserved for projects that don’t have an anticipated end date."

So I recorded my voicemail and went to the meeting where I listened to two guys in ties tell me seven times that they wanted this particular data carefully inspected, researched, reconfigured and processed into hundreds of little tiny sets, so that the tiny data sets could then be combined in such a way that it would appear as if they were playing with LEGOs.

When I returned from lunch, a workman was affixing a nameplate to the cubicle wall. It said 'JL41GQ15'.

"Don't I get one with my name?" I asked the workman.

"Yes, but we don't have the nameplate now. The guy who does the names refused to do so this week because we changed suppliers, and the new letter style was labeled 'Roman.' You see, he's Greek, and was offended by that for some reason about stealing their gods, so he refused to use them. He'll be fired on Thursday."

"Okay, but it's not right--there's an extra number in there."

"No, that's supposed to be there. It's to help people find your cubicle. By the way, did they tell you not to pin up anything on cubicle walls that face west?" He then pointed north.

"Um, no. Why's that?"

"It interferes with cell phone reception."

I thanked him and delved into my paperwork. At 3 in the afternoon, the speakers above stopped their string of disco favorites that was surely some satellite feed from studio54 and announced that it was time for the afternoon cheer. So I followed everyone else to the cafeteria, where we all saw two men and a woman in suits.

They proceeded to explain that the division had just made their quarterly quotas on sales. After each one took turns thanking everyone for their hard work, the three then started clapping in unison. The crowd immediately joined in. The three executives shouted in unison:

"Who are we?!"

"We're the best employees out there!" The packed lunchroom responded.

"And why are we here?!" The executives shouted.

"Because we love Mother Hubble!" The crowed shouted back.

"And why's that?!" Chanted the executives.

"Because she's the founder!" The crowd responded.

"She's the founder?!"

"The founder of flounder!" The crowd yelled.

"And are we busy as bees?! The executives asked.

"Bzzzzz!" Said the crowd.

"Mother Hubble! Mother Hubble! Mother Hubble!" The executives and crowd chanted.

It's going to be a long six weeks. I wondered if they would let me work from home. I went back to my cubicle, and began to look over the datasets I was supposed to schlep. Datasets are pretty tepid and dull, and soon I felt rather sleepy. I stood and stretched, but it didn't really help. So I laid my head down on the keyboard and closed my eyes for a few moments.

Letter in the Newspaper

In reading this week's newspaper, I found the following letter to the editor:

"Our community is in danger. Every day, when I walk down the street, I see many people who are allowing their homes to slip into the decadence of decay.

"I have lived in this country for thirty years. I am a patriot.

"It disturbs me so to see that there are many that do not understand the proper order of our society. Our founding fathers made sure of this by the granting the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

"They are careless when it comes to the hygiene of the home. They have chairs in the lawn they bought at the discount store and the coolers and trampoline. When they mow their lawn, there are bunches of grass that set out in the sun and rot.

"Maybe this could be happiness for some but the elements of their obsessions are nasty fruit for me to bear.

"Decency is at stake. The television shows us a world that is bereft of danger and harlot. We need to protect our community. Council members and church elders, please note these important issues when metering efforts gravely."

Axes of Evil

A spectre is haunting our community--it haunts the bedrooms and the soccer fields and creeps into our schools and fast food parking lots. It is the unquenchable desire of a teenager to obtain sophistication at any cost. Today's menace is body spray.

I first was introduced to this olfactory menace when I discovered that the (teenaged) kid’s high school had a policy about distributing marketing materials on campus. Rather then allowing for useful items like condoms or switchblades, the school only permitted various insipid marketing programs. Usually, it was organizations like the U.S. Navy who passed out useless items like chewing tobacco and dried squid and various colleges with pamphlets that make college seem like hanging out at modeling school, but when the (teenaged) kid returned from school the day they passed out free samples of body spray, I could tell something was in the air.

I thought it was the dogs. I figured they had found something that actually smelled nice somewhere in the back yard. But unlike most dog smells, except for flatulence, this came and went. Finally, one morning before school, I realized the smell was coming from the (teenaged) kid. “What’s that smell?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s just my body spray.” After he went to school one morning, I searched his room and found seven missing dishes, my cordless drill, a copy of People magazine and six bottles of body spray with three different brands and five different scents.

I next noticed that the body spray phenomenon had spread to the (teenaged) kid’s karate activities. One Sunday morning, I noticed he was giving off sweetly pungent clouds as we drove to a tournament. I didn’t say anything other then to remark that the tournament must have a new event associated with olfactory assaults and defenses. As expected, the (teenaged) kid was not amused at my observation.

But I finally realized how widespread this was on a Saturday when I gave the (teenaged) kid and a few of his friends to a Dungeons & Dragons tournament. Now, as far as I can tell, kids who play D&D generally tend to be social outcasts, so when I noticed that the car gained a new aspect of polished body spray odor with each teenager I picked up, I realized that this malady had advanced to the dorks and geeks.

Next came a letter to the editor in the newspaper written by a concerned grandparent. It started by explaining that body spray was an imposition of sophistication upon our impressionable teenagers, and the marketing programs used to turn them on to the wonders of body spray were laying groundwork for a loss of morals through the marketing of vices. It also indicated that body spray was responsible for a recent increase in teenage pregnancy, and that it was possible that teenagers were using body spray to fool drug-sniffing dogs.

A week or so later, a photocopy of the letter printed on garishly yellow-green paper appeared in my mailbox. Shortly after that, the (teenaged) kid brought home a note announcing a special assembly next week with a presentation by the municipal police department.

I arrived at the school a bit early to get acclimated. The assembly was in a gymnasium decorated for an upcoming badminton game (At least that’s what I think they meant with signs that said ‘Hide the Birdie’). I got a seat up front as the gymnasium began to fill up with a bunch of noisy but nice smelling kids.

The vice principal started by having the assembly recite the Pledge of Allegiance, and then discussed later class periods and the resanitization of the locker rooms due to the appearance of ringworm. At least that’s what I think he said because he had this annoying habit of saying everything in a bizarrely complicated way.

He continued: “The administration is not unaware that most of the student body says no to illegal drugs. However, there have been numerous media messages saying that not just a few students who body spray are utilizing it in such a way as to make themselves immune to detection by a drug sniffing dog. We have taken the not simple steps today to demonstrate to the student body in no uncertain terms that body spray does not serve to distract canine officers.” I'll spare you the rest.

At this point, a municipal cop emerged from the stage wing, accompanied by a small white dog that looked suspiciously like a shaved Maltese. The officer and dog sniffed around the vice principal without incident. They then walked over to the opposite side of the stage, where the dog sat down and said, "Damn, there's a lot of body spray around here. And someone has chicken." I then contemplated how much more interesting this assembly would have been if they had brought a drug-sniffing iguana.

The vice principal then was handed a can of body spray and a sandwich baggie filled with what appeared to be fairly decent marijuana. He then proceeded to spray the baggie liberally with the can. Sporadic gasps could be heard from the audience, and someone behind me who I suspected was an anthropology teacher chortled. The vice principal folded the baggie and put it in his pants pocket. “Okay, officer, you can make another searching pass for contraband.”

The officer and dog completed another casual stroll around the vice principal with an air of indifferent detachment. The crowd began to laugh as the dog circled the principal two or three more times without incident. The roar of laughter and voices grew to drown out the vice principal. Above the din an electronic gong sounded, and the multitude of pleasantly scented students filed out to their next class.

The following week the school district sent out a letter saying students were forbidden from wearing body spray, or having it in their lockers or backpacks. And yet another bastion of sub-urban bourgeoisie wrecks havoc upon the youthful proletariat.