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As I’m strolling down the main part of the huge complex, my eyes come across a Victoria’s Secret store. I glance to that direction, for absolutely no reason. Okay, there is a reason, it’s the enormous poster of some beautiful Victoria’s Secret angel attempting to sell some skimpy lingerie.

I admire the sight and in my view appears one of the most angelic faces I’ve ever seen. It was a woman, about 5’8″, 115 lbs., sandy brown hair and a great smile. She was employed there as an associate. I stop dead in my tracks and notice that the store is fairly empty from customers.

This is my chance. I’m going to ask her out.

For the next several minutes I ponder my attack. There is absolutely no reason for me to walk into this store, as I’m alone. The only reason for me to enter is the sole purpose of shopping for my significant other. But if I do that, then this woman that I wish to ask out will think I’m dating somebody. And if I do walk in, she will most likely know the reason why. So what do I do?

I think about the situation and find no answer.

Then it hits me. “Just go ask her out.” A voice in my head chimes these simple, yet magical words.

I make my way up to the entrance and lock the woman in my view. She smiles at me and looks away, seeing that a co-worker, another woman, wants to talk to her. The two converse for a moment. I can’t hear what is being said because the two are still a good distance away.

As I inch my way closer, I begin to hear bits of the conversation. The words become clear. The woman I wish to ask out says, “I love that place. My boyfriend and I go there all the time.” Her boyfriend, the two words that alter my plan.

Hearing this, my first instinct is to turn around and leave. There’s only one problem, I’m right next to them. When I finally stop, the two women look at me. My eyes bulge.

Thoughts race in my mind, thinking of a way to not make myself look like an idiot.

“Can I help you?” the woman I want to go out with asks.

“Uh,” I stumble. I catch myself and proceed. “You’re about the same size as my girlfriend. Can you try something on for me?”

The only reason why I say this is because I once saw it in a movie and the clerk complied.

The woman, embarrassed, but slightly intrigued, smiles and replies, “I really can’t do that.”

I urge her on. “I just want to make sure it’s a perfect fit. If you could do this for me, it would really help me out.”

She looks around to see if anyone is present.

Nervously, she backs away. But the flattery is still there.

“I don’t know. I just don’t think I should,” she remarks.

“Please, I would really appreciate it if you did,” I say, trying one last time. By now, every ounce of so-called charm is expended.

The woman smiles. I break her down. She then looks at me and says, “I would love to try this on…but this is a dildo, sir.”

“I know, just put it in your mouth and in your ass for a minute,” I beg.

And as I’m getting thrown out, I smile to myself knowing that I still have it.

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“I couldn’t get laid for anything. Hanging out with Superman and Batman was a nightmare. They get so much pussy that there’s nothing left over,” said the All-Nighter, the Flash’s new superhero name.

According to the All-Nighter, the recent name change was due to women believing that the name ‘the Flash’ marked his stamina in bed. “I couldn’t imagine (that) just by changing his name, it would make a difference. I mean, now, the All-Nighter is an incredible lay,” said Wonder Woman, who has slept with the All-Nighter as both the Flash and his current identity.

The only negative aspect about the name change is the confusion about the All-Nighter’s super power. “When he was the Flash, everybody could relate to his superhuman speed. Now, it’s like, the All-Nighter? What the hell is that?” said Green Lantern, sick about the All-Nighter’s sudden popularity.

The All-Nighter’s name change has set trends. An update notes that Apache Chief is now known as Hung Like Mule.

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For me, those stone kids are the quintessential image of summer, and seeing the water spurt out officially ushers in the season and signals that its time to plant the annuals, sit around and wait for the perennials, and take down the flag that has a woven picture of Santa Claus embracing a scantily clad Mrs. Claus with the caption, “Merry X-Mas 2000: The Perineum Millenium.”

That’s what seeing the statue signals, but I can’t do any of those things, because my family tree gave me splinters. Unlike the two stone children, their pumpkin, and all of the members of Van Halen, I suffer from allergies, and I hate myself for it. I am a self-hating human.

My parents, both human, have allergies too, and at some point during the birthing procedure, they transferred their allergies to me. Now, whenever I encounter near-invisible yellow dust, I get extremely hyper, my blood vessels constrict, my pupils dilate, I listen to a lot of Grateful Dead music, my temperature increases and I become euphoric.

What angers me most is that I had nothing to do with making my histamines overactive. I know played a role in touching the stove and licking the iron and hugging the BBQ, but to date, I didn’t do anything to provoke my sinuses into waging a biological civil war against the rest of my face.

All I want is a pill that will let me go outside for more than a day. Members of the pharmaceutical industry are sitting around, patting tmeselves on the back and drinking mojitos because they think the toast of our species is 24-Claritin. Won’t they be surprised when intelligent life comes down to Earth from space and explains that humanity’s claim to fame in the universe is the invention of the bobbing head doll. Allergy sufferers want a 36-hour pill, or a 48-hour pill, heck, we’d be happy with a 24-hour pill that really worked.

To get to the bottom of the conspiracy that’s keeping millions in-doors, I went to my old pediatric general practitioner and asked about “the dealio.”

“I hate allergies,” I said to Dr. Blightman.

“I hate babies,” he replied.

“Baby humans?”

At the mere mention of infants, Dr. Blightman shuddered, sat down on the primary colored bean-bag chair and sunk his chin into his chest.

“How can you hate baby humans? They’re the only group of humans that universally don’t smoke. Of course, they do poop on themselves, which figuratively, could be interpreted that they don’t keep their feelings bottle up inside them. Literally though, they poop…on themselves.” I stopped speaking as I was confused on the issue.

“I’m sure that I could be a movie star, if I could get out of this place. Here’s a prescription for 12-hour Claritin,” he said. “It works.”

Despite the fact that one can now get the medicine over-the-counter, I took the prescription from Dr. Blightman’s hand, patted him on the back and then kicked him off the bean-bag chair. Standing over him, I took my oxygen mask off and waited a few seconds until a slow moving wave of mucus reached the cusp of my right nostril.

“Now YOU cough for ME, bitch,” and with that I allowed the ooze to drip into his eye. On my drive home I watched through my car windows as kids threw themselves across wet, yellow tarmacs laid out on their lawns. I watched younger brothers throwing water balloons at their older brothers, and older brothers throwing rocks at their younger brothers. I saw Mother’s sitting outside, tanning their skin bronze and Father’s wearing aprons throwing raw hamburger patties at their youngest sons.

As I turned into my driveway and prepared to hold my breath for the short sprint into my climate-controlled abode, I saw my family waiting at the window with open arms and a box of tissues. Dad smiled and I know Mom would have been smiling if not for her Botox injections, and seeing them there made me think, “Summer is about kicking back and having more time to spend with the family, not the weather.”

Then the neighbors’ Wiffle ball hit my windshield and realized I was choking on my own brand of bull-dung. Summer is really about being outside, enjoying the sun and eating fondu, and someone stole that right from me, and now that someone’s gonna pay. Whoever you are…wherever you are…know that while you can run…but my nose can run faster.

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That said, another reason I have always looked forward to the break is the breathing room it gives our bank account. Or at least, I thought it gave the bank account a chance to come out of its field trip/fundraiser/PTA induced coma. Funny how some revelations are slow in coming – but after six years of summer breaks, I have finally realized that the funds I thought we were saving are actually being creatively reallocated. Take a look, you are likely to see your own balance sheet in a new light:

Field Trip $$: I have three school age children. During the school year there is a constant procession of Field Trip consent forms and dollars required in order to attend said trip. What my mother referred to as nickel and diming when I was in school is now fiving and tenning, as in $5 and $10. As we recently lined up at the multiplex to see Finding Nemo, it dawned on me that this brand of summertime field trip consumes enough money in one fell swoop to fund three months of field trip forms during the school year!

Juice Boxes: I hate these things, but I also recognize they are a convenient evil when it comes to packing lunches everyday. However during the summer, I make my daughters become reacquainted with the faucet and the clear liquid it spews. Dollars saved, right? Wrong. What I save in juice boxes is reallocated to the water bill and ahem…toilet paper.

Fundraisers: Wrapping paper, cookie dough, flower bulbs, Coupon Books, you name it. The backpack mail is constantly filled with one fundraiser after another – only I get them in multiples of three. Believe me, if wars could be fought with Cheese flavored popcorn and tubes of holiday gift wrap, my attic would be a threat to the Saddams and Osamas of this world. Seems that without the fundraisers in the summer I would be saving money right? Think again and reallocate that money to cover one car trip to World. Shamu does not jump for free.

Pencils & Paper: Three children go through a forest of paper and writing utensils during the school year. While they use some in the summer, for the most part they spend all their days swimming. (We live in Dallas, which in summer is the equivalent of living in the suburbs of Hell…HOT!) I use a pencil and paper everytime I write a check for another gallon of sunscreen.

School Clothes: Reference “Dallas” in the last paragraph. During the summer, no money is spent on clothes, as they barely wear any. Life is spent in a bathing suit. However, what I save on the coolest and oh-so-hot fashions is more than eaten up by what I spend on cooling our oh-so-hot hacienda.

I’m sure there are many more reallocations I have not yet identified, but I trust you get the picture.

You’ll have to excuse me now. The kids are heading back out to the pool and need another coat of suntan lotion. Hmmmm, I think I’ll slather some of it on my checkbook – it is looking decidedly red…Cheese popcorn for dinner, anyone?

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And with enough action-packed thrillers, comedies, and love stories to keep 85% of the family entertained (it’s the majority that counts…), cinematic pleasure almost seems like a given when the threat of melting into a mere puddle of our former selves exists in even the most basic of tasks, such as mowing the lawn, walking the dog, and rebuilding the engine of that ’67 Chevy that’s been up on blocks in the backyard for years. When mainstream entertainment is only an air-conditioned trip to the video store away, then one could easily be considered an utter fool for not taking advantage of such resources.

Just as any large-scale trend has its opposition, however, even the pure act of renting movies has been denounced by several groups as “an activity that tears families apart” and “a one-way track towards spending eternity with the devil himself.” Debbie Cohack, one member of ‘Christians for a Just America,’ commented that, “Video stores are a sinful place – I actually try to cover my eyes when I drive by on the highway…their insides are filled with corruption and moral decay, much like the majority of our congressmen…” When asked what her family has been doing lately to avoid the heat, she replied, “Well, other than prayer – of course – we’ve actually been having a whole lot of fun! Instead of this dreadfully sinful video night that’s been going around, a few of us mothers got together and thought of an even better slogan: ‘Make It a Parcheesi Night’!”

Nonetheless, whether it be videos or parcheesi or even hot ‘n wild sex with the A/C cranked on full blast, we’ve all got our own ways of staying cool during the summer heat. Just remember to continue drinking lots of fluids during any of these activities, as dehydration has an unfortunate way of ruining just about any type of good time, even parcheesi…

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People who watch snakes, study snakes and even — ick! — LIKE snakes all descend on Narcisse, Manitoba every Spring to watch the Great Snake Awakening.

That’s when thousands and thousands of allegedly harmless garter snakes — some estimate as many as 70,000 — slither out from the cracks in the limestone bedrock and do what snakes like to do: scare the bejeezus out of me.

I hate snakes. I don’t just dislike them, I hate them with a white hot passion that’s usually reserved for personal injury lawyers. I scream like a girl whenever I see one (a snake, not a lawyer), and I’ve already checked under my desk several times as I write this to make sure one hasn’t snuck in here (still a snake, but also a lawyer).

So why people would want to watch snakes pop out of the ground without beating them with a large stick is beyond me. But starting on Mother’s Day, snake geeks begin showing up at the Narcisse snake dens to watch the snakes emerge from their winter slumber to eat frogs and toads, and to mate.

“There’s nothing else out here but the snakes,” Darlene Herron, a roadside snack seller, told the Associated Press. “I don’t know why anyone brings their mother to the snake dens.”

We’ve been through this, Darlene: they’re weirdos. And apparently their moms are weirdos too.

When the snakes emerge from their law offices — I mean, underground dwellings — they haven’t had anything to eat or mate with in seven months, so they do both.

Voyeuristic visitors hike three miles to watch the mating ritual, where dozens of horny male snakes climb onto the back of a single female snake in the hopes of making more snakes. Some of these romantic pursuits are known as mating balls. And because the spectacle is such a popular one, there’s even a statue of two mating snakes on the road leading to the romantic reptilian rendezvous.

Young Impressionable Child: “Daddy, why is there a statue of two snakes wrestling?”

Uncomfortable Father: “Uhh, you’d better ask your mother.”

After the female has chosen the lucky male, the rejected suitors slither away, and leave their comrade to a lifetime of taking out the garbage and mowing the lawn. Later in the summer, 20 to 50 more law students — I mean, baby snakes — are born as a result of the coupling, but happily for snake haters like me, only two percent survive into adulthood.

That’s because snakes have a lot of predators, including birds of prey, like hawks and owls, weasels, foxes, and raccoons. So if you’re ever looking for a charity to support, please consider making a donation to the Hawks, Owls, Weasels, Foxes, and Raccoons Defense Fund.

Dave Roberts, who is the wildlife technician in charge of the Narcisse snake dens (i.e. the “Head Weirdo”), told the AP that the dens are “… a great opportunity to pass on information about these snakes and their stewardship. We try to teach a little more tolerance of the fact these creatures live around us.”

You go right ahead and teach snake tolerance, Dave. But I’m staying right here in my own little corner of the world where the lawn mower blade is always sharp, and the snakes are in short supply.

Roberts says that males use their tongues to detect the pheromone that attracts them to the female. However, he wasn’t sure why some male snakes also give off the female pheromone. Possibly to confuse rival males, he said.

Sophia Munro, a Grade 5 teacher in Winnipeg, says on her website that these “she-male” snakes are twice as lucky at mating than the non-pheromone producing males. She also agrees that the “she-male” snakes do confuse the other male snakes during the mating season.

However, scientists have shown that it’s not uncommon for young male snakes to be confused about their sexuality at times (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and that it’s all just part of growing up.

The snakes will then travel as far as 10 miles into nearby marshes to hang out for the summer, drink beer, and tell stories about how they’re suing McDonald’s because their client ate there every day for 20 years and got fat.

In the fall, the snakes who weren’t eaten or disbarred make their way back to their limestone offices to sleep for another seven months, and the whole process starts all over again.

The whole idea is enough to give me a permanent case of the willies, and to swear on a snakeskin-jacketed Bible never to set foot near the Narcisse snake dens.

Driving a steamroller is an entirely different matter.

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When I really got down to brainstorming for this column, you know – when I actually put down the martini and started writing stuff on paper, it occurred to me that not only are these jobs so easy that a chimp could perform them after an all-night banana daiquiri binge, there’s probably a pretty good chance that the inebriated monkey could do just as good, if not a better job, than most of these guys and gals do every single day. Imagine an occupation that didn’t really care about your skills and experience (or lack thereof), or even your complete deficiency of any personality whatsoever, as long as you were willing to show up regularly and go through the motions! Baby, I think I’ve chosen the wrong career…

The Weatherman
First of all, let’s face the cold facts – most weathermen are nothing more than pretty faces anymore, and yet quite a few of them that I’ve seen don’t even have that going for them! Gigantic satellite dishes and computers gather literally gobs of weather data every second of the day, which is then analyzed by, follow me now,analysts, who then convert the gobs into words that the weatherman can read on TV to try and get chicks. You’d think that with all of the money that’s tied up in that technical stuff that at least a good prediction might pop out every now and then, but instead we’re told that “There’s a chance of rain tomorrow, but then again it could be sunny all day long…actually, my left wrist has been swelling up real bad, so that could mean that hail’s coming…or that I just forgot to take my blue pills again…but I’ll have a look at your extended forecast right after we waste half a minute of your life showing you this cute little picture of a duck while the latest Kenny G album plays in the background…”Basically, this job’s all about guessing anyways, so why not at least have some fun with it?! “Today’s forecast shows a thirty percent chance of rain, with the remaining seventy percent riding on swarm after swarm of deadly locusts – might want to bring an umbrella today, folks!” or “The weather this evening isn’t really going to matter, that is if you’re the man I caught my wife with last night. George, buddy – I’ll see you right after this word from our sponsors…” or even “The skies today around beautiful lake —, oh my god – there’s a bear in the studio!!! He looks hungry – run, Krystal, run!” I would definitely tune in nightly for that!

Radio DJs
Playing the hits and nothing but the hits – sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? It should be, but some people just aren’t cut out for this job…yet they’re usually the ones who end up getting them! Personally, I can hold a conversation just fine, sometimes even with other people, but I still have the understanding that I could never carry myself for an entire four-hour shift on the radio – sure, I can make people laugh in short bursts, but certainly not for any length of time big enough to keep a listener’s attention if I’m not there in the same room as them.

I’ve come to accept this, so why can’t these people who are on right now just take a step back and accept it, too?! We’ve got one particular DJ in the area, and I’m sure that you’ve got somebody just like him in your hometown – sure, he means well and all, but there’s just way too much fake enthusiasm in that voice for a meager lunchtime broadcast.

“…and that just about wraps up our noontime requests – I hope you’ve enjoyed this time we’ve spent together just as much as I have. It’s time to head back to the office now, to coallate a few files, maybe stare at some print-outs for an hour or two, stare dreamily out the window, fantasizing about tomorrow’s lunch hour underneath that same Willow Tree – maybe you’ll have a nice ham and cheese sandwich, with some fresh fruit on the side and a Diet Pepsi, and of course, your favorite contemporary radio station…”

It’s ok that you suck, just as long as you don’t interrupt my jams eighty times an hour to remind me!

State Senators
To Lead: lie, cheat, steal, or otherwise run a large body of government.

I see no need to elaborate any further on this one…

Outfielder for Any Team Playing Against the Detroit Tigers
I suppose this one doesn’t necessarily have to fall under the suck category, but it sure rises to the top as far as simplicity is concerned! Don’t get me wrong – I used to get dragged to a lot of their games when I was a kid, but they never ceased to amaze me about how absolutely terrible they actually played. The Tigers last won the World Series in 1984 and I don’t think they’ve seen the finals since, or even a winning streak of more than two consecutive games, for that matter…

Could I personally do any better? No, probably not, but I don’t walk around calling myself a professional baseball player either, now do I?! I also happen to suck at basket weaving, water polo, and speaking German, thus I’ve never been to Europe and am in no hurry to do so. Sometimes you just have to face the facts that some people were made to play the game and some people were made to serve hotdogs and beer to those who watch the game – the Tigers just all happened to have lousy guidance counselors.

Honorable Mention: Actors & Actresses, Producers, Key Grips and Anyone Else Involved in the Hollywood Magic
Even though I’d hate to burn down any bridges here, I don’t exactly have the silver-screen bigwigs knocking down my door with three-picture deals in their clutches anyways! So in risk of forfeiting any future air time that may flutter my way, I feel compelled to let you in on one tiny, little secret: they’re all a bunch of spoiled brats. That’s right – anybody who gets paid more money per episode than most of us make in ten years is a spoiled brat, but you’d think that the least they could do would be to actually entertain us!

But no, that just wouldn’t be right, so instead we get smothered with Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire (Who’s Actually a Baker from Upstate New York)?,Individual Spin-Offs from the Cast of Seinfeld, and even The Reba McIntyre Show – when will the insanity end?! I know that not every show can be Home Improvement or Dawson’s Creek, but maybe if these people actually watchedan episode or two of these shows before subjecting the rest of us to eighteen episodes of the same post-teenage melodrama…hell, I could probably write a better sitcom than what’s on right now all by myself! Hmmm…

I’m sure that plenty of other jobs fit into this category, possibly even enough to manage a sequel column so I can therefore certainly look forward to all of your e-mails about that…although maybe not as much as I do from all of the weathermen, DJs, and government officials who will no doubt be more than happy to let me know just exactly where I can shove my opinions of them! (…no worries about the Tigers, though, as I can’t see them figuring out this wholecomputer-thing for a few years, at least…) Of course, when all is said and done, I could probably never really hack it as a politician or a television weatherman anyways, but I’d be willing to bet that one of my readers could and that’s still good enough for me!

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