Ake's Pains debuted in the University of Akron Buchtelite in September of 1977. The school's reputation as an institute of higher learning has still not recovered. Ake's Pains returns after a brief 32 year hiatus. It's back, baby!

Monday, June 20, 2016

Bikini Madness (My Vacation Is Ruined – Part 2)

(I am vacationing in Florida, but the vacation is being ruined by Tropical Storm Colin)

I can imagine George Harrison being on vacation during a tropical storm, gazing into the dark clouds over the ocean. Suddenly he sees a glimmer in the distance and is inspired to write “Here comes the sun! And I say it’s all right!”

But the sun is still nowhere to be seen here, and it is not all right, it is not close to being all right.  If Harrison was writing about the current conditions, he would no doubt be so bummed that he would ingest mass quantities of drugs and write a horrible, unintelligible, song containing many swear words. This composition would not make the Billboard charts.

Now the worst of the storm has passed. There is still a gusty wind and a steady rain, but this does not deter people from emerging from their refuge to reclaim the beach. However, it is difficult to describe the immense damage and utter destruction caused by Tropical Storm Colin.  None, I repeat, none of the young women walking on the beach are wearing bikinis. This is a tragedy of enormous magnitude.  It is a severe bikini shortage. It is a bikini crisis.

It is June, it is the afternoon, it is Siesta Key, the second best beach in America.  I am here on vacation and there are no bikinis.  I am devastated by this tremendously woeful situation.  The women walking on the beach are wearing shorts and t-shirts.  But not tight t-shirts, and unfortunately the rain is not heavy enough to spur an impromptu competition.  Some of these women are even wearing long pants. Just let that sink in for a moment.  No bikinis, long pants.  And they are walking, not strutting. One does not strut on the beach in long pants and t-shirts because there is no point in doing that.  I’m sure some of these ladies are incredibly beautiful, but I can’t tell, because there are no bikinis, none. 

Somebody pointed out to me that I really should not complain about the weather in Florida since the flooding in Paris is so bad that they had to close the Louvre.  “How would you have liked to flown all the way to France and then had your vacation ruined?” they said.   This is of course kooky-talk. Because I choose to visit the sunny beaches of Florida, except there is no sun.  If they ever put Mona Lisa in a thong bikini, I might consider vacationing in France (I wrote that last sentence to be at the top of the search results when someone Googles “Mona Lisa thong bikini”).

But I am not out lazing on the beach. I am going stir crazy, locked inside this condo, being held prisoner by that bastard Colin.  Sometimes I just stare at the walls. I notice that the condo has a “parrot” theme. Normally I wouldn’t even notice, because I wouldn’t be inside, I would be outside, on the beach, the sunny beach.  But now I glare at the stupid parrot artwork on the wall, as it mocks me.

“Look at me pale, vacation-boy.  You don’t want to see me, but you have to. Caaaaawrk! No bikinis for you! But you can always check out my tail feathers, caaaaaaaaaaawrk!”

I could watch more TV, but it is a dinky 42” model, with no HD.  I repeat, no HD, it is standard definition.  I didn’t even know that still existed.  And the Internet is not high speed, so I can’t even surf as fast as I can at home even though I am at the ocean. But there is only so much “Judge Judy” I can watch. On the last episode, a woman boyfriend agreed to pay for breast implants, but only paid for one.  Now she is having problems staying upright.  I wonder what Judge Judy looks like in a bikini?

Author Stephen King has a $9-million mansion nearby on the beach.  During a break in the weather, I sashayed down there hoping since I am a fellow author, we might share some wine and brie and have a discussion about our craft.  I was thinking I could give Stephen some pointers about how to incorporate humor into his stories to make them less scary.

I found the front gate and told the person on the intercom that the author of Just Make Me A Sammich wanted to chat with his buddy “Steve”.  For some reason, the line then went dead. It must be defective. You would think for $9 million you could get a intercom that worked.

So I stood at the gate yelling “Sammich!, Sammich!”

Soon a lackey appeared and informed me that no one there had ordered any sandwiches.

“No, not sandwich”, I explained. “Sammich, sammich. Just Make Me A Sammich”.

He just stared me.

“Do I look like the Jimmy John’s delivery guy?” I asked with disdain.

Okay, so apparently I do.

They keep talking about the dangers of riptides during the storm, but I think I am in danger of being ripped off.  So I marched down to the rental office and demanded a refund for the two days of rain during my stay.  The guy refused and said no one can guarantee sunny beaches. C’mon, it’s Florida, I wasn’t born yesterday.  The beaches are supposed to be sunny all the time.  I’m being ripped off.  But when I protested again, he just started angrily screaming at me “Sunny Beaches! Sunny Beaches!” and chased me out the door.  I don’t understand, this is all that I want. Just give me a sunny beach, please! This has to be the worst vacation ever.

But now as I write this, something miraculous is happening.  The clouds have parted, it’s getting brighter. Yes, it is really happening and I am inspired!

(Cue the Beatles music)

Beachy beauties, it’s been a long wet rainy season

Beachy beauties, it seems like days since it’s been bright

Here come the buns, here come the buns

And I say, yeah all right!

Buns, buns, buns, here they come …..

Uh, this post is over, gotta run.

Please buy my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book

Sunday, June 12, 2016

Really Colin? You Stupid Son Of A Beach (Part 1)

I was eagerly anticipating my summer vacation. I desperately needed relief from the stress of being a best-selling author (well, in my neighborhood) and a well-respected, industry expert (yeah, really). This year’s destination was Sarasota’s, Siesta Key beach, recently named the second best beach in the entire country!

Except today, as I write this, it is not the second best beach in the country.  In fact, it is not a beach at all.  It is a cesspool of heavy rain water swirling with the white sands, caused by something awful called Tropical Storm Colin.

Yes, today, Siesta Key would be rated well behind the beach closest to my home.  That one is located on Lake Erie, something the locals call the North Coast. The beach on Lake Erie is horrendous.  It is cloudy, with a cool wind, and it is covered with craggy rocks which can pierce your buttocks if you are not careful where you sit. And the water is filled with a smorgasbord of unidentifiable industrial chemicals.  But today, I could be actually enjoying my vacation on this beach, without paying for costly plane tickets or renting an excessively expensive condo.

My current location would also today rank behind the Jersey Shore, known for its wide variety of washed-up debris, including used condoms. “Look dad, I found a jellyfish!”  When your beach is ranked below used condoms, you know you are at a lousy beach.

And this must be a freak tropical storm, because I am not in the tropics, I am in Florida, for St. Petersburg's sake. It’s part of the United States. Maybe this storm is due to global warming, but it should absolutely not be happening right here, while I am on vacation. I think this is just the type of stuff Donald Trump is promising to fix.

And why would you have a tropical storm at the ocean?  I mean the ocean already has enough water. It has plenty.  Why would it need any more? But it is getting more, lots more, torrents more. More rain than I have ever seen in my life. Children, what did you see on vacation? “I thaw a dolphin!”. “I thaw a pelican!”  And how about you Donnie? “I thaw a &!@#ing tropical storm!”

This is an historic storm, the earliest in the season for one starting with the letter “C”.  I guess I should feel some prestige in being a part of a momentous event, yeah, maybe similar to a passenger on the Titanic. 

They claim the storm started off as a tropical depression and this is absolutely true. Because when you are in the tropics and see those bizarre colors on the weather radar heading straight for your vacation resort, you do get extremely depressed. If I ever meet this Colin guy responsible for this deluge, I’m kicking him square in the nuts, twice. 

At first I was determined I wasn’t going to let a little rain stop the festivities, so I grabbed a lounge chair and headed for what used to be the beach.  In retrospect, this was a bad idea.  I felt like one of those pathetic news reporters they send out to report on bad weather. “Yep, it’s wet out here, with some gale force winds alright!”  I will probably completely dry out sometime next week after I’m back in Ohio.

I’m so glad I paid extra for this ocean-side unit.  It was supposed to give me an “up-
close view of the water” and boy did they ever deliver on that promise, as this photo demonstrates!  I love to vacation in Florida for all the fresh seafood and now at high tide, it is now swimming right outside my door. A bit too fresh, I’m afraid.  

And the main reason to visit this particular location is the awesome, breathtaking, Sarasota sunsets.  Of course I haven’t seen the sun in days.  I have no idea if it ever rose or set.  For all I know it ran away like a scared little girl when the storm hit.  

Here's a photo of last night’s sunset.  Isn’t it awesome? Yes, awesomely bad.

So I am stuck inside watching multiple episodes of Judge Judy (From the case of The Shitting Shih Tzu):

Defendant: “You said I could have Jerome stay in the apartment!”
Plaintiff: “I didn’t know Jerome was your dog!”
Defendant: “Oh yes you did!”
Plaintiff: “Oh no I did not, you (bleep)”

This vacation is so utterly ruined.  You might think I am being selfish and non-caring, since people have died in the path of this storm and millions of people in Africa cannot afford a vacation like this one.  Well, I paid lots of money for sunny beaches and I want sunny beaches!  Besides, some of those Africans get to live on the beach their entire lives, for free, so in my mind it evens out.

Now you may ask why I am not praying for the rain to stop, since I all but took credit for stopping the rain this way at my daughter’s wedding two years ago.  Well you have to save up your prayer markers and pick your spots carefully.  Since I am planning to get the Zika virus this summer, (I’ve previously been infected twice, once seriously, with mosquito-borne maladies) I need to be able to save my important prayers for this.

So no, I am not losing my religion, but this Colin storm is ruining my vacation, cue the REM music:

(Ruining My Vacation)

Oh storm, it’s bigger
It’s bigger and wet
And wet is so me
The lengths that I will fly to
The distance in air miles
Oh no, I bitched too much
I set this up

That’s me in the condo
That’s rain on the window
Ruining my vacation
Trying to have fun inside
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’m bored too much
I haven't bored enough

I thought that I heard it storming
I thought that the ocean roared
I think I thought I saw the sun

But that was just a dream
That was just a dream

Ruining my vacaaaaaaaaaaaaaation …….

Please buy my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book

Monday, May 30, 2016

My Spam Folder Is More Interesting Than Real Life

Dos Equis beer recently ended one the most entertaining advertising campaigns ever, when they “retired” The Most Interesting Man in the World by sending him to Mars.  The commercials would start off my showing the guy in various pursuits with statements such as “Exotic birds form clubs to watch him,  - he is the most interesting man in the world.”

However, the most interesting part of the commercials for guys were the endings.  The Man would say “I don’t drink beer often, but when I do, I drink Dos Equis.”  Of course this was a total lie, since every time we see guy, he is in fact drinking beer.  He is a pathetic alcoholic for all we know and may belong in a 12-step program.  But what is really interesting is that he is always sandwiched (or should I say sammiched) between two gorgeous ladies, both   leaning towards him, hanging on his every word. They are so enthralled by his interestingness, they seem eager to jump right on his lap, or perhaps something else.

These women are in their 30’s or younger 40’s, as to not make it too creepy (The Man was in his 60’s when the campaign started and is 70-something now).  And the women aren’t hookers or floozies, they are high-class, exotic, ladies.  You get the idea they came to the bar with dates, but quickly abandoned them to get close to The Man. 

When I saw the first commercial with those gorgeous women hanging all over him, I thought, “Wow, he’s going to have a difficult choice tonight”.  After viewing several of the commercials, all with the different lovely ladies at the end, I realized he is not going to have to choose between the two women. He is The Most Interesting Man in the World, so he never has to. Therefore, he is also “The Most Three-somed Man in the World”.  At his age, he would be a better spokesperson for Viagra than some beer.
Very, very, interesting!

The last line in every spot is: “Stay thirsty my friend”.  This on the surface doesn’t make sense, because if you drink the beer, you shouldn’t be thirsty anymore, correct?  Except he’s not saying exactly what to stay thirsty for, is he?  I can assure you that stuff doesn’t come in a bottle.  So the message to guys is: drink this beer, look interesting to women, and then hubba, hubba, sis boom bah.

The Most Interesting Spammed Man in the World

Now I was thinking how uninteresting I am compared to The Most Interesting Man in the World, until you look at my e-mail spam folder.  Then I become interesting, very interesting. In fact, I become, The Most Interesting Spammed Man in the World!  Just look:

Prancing With The Czars

A beautiful, young, woman, Natalya, is a former Olympic gymnast and descendant from the Czars. She wants to immigrate and marry me so the Russian government will not seize the $3.6 million secret trust fund she will inherit when she turns 25 soon.  She promises to be a very flexible companion.  I will have to check with my wife first, but this does sound interesting ….  

Make Love To All The Girls Near You!

This subject line could get you imprisoned for life, but it is hawking a special cologne which makes you irresistible to any and all women.  They lose all control and literally attack you.  It could be interesting, sure there is my neighbor Hot Carla, but I would be afraid to leave my house with the widow Cooper right next door and Large Linda just down the street.

Mass Quantities of Boner Pills

Word must has gotten out that I was considering making love to all the women near to me, because the Toronto Pharmacy sent me a great offer for boner pills.  They think I would be interested in their 120-pill package, to improve my package.

Many Russian Women Want Me

Other Russian women must have found out about Natalya, because dozens are now vying for my affection.  One young women Inga, promises to CENSORED me repeatedly until I CENSORED. Wow, that would be interesting.

Booty Call!

Eva says she feels horny today and needs someone like me!  This could get interesting!

Five More Boner Pill Offers!

Obviously in response to all this women action, five more offers for boner pills, promising fast shipping!

I’m Due A Refund!

Regrettably, my recent order totaling $571,590 has been cancelled and they need my bank account number to transfer all my refund money.  I must have forgotten about placing that order, but interestingly, I’ll take that cash!

Lonely Asian Girls Are Looking For Boyfriends

I have international appeal now since dozens of Asian women want to be my companion.  It’s like a digital version of The Bachelor – except I am married and these women are much younger than me. These women claim to be wonderful girlfriends and assure me each date will have a happy ending. That would be interesting.

7 More Boner Pill Deals!

Must have heard about all those Asian women ….

A Very Interest Package

UPS has informed me that I have a package for pick up that was sent from Amsterdam.  I don’t remember ordering anything from Amsterdam. Perhaps it was sent by one of my new international friends.  I wonder what is in it!  Sounds like fun! If I just pay shipping charges, the mystery grab bag is all mine. Oh baby, is this interesting.

My Recent Hotel Receipt

An exclusive, $2000/night, resort hotel on an island off the east coast of Africa sent me a copy of my receipt from a recent stay.  I’m interested to see if the room was for two, since my wife was not with me and if I ordered room service for two. Maybe I was with an exotic, Dos Equis-type, babe. Exotically interesting!

A Dying Widow

A widow in Nigeria is dying of cancer and needs someone to inherit the $2.2 million her husband had deposited in a local bank.  She is pleading with me to stand-in as her next of kin.  I may be able to walk like an Egyptian, but it’s going to be difficult to look like a Nigerian, but for the big money, it will be interesting to try!

A Request

Lydia wants me to treat her to my ….. OH MY!  That is certainly an interesting request.


Someone named Rockstar is congratulating me about something – Probably my new book!  Rockstar sounds so interesting!

Indian Woman Want Me As Well

These women want to be my wife, but they emphasize their intelligence over their beauty, since they claim they have expert knowledge of the Kama Sutra. That must be the local community college. They sound interesting.

9 More Boner Pill Offers

Rebuilding Libya

The Libyan Prime Minister has contacted me for help is reconstructing Libya and has requested I submit a quotation of my products and services to the Ministry of Finance. Could be interesting!

An Invitation

Lydia has invited me to a wild sex orgy and has requested that I “put on those lovely navy jeans for me”. I didn’t know you had to dress up for an orgy, but apparently you do for this one. Sounds like an interesting party.

12 More Boner Pill Emails

I need to review these in lieu of Lydia’s recent invitation.

A Tragedy

Someone with my same last name has perished in a plane crash in the Andes. He has no family and they have searched the world diligently for someone with my name to inherit his $4.3 million estate.  I do think Uncle Fred would want me to have this. So interesting.

100% Risky Free

Mrs. Koski in Australia wants to transfer $10.5 million to me to help build an orphanage.  She assures me “this business in 100% risky free”.  She strongly believes in “no trust, no friendship, in every business”. Sure, I’m interested in helping orphans!

Loan Offer

They are offering me $9,800, pre-approved, with 100% acceptance.  Normally this would not be very interesting, except I need to: Pay to bring Natalya here, buy some cologne, secure that package, apply for a refund, date some Asians, contact the African hotel, help that dying widow, learn some Kama Sutra, buy some sexy jeans, apply for my inheritance, care for the orphans, and most importantly, purchase 5,000 boner pills!

(Cue the music) …. I Am The Most Interesting Spammed Man in the World!

Keep reading, my friends.

Please buy my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book

Monday, May 23, 2016

Rosie Malezer - Review of "Just Make Me A Sammich" (Readers' Favorite) 5-Stars

Reviewed By Rosie Malezer for Readers’ Favorite

Just Make Me A Sammich: Absurd Observations From a Wild Mind is by Don Ake. Don has been writing humor columns and blogs since the age of 11. He does it to make other people smile or laugh in a time when the world is so serious and scary. With a large number of loyal followers, Don has compiled some of his most well received blogs and created this book. The title is a play on male-female relationships where men believe they are dominant and their female counterparts should be submissive, leading to the man’s demand of ‘Just make me a sammich!’ which, in turn, leads to the woman shouting her response of ‘Get off your butt and make your own sammich!’ What the woman fails to realize is that he only demands the sandwich in the first place because he loves and treasures her so much. Learn about the SHE rule, hanger pains, black market butts, the advantage of boxer briefs, and much, much more.

There really is no way to describe Don Ake’s literary masterpiece of laughs without my husband oddly watching me maw like a donkey followed by unladylike gasps for air and a few snorts in between. Just Make Me A Sammich is possibly the funniest book I have ever read. While it is true that some people will go out of their way to take offence at every politically incorrect word written in these pages, those who really do need a good laugh would benefit from reading the riotous wit which is cleverly presented so as (trying hard) not to offend. Men’s demands on women because they love us so much and women’s scathing responses because they want their men strong – I am still scratching my head as to why ‘sammiches’ determine one’s sexual attainment for the evening, and even considered hiding the bread from my husband while reading Don Ake’s words of wisdom. After reading Don Ake’s book, I can honestly say that dinner conversation at my house will never be the same again. I thoroughly enjoyed each chapter and recommend this book to mature readers who have pondered why women think you should be able to read their minds, while men insist that they are not male chauvinist pigs.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

What’s Your Password, Baby?

It was the mid-90’s when I received a letter from my mutual fund company informing me that I could access information about my account “on-line” through something called a “website”.  I had no idea why I would ever want to look at account information on my computer, but this concept sounded intriguing.

So I dialed up on AOL (if you are under 30, ask someone what this means) and proceeded to set up an “account”.  Then at some point I was asked to create a “password”, a four-digit code, that would allow me, and only me, to access my information.  I came up with four numbers I could remember and typed it in. Then suddenly, almost magically, I felt very sophisticated, debonair, and mysterious. James Bond has a password, underworld spies have passwords, and now I have one too!

That afternoon I noticed an attractive blond at the drug store and thought (in a Austin Power-ish voice):

Hey baby, I have a password. I am now a very sly, international man of mystery.  If you try to seduce me, I’m sure you can force me to reveal it.  Then you will know how many shares I have in my International Bond Fund. Come on baby, try to get it, please, please try.

So I had one password and I could remember it --- and so it began ……  Soon I was paying bills on-line, each account requiring a password.  Then banking and other financial accounts, still more passwords.  The beginning of the new millennium brought on-line shopping, each vendor wanting me to set up a new account, with of course, my own personal password.

And then things got even worse. More time spent on-line accessing news sites, organization sites and social media sites, all requiring accounts --- and passwords. I now even need a password to order a pizza.  

I estimate I have over 200 online accounts that require a password.  But this is not a problem since I use the exact same password for all of them!  Ha, that’s a joke, but you already knew that, since keeping track of all your passwords is freaking impossible.
Because the invention of online accounts began the epic battle between the Bad Bastards and the Good Bastards.  The Bad Bastards are the computer hackers who want to find out your passwords and commit theft and fraud and the Good Bastards are the IT people who try to prevent this from happening.  Yes, they are “good” because they are trying to protect you, but they are still bastards because of how they go about doing it.

Initially passwords were 4 numbers, leading millions of idiots to create the password “1111”, which the hackers nicknamed “ba-ching”.  Then the Good Bastards countered by requiring alpha based passwords.  Then the millions of idiots started using “password” as their password. “Yuk, yuk, my password is “password”. Get it? Pretty funny, hee, haw”, to which the hackers said “bada bing ba-ching!”

And so the battle between the Bad Bastards and the Good Bastards raged on, with the Good Bastards making it more difficult for passwords to be hacked and the Bad Bastards developing more devious methods.  Which lead to the evolution of password “rules”:

(For example, let’s say you got a tattoo of a cobra in 1988)

Four-digit numeric password = 1988

Too vulnerable, so some sites went to …

Six-digit alpha password = cobras

Then …

Six-digit password requiring at least one letter or number = cobra1

And then …

Six-digit password requiring the previous, but one capital letter = Cobra1

Still not secure enough so ….

Seven-digit password requiring at least one letter or number = cobra88

Even more …..

Seven-digit password requiring a capital letter and symbol = Cobra$1

And so one …. until you get to the ultimate:

Eight-digit password requiring a capital letter, a symbol, no letters that form words and no repeated numbers = Oh, the hell with it, you lousy bastards, you!

(I do declare that if I ever meet the bastard who is responsible for this rule, I will kick him square in the nuts, and then laugh hysterically)

Throw in the recommendations that you should not use the same password for all your sensitive accounts and that you should change your passwords frequently (although I doubt if anyone really does it) and you end up with a whole slew of passwords, many that differ my only one letter, number, or symbol.

Then comes that special moment when you are asked for a password for a site you haven’t been on in months. You have no idea if this site requires six, seven or eight digits, caps, no caps, etc. You have no clue which of the 20 or so passwords you now have will work on this site.  I believe the Good Bastards get a chuckle out of this.

And then just to make the game more puzzling we add in the following challenges:

-         Enter the wrong password three times and we lock you out.  This is very easy to do based on my examples above and can be very frustrating when the information you need is critical. It can cause you to scream vile things at your computer you wouldn’t say to any person.

-         And just about the time you memorize your password, for “security reasons” they make you change it ---- but not to something just one number different – oh no, to something completely different! Bastards, bastards, bastards!

So a solution is to log all your passwords in a spreadsheet, which is very dangerous if it’s ever compromised. Of course you could protect the spreadsheet by using a pass…. oh $h!+, forget that.  You can also pay $30 a year to bastards to manage the password mess created by other bastards. No, thank you.

Now if you work in an office, there are even more computer passwords.  The IT bastards are even stricter there, because they can lose their jobs if the system gets hacked.  At one former job, I had to enter three different passwords every morning (and change them frequently) to access the system. I often wondered if security at the CIA was this tight.

If you want to fizz off the bastards in your IT department, and I know you do, write down your password (not your real password, but something close which helps you remember it) and post it prominently by your computer. Trust me, this really causes their heads to explode!

But here’s my idea to make passwords more tolerable. Use the name of your worst boss ever and create the password “Tedsucks99!”  It is a “strong” password, it is a true statement, and you will smile every time you type it!

Please buy my new humor book - Just Make Me A Sammich http://donake.net/just-make-me-a-sammich-book


Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Bad Drivers Need More Than Whispers

First there was the Horse Whisperer who calmed wild horses, then there was the Dog Whisperer who trained and brought obedience in unruly mutts, and now AKE TV introduces the fabulous new reality show, The Car Whisperer, who turns dangerous drivers into model motorists!  Welcome to episode #1!

Announcer: Meet Melvin Snerdly. Mr. Snerdly is considered the top driving instructor in the U.S.  He has taught thousands of students how to drive over his 30 years in the business.  He has taken the written driving test in all 50 states without missing a single question.  He is easily recognized by his classic pocket protector and bow tie.

Today’s problem driver in Carl “Crash” Craminski. Carl currently holds the record for license violation points in three different states.  He is not very well liked by insurance companies.  Flo from Progressive once tried to kick him in the nads. The Geico gecko has flipped him off and Jake from State Farm refuses to take his calls.

As our subject drives around the city, Melvin, The Car Whisperer, sits in the back seat, leans forward, and gently whispers words of instruction and encouragement.  The goal is to turn, our reckless driver into a model citizen of the road.

Melvin (in very hushed tone): Yes Carl, check to make sure it’s clear, then slowly back out.

[sound of tires squealing]


Okay you just missed that car coming behind you.  But that’s okay, now pull out onto the street, making sure you give enough space to the cars approachi….

GEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZ!  [tires screeching, horn blasting]

You also might want to turn down your stereo. Just because you enjoy crappy music, it doesn’t mean everyone does.  And unless you are deaf, you surely must be able to hear it at reasonable volumes.

Now you are going to be turning right up here, so you should be getting into the right lane and signaling the turn.  Get over, get over, get ….


Okay, the turn signal was invented in the 1930’s and has been standard equipment on cars since the 1940’s.  And it’s very easy to operate, down for left, up for right.  See, you can do it.

Ah, now you can make a right turn on red.  It’s clear, you can go. Go ahead. Still clear, what are you waiting for? ….  Okay, now you can’t go because the left turn signal on the other side is on and if you turn now, cars will be coming right at you, so don’t go noooooooooooow……….


Now you have the left turn arrow.  That arrow pointing to the left means you can go left!  So go, don’t just sit there and stare at it ,go, go, [Massive horn honkings] Now the arrows off, don’t turn now! Don’t turn noooooooooow


Oh here we are approaching an eight-lane, four-way, stop.  This is one of the most challenging driving situations around. Just slowly pull up to the intersection and stop and I will talk you through – uhhhhhh


You see, a rolling stop is not actually a stop, because you never actually stop, get it?  The stop sign is there to tell you to stop and all those silly people honking their horns actually expected you to actually stop. 

Alright, you don’t to brake when approaching a green light, that’s just not needed. You will have plenty of time to stop in the light changes.  That’s what the yellow (caution) light is for.  It’s been around since 1920, so you should have had sufficient time to adapt to it.

Now please stop talking on the cell phone. You are weaving are over the road. Okay now you are going straight, straight down the middle, over the yellow line.  (massive honking). Um you really shouldn’t give the finger to other drivers when you are the problem, it makes you look like a jerky numskull.  

Uh you are not providing an assured clear distance. Why are you so close to the next car? Why, why, he can’t go any faster than the cars in front of him, can he. You need to back off, in case he brakes without waaaaaaaaaaaaa

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! [severe screeching of tires]

Now it’s time to get on the expressway and master some highway driving.  Increase your speed on the on-ramp, signal, and look for a nice gap to merge safely into traffic.  Look, there’s a swell space open behind the Buick, no behind, not in front, behind, behiiiiiiiiiiind


Now you are in the far left lane, the speed lane, or passing lane. When you are in this lane you need to maintain a faster pace so as not to impede other drivers who want to go faster. So you are now five miles per hour under the speed limit.  So speed up, speed up, push the accelerator. Push it, push it. [honking]

Look in the rear view mirror.  See the traffic backed up 10 deep behind you?  They want to go by you, but they can’t because you are hogging the lane.  Look, look. The rear view mirror was invented in 1906 and every car has one.  Either speed up or get out of the speed lane …

Just look for an open space to the right, use your turn signal to indicate you are changing lanes. Whatever you do just don’t jerk the wheel to the right and oooooooooooo (honking)


Ah now you do need to pick a lane and stay in it.  This one’s good, okay this one.  How bout this one. Really shouldn’t pass on the right.  Pick a lane….. please pick a lane, any lane just pick one.

Okay you in that car’s “blind spot”.  It’s called the blind spot because the driver is unable to see you in his mirrors.  You need to speed up or slow down before that other car decides to change lanes ……………


All right, you are back in the speed lane and this time you are keeping pace with the traffic.  Good boy, Carl.  Ah but see that sign?  Your exit is coming up and you need to start moving over to the right lane.  Now, start moving now.

 You see your taxes paid for that sign and workers put it up so you would know to get over,  so you would not need to quickly cut across traffic to exit.  And look!, they put up a second sign again letting you know the exit is coming up, just in case you missed the first one.  So get over, change lanes, change lanes now

Well it’s too late now, you can’t make it with that big semi in the right lane, you will just have to get off at the next ex……….


Melvin (in normal voice): Let’s find a restroom, I need to change my shorts.  Turn left up ahead.

(Back in whisper-mode) Now made a square turn, don’t just sweep across the lane because a car can pull up and


You see, it’s called a turn because you are actually supposed to turn the steering wheel, hand-over-hand, hand-over-hand.

Just pull into the space and park the car. Uh well you see someone has gone to the trouble of painting these lines on the parking lot.  You are supposed to park between the lines, between the lines, not just wherever you want.

[after a quick bathroom break]

All right, you are not going to be able to make a left turn out of the parking lot. You cannot go across six lanes of traffic in rush hour.  You can’t even do that on Frogger, ha ha. So just make a riiiiiight



Announcer: That concludes the premier episode of the Car Whisperer. Unfortunately, there will not be an episode number 2.

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Monday, April 18, 2016

This Business Dinner Was A Gas

The evening was going so wonderfully. We had a friendly group of several dozen people, gathered in a private room at one of the city’s finest restaurants. As we waited for dinner to be served, the gorgeous young woman on my right was very impressed with my wealth of knowledge. She was pumping me aggressively – for information, sucking hard – on my brain.

And then suddenly, quietly, without warning, everything changed.  There was a thick, pungent, odor engulfing my immediate area. The lively, pleasant, atmosphere was totally destroyed by someone’s inconvenient flatulence.

That’s correct, this blog post is about a fart. But not just any fart, an extraordinarily unique fart, as I will now explain.  

This fart was exceptional due to its extreme intensity. My middle-aged nose may have lost some of its olfactory capability, but this was the most powerful emission of human gasitude that I have ever encountered in my life. It was a nasty, nasty, fart.

If you unleashed this fart on the battlefield, you would be violating the Geneva Convention. It definitely would be considered a weapon of mass distraction. The restaurant was dark, but I’m sure this cloud of thick gastric fog would have been actually visible under better lighting.  It was so potent; I’m surprised the wallpaper didn’t fall off the wall.
Bad, nasty, toxic, gas!

This was far worse than any gas my dog generates. It wasn’t as much nauseating as it was toxic. If I had access to a gas mask, I would have been wearing it.  It is difficult to even describe just how ghastly this gas really was. At one point, I thought I was going to literally pass out.

The other remarkable thing about this disgusting gas attack, is where is occurred.  This was, for lack of a better term, a “business fart”.  It was encountered while I was at a large dinner table, surrounded by customers and potential customers.

The problem is you can never publicly acknowledge a business fart, even though everyone is aware of it.  You cannot ask “who cut the cheese?” because of the potential business consequences of embarrassing the cheezer.  You do not have any idea how powerful that person is.  Okay, so you do have a sense of his power, but what I mean is you don’t know where this person is on the organization chart.  Exposing the culprit could cost you your job and this could prove extremely embarrassing for you.

Interviewer: “Why were let go from your previous job, Bill?”

Bill: “Our CEO cut a horrendous fart and I called him on it”

So even as this fart choked us all, not a word was said. We all had to carry on with what we were doing, pretending everything was fine while being poisoned.  You could not even cover your nose with your hand, you just had to sit there, hoping you were not going to die.

Unfortunately, I was talking (I know that’s difficult to believe) at the time of the fart.  I was espousing my profound business knowledge to those around me, including the lovely lass mentioned previously.  However, when the smell hit my nostrils, my brain literally shut off.  I’m in mid-sentence and suddenly I can’t think because this horrendous odor is trying to kill me.  I mumble out some meaningless words to finish my thought and try to maintain my composure. All while trying to conceal the fact that an atrocious fart has been farted.

I assume the human body must have a defense mechanism that when you are exposed to poisonous gas, your brain shuts off because you are not supposed to think, you are not supposed to speak, you are just supposed to run like hell to save your life.

Only I couldn’t run. If I jumped up and ran for the door, it would be an acknowledgement that a business fart had been discharged.  Worse yet, the people around me might think I was running for the bathroom, therefore making me a prime suspect as the farter.  So I had to sit in the middle of this warm, thick, fart-fog, trying to maintain consciousness at all cost.

I did consider telling people I had to make a call and excuse myself to the hallway.  I also thought about calling 911.  However, I did not think the operator would take serious a report of someone at La Grenouille “cutting silent, but deadly, horrendous farts”.  I feared becoming an Internet sensation as the guy who called 911 because people around him were passing gas.  If I had called 911, I would have told them to bring the bomb sniffing dog so it could sniff out the butt of the perpetrator.   What an interesting scene and fine end to the evening that would have been. “Line up and bend over and ol’ Betsy here will identify the shooter.” 

But I never was able to determine who the nasty dealer was.  I know it wasn’t woman seated to next to me. She was way too hot and petite to accomplish this feat.  No, this was indeed manly fart, farted by a man.   

I do feel somewhat guilty about not reporting this to any health officials. If this guy is capable of generating gas this toxic, I fear that he has a serious health problem and may already be dead.  If that is the case, may he rest in peace and may his family be successful in fumigating their house.

Unfortunately, they never prepared me for an evening like this in business college, not even in the MBA program. Although I doubt “Managing Business Farts” would be a popular course at the Harvard Business School.  Perhaps I should write a whitepaper, er, make that a brownpaper on the subject.

Fortunately, I survived the nasty, nasty, fart, had a superb dinner, and was able to maintain excellent customer relationships despite the challenges.  Next time somebody tells me “business stinks”, I will tell them just how much it really does.

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