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!

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Funerals Should Not Be This Much Fun

The late, great, Yogi Berra once said: “Always go to other people's funerals, otherwise they won't come to yours.”  And like all great Yogisms, it contains some kernels of wisdom.

First, it suggests you should honor the dead and show respect at their funerals. I’m all about respecting the dead, as long as they deserve it. What I mean, is that I don’t show people any additional respect just because they are dead.  In my book, if you were a bastard while alive, now you are a just a dead bastard. The fact that you are a bastard hasn’t really changed, and I’m not going to your funeral.  I don’t believe you are required to attend the funerals of bastards.

This rule doesn’t apply to family members.  You still are required to attend their funerals, because they unfortunately are “your bastards” and you have to suffer the consequences.  More importantly, they may also be dead, rich, bastards, and you would hate to be excluded from the will by your blatant act of disrespect (so please show some extra respect and wear a tie, just in case).

But the Yogism also implies that people are concerned about how many people attend their own funeral.  I have to admit I pondered this a few years ago and it motivated me to create a new philosophy on life: “Live your life in such a way that people cry at your funeral”.  While this has actually helped me to treat people better, I do admit I sometimes fail to live up to this.  Of course now when I fizz somebody off I think, “There’s another empty chair at the chapel” and they naturally think, “That bastard!”  However, for people to cry at your funeral, they have to be at your funeral, so Yogi and I share a common philosophy.

This desire for having superb funeral attendance actually is cross cultural, because I saw a news story on the custom of having strippers perform at funerals in some rural provinces in China.  I assure you this is true. Do you really think that I am so warped and depraved that I would actually make something like this up? Wait, don’t answer that! (See link at the end of the post to confirm story)

The purpose of the strippers is to boost attendance and “liven up” these events.  And it is successful because men line up at the door hours before the ceremony to get the good seats.   I’m guessing they believe if the ‘‘grand spirit” passes over and sees a huge crowd gathered at your funeral, it can earn you some eternal brownie points.  The spirit saying: “Wow, I thought Genghis was a bastard, but look at that crowd! Maybe I should not turn him into a dung beetle in his next life after all.”

But I just can’t imagine any religion, anywhere, in any way, condoning having strippers at your funeral.  The report claims this is done as a “show of respect” but come on, the girls are going to show more, much more, than just respect! And apparently they show a lot, because there is actually a video posted of one these performances, which I had to watch several times, very closely, as part of doing my extensive research for this post.

And I don’t blame the ladies. To quote the popular commercial: “When you’re a stripper, you take off your clothes, – it’s what you do.”  The strippers are well paid and are highly motivated to do a good job. It can generate lots of repeat business.  Think about it, they are gyrating naked in front of old guys who are near death themselves.  Tuesday’s funeral can lead to Friday’s booking, which creates Monday’s gig and so on and so on …….  And in a very bizarre way, they are performing a useful function.  They are cheering up people who are grieving the loss of their friends. They are turning mourners into moaners.

This interesting, yet disturbing, practice is very effective in greatly increasing funeral attendance. I’m sure the guys in that region scan the obituaries for funerals that might have strippers. “Look, Chen’s cousin died. Suddenly I feel so sad. I must go mourn. I need some small bills.”  I would love to see a You Tube video of old Chinese guys fighting each other for front row funeral seats.  And these large crowds gather despite the fact these are in fact Chinese strippers, who lack uh, who have very small, ah, -- let’s just say these are skinny women.

I see really no practical benefit of having strippers at the funeral unless you are supremely optimistic and want to take one last shot at raising the dead.  If you are lacking a huge, nuclear-powered, defibrillator, then I guess a group of hot strippers is your next best option here.

I do not think having strippers at American funerals would go over very well.  I can’t see a minister saying “Naked you come into this world and naked you will depart. And soon, naked women will honor you with their nakedness”.  Also “Now let us solemnly pray for the dearly departed, before these young, beautiful, women depart of their clothes.”  And imagine the frustration generated by long-winded preachers, delivering rambling eulogies, if they were delaying the appearance of the strippers. Guys would be thinking, “Shut your pie-hole and get to good stuff!”

I guess I could consider having strippers at my funeral to boost attendance.  It could generate a crowd and impress people, but with my luck, I could see the following happening at those pearly gates:

St. Peter:  Don, you lived a good life my son and it says here that I was let you in, scot-free, no questions asked.  However, now, I do have to ask you one very important question.

Me: What is that Pete?

St. Peter: Why is there a G-string draped over your bald head?

Monday, November 2, 2015

I Have Just Given Birth – To A Sammich

Newsflash: I am now officially an author

The strange thing is I never intended to write a book, it sort of happened by accident.  I had often considered writing a humor blog, but I was working two jobs and writing my economic blog, so I had absolutely no time for anything else.

Then I saw Justin Bieber on television for the first time.  He was singing and the teenyboppers were screaming. “No wonder they like him”, I thought.  “He looks just like them! Wouldn’t it be funny if someone mistook him for a girl?”  The alarms went off in my brain: Ding, ding, double ding!

On May 20, 2011, I typed these words: “I just heard about the latest teen pop sensation, Justine Bieber”. And thus, Ake’s Pains blog was born.  Two weeks later I posted again, and then again and now you are reading post #141.  More and more people started reading the blog.  They really liked it and soon I had a worldwide audience.

But at no time did I ever think I was writing a book.  Then in October 2013, the thought occurred to me that I had written enough posts that I could compile
and organize them into a book.  Great idea! Except I had no idea how to publish a book and it took me a while to figure this whole thing out.

Publishing a book is very similar to creating a baby.  Well, except there is no hot, baby-making, sex involved.  But you start with a conception and then you go through a long process to carry it forth into birth.

One of the best things about being a blogger is that you can write anything you want and nobody can stop you. It’s like running through the streets naked and unencumbered.  You have total freedom.  However, when you write a book, you need some boundaries, you need some polish.  Not only do you need some underwear, you even need a pants and shirt.

So I had to hire an editor.  I hate editors. I hate editors almost as much as I hate accountants.  Editors are horrible people who somehow find flaws in your perfect writing. Being edited is an awful process.  So I end up paying this woman to inflict pain on me.  I’m sure a dominatrix is a lot more fun.  

The most challenging moment of the editing process was when she said the post on the New England Patriots using under-inflated footballs could not be in the book because it contained too many “disgusting ball jokes”.  I tilted my head to the side like a confused German Shephard. I couldn’t understand how you could possibly ever have too many disgusting ball jokes, but apparently you can. So I rewrote that one. It’s now much less ballsy. 

Finally, all the posts were edited and organized and there was a manuscript, which is the equivalent of seeing an ultrasound photo.  I started walking around with a goofy smile showing the manuscript to people and even posted a picture of it on Facebook.  But just like an ultrasound photo, people smile and politely nod, but they don’t really care.

So you edit, you edit, you revise, and then edit some more. At some point the sadist editor puts down her whip and you submit the final manuscript.

Picking the baby up at the hospital
And then finally the big day arrives and the book is actually printed.  Of course this is just like giving birth, except for the extreme pain, screaming and pushing, and what not. But it is my baby. I hold it my hands with reverence and yes, I have even cradled it.

My first realization that I am an author happened when my friend Michael recently introduced me to our waitress at lunch as “Author Don Ake”. I instinctively started to correct him and then realized he was correct. Then I turned to the waitress and noticed the look of great admiration I was getting from this beautiful young woman. “Well yes my dear, I am an author, and you should read my book.”

And now the challenge is to make the book successful, just as a father desires success for his child. I am now responsible for promoting and marketing this book. Doing this, is unfortunately not as fun as actually writing it.

I’ve changed much since being thrown out of my comfort zone in 2009. I wouldn’t have had the courage to try this before.  But now I’m not afraid about crashing and burning.  During my “comeback” I’ve crashed more times than Windows 10. Okay, nothing’s crashed more than Windows 10.  But even though I’ve lost count of the number of crashes, I do know it’s exactly equal to the number of times I’ve gotten up and moved on. And I’ve spent the past six years growing an impressive set of fire-proof skin, so light me up, Fall Out Boy, I’m ready.  I’ve just strapped myself into a high-powered vehicle that has no rear-view mirror and no “reverse” gear.  I’m not looking back and I’m sure as hell not going back. There’s only one direction to go and nobody can drag me down.

So my book is officially launched. And I am an author, but you can still call me “Don” unless there is a cute chick nearby, then “The Author” will suffice. This new status hasn’t changed me, although I do have a message into Taylor Swift to see if she wants to get back together, no answer yet.

I cannot express enough gratitude to my readers for your support. I am at this
place only because of you.
My friend Owen buys the first copy!

The next step in my journey begins today. I write humor for the purpose of making people happy and I guarantee Just Make Me A Sammich will make you laugh.  I humbly ask for your support of my baby. Thanks for reading.

Monday, October 19, 2015

The Sammich Debate Rages On

My book, Just Make Me A Sammich, is not even out yet (release date November 3) and already the title is creating controversy and renewing the debate over the woman/man sandwich making decision. I choose this title because Sammich-making is a running joke throughout my blog and my book is a collection of my favorite blog posts.

I wrote a post earlier this year on this topic which was supposed to end all conflict on the matter.  I said if men would be more polite in their request and women would be more accommodating when their man was hungry (or hangry – anger caused by hunger), then the result would be more sex. Very hot “sammich sex”. That post could even be considered good “sex therapy”. (They call me Dr. Love, they call me Dr. Love).  But now unfortunately, all that good work is gone and the controversy is back.

Recently I made a presentation at a conference for work. I briefly mentioned my book at the end.  Of course the next day no one remembered anything I said in my presentation, they were all talking about “that sammich book”. I sat with a group of customers at lunch. We were supposed to be talking about very important factors in the trucking industry, but of course as soon as I arrived, the topic turned to sammiches.

One woman at the table chimed in, “I believe a husband should treat his wife so well, that he should not even have to ask her for a sandwich. She should want to make him sandwiches.” This confirms my contention that this sammich-making stuff is very important to women.

The guys at the table quickly became mute and looked to me for a response.  I had none. I politely nodded in agreement because this woman is totally correct, men should treat their wives better. But unfortunately, guys are not going to do that because it takes time, effort and skill. And let’s face it, that’s just too much work. Men are just too lazy, and besides, an effort like that takes time away from more important things such as watching football and playing golf.  Of course we got the skills, we just choose not to use them.

But the sammich-making stuff is important to guys also.  I was at a party and Steve was bragging about his new, smokin’ hot girlfriend, who would be arriving soon.  When she got there, I was confused because she looked like a “plain-Jane” to me.  I pulled aside Steve’s friend Tony and asked for an explanation.

“Oh yeah, she’s hot. All the guys want her, she’s a real “sammich-maker”, Tony explained.

“What? I heard of baby-makers, but a sammich-maker?”, I asked.

“Oh yeah, she works at Subway and the woman is an expert sandwich maker.  

She knows how to use “all the toppings” if you get my drift”, he said.

Then I get home and turn on the television and I see Dr. Phil saying:

“On today’s show, we try to help this couple deal with a disagreement over the sammich-making responsibilities in their marriage.  Paul manages a real estate office. When he comes home at night, he’s hungry and wants his wife to make him a sammich, but his wife Sabrina, a real estate agent in that office, says she’s the one that works hard to sell the houses, and Paul can make his own d@#n sammich.”

Paul: She’s my wife. It’s her duty to make the sammiches!

From the more liberated side of the audience: Boo, boo, hiss, hiss, pig – rabble, rabble, rabble.

Sabrina: You sit on your fat a$$ all day, while I do all the work. You should be able to at least make own sandwich.

Dr. Phil: Sabrina, what are you usually doing when Paul gets home and wants his food?

Sabrina: I’m doing important stuff like watching “Real Housewives of New Jersey”

Less liberated side of the audience: Boo, boo, hiss, hiss, slacker, rabble rabble, rabble.

Dr. Phil: Oh $h!+!  Ladies! Ladies! Stop the fighting! Put the chairs down now! You are not on Jerry Springer!  Don Ake you are an idiot, you stupid sunavabitch. Look at what you have started.

I think I need to reiterate that sammich-making is a personal decision that couples need to decide on and what happens between the sheets, the sheets of bread of course, should remain private and not be discussed publicly. Of course I know men and women will discuss the intimate details with their closest friends.

Jack: Carol made me a sammich last night that was mind-blowingly good. 
Man, it was so awesome and she used only natural, organic, ingredients.  And get this, we didn’t use any condiments!

Bill: No condiments! Are you kidding me? Nothing between the meat and …...

Jack: Oh yeah, it was a totally organic experience.

And then on the other side…...

Sue: I made Rick a sandwich on Tuesday.  He was extremely hangry, so I tried to help him out. 

Becky: You actually made his sandwich for him? Do you think it was worth it? How do you feel about all this?

Sue: Yes, I ended up with mayonnaise all over my face, but it was worth it to me to please Rick in that manner.

Becky: Ewww, I hate the taste of that stuff.

Sammich - star of the front cover!
Ironically I was inadvertently drawn into the controversy because I literally had to ask my wife to make me a sammich to be used in the photo shoot for the cover of my book.  She did this for artistic reasons and did a fantastic job (see photo).  The Sammich became the star of the photo shoot instead of me, which of course made me very jealous.

So again, the book is not about sammiches.  It’s about the absurdities in relationships, life, work, celebrities, sports, and other things that I find amusing. It will be here in just two weeks!  

Buy the book now: Just Make Me A Sammich 

Monday, October 12, 2015

Get A Flu Shot This Year Or Get Screwed

It’s autumn! Time for colorful leaves, football, and of course, getting your flu shot. Every year at this time we are told we must get a flu shot. We are told this by people saying “We are competent, scientific, medical scientists, educated in science, so we know what we are talking about. You must get the flu shot or you will get sick, very sick.  If you get the flu, substances will shoot
out your bodily orifices in colors you never imagined possible. So get a flu shot, get it right now! ”

We are also told the flu shot is extremely effective in preventing the flu, because these scientists have carefully selected the targeted viruses for this year’s vaccine using the most intelligent, supreme, computer models available.  They of course cannot reveal the details of this process without having to kill you, but if you really want to know what it is, it has been posted online by Chinese hackers.

So last year, I dutifully headed this warning and drove 12 miles, filled out paperwork, stood in line, and had a needle poked in my arm by a nurse who wasn’t even “hot”.  And then in February I ended up getting a bad case of the flu.

It seems last year’s flu vaccine was not at all effective, because it had targeted the wrong viruses.  The Center for Disease Control was forced to admit its “sophisticated computer model” was really a guy named “Phil” who sits over there in the corner, and that Phil had in fact “guessed wrong”.

They then put out a statement which read:

“Our bad, we could have guessed wrong or maybe the virus just mutated.  We’re not really sure.  We did say you would get real sick if you were infected by the flu virus, and we were right about that. So we do know what we are talking about.  If you get the flu, please try to refrain from dying because that makes us look bad, oh so bad, and stupid.  And remember, we use science, lots of science.”

So after last year debacle, I was very interested in the flu viruses chosen to be included in this year’s vaccine. The first one is called “A California”.  I think a California-type virus doesn’t sound too bad at all.  It is probably a laid-back, hippie-type virus which lacks focus and commitment.  It would rather be hanging out at the beach catching some waves, than causing disruptions in your body.  When confronted by your immune system, it would say “Dude, okay I leaving now. Stop attacking me bro”

The second virus included in this year’s vaccine is the A Switzerland.  This would seem like a gentle, peaceful, virus which might cause a very mild case of the flu.  You could not imagine a Swiss flu causing a war in your intestines. And when confronted by your antibodies, this virus would quickly sign a peace treaty and leave you alone.

However, the third virus targeted by this year’s vaccine is cause for extreme concern.  It is the dreaded B Phuket virus (this is the real name of it – this is true).  I fear that if you contract the B Phuket virus, you will literally be Phuked.  Rest assured, this is a virus with an attitude, a bad-ass attitude, and it isn’t going to care how bad it makes you feel.

The B Phuket is going to rage through your body like a madman.  You are going to get ill, very ill. You are going to feel Phuking awful. You are going to want it to Phuking stop. This virus is going to travel throughout your body shouting Phuket, Phuket, Phuket all!  You will run a dangerously high fever, because the virus is going to make you Phuking hot.

And a virus with an extreme, bad-ass attitude is guaranteed to literally give you a bad ass.  It will produce a nasty case of the Phuking shitz.  Your colon will soon catch fire and explode like fireworks on the Fourth of July.    It will be a Phuking awesome display as flames and smoke pour out of your backside. The air will be thick and the odor Phuking intense.  Your neighbors will call the EPA about an unknown toxic substance in the air. Your can of Glade will be cowering in the back corner of your closet. Your intestines will be Phuked up, yes they will.

Your immune system by itself is no match for a virus with an attitude this horrid.  When your antibodies show up to confront it, it will shout “Phuk you! I’m the Phuking Phuket virus and I’m telling you to Phuk off right now. Phuket, Phuket, Phuket!” This is going to scare the fizz out of your blood cells, who will take the next yellow river ride out of town.

That’s why I am so alarmed about the Phuket virus. Let me tell you, I want that Phuking flu vaccine and I want it Phuking now!  I am not a medical professional, but I am recommending everyone get the flu shot this year so you don’t get that Phuket virus.  And be sure to remember to tell the nurse you came there so she can Phuket you.  I’m sure she will then be extra gentle with that needle.

I’ve warned you – consider this a public service announcement.

Monday, October 5, 2015

Is Mr. Clean Really A Dirty Guy?

I was alarmed by a very disturbing advertisement in my Sunday newspaper.  It said that Mr. Clean multi-purpose cleaner had now been combined with Gain laundry detergent.  This apparently was done to improve the scent of Mr. Clean because there was a “Love at first Sniff” sticker on the bottle.

This is indeed troubling because it raises an important question: Why does Mr. Clean need to smell any better? After all, he’s Mr. Clean isn’t he? If he’s so clean, he should smell fabulous already. So what is the purpose of mixing him with Gain? What is this so called “Mr. Clean” trying to cover up? You may experience “love at first sniff”, but I smell a rat. A dirty rat.

This is even more suspicious in light of the rumored scandals involving Mr. Clean over the years.  First there was the allegation of a dalliance with Mrs. Butterworth.  Mrs. Butterworth was known for being promiscuous and pinning her lovers under her by using her famous “pancake position”.  Very few of the male advertising icons could resist her sweet, sticky, goodness.  After these trysts, many of them were found stuck to the bed, covered in Butterworth’s syrupy goo.

However, even though Mr. Clean was seen entering a hotel with Butterworth, he exited a short time later spotless, even disinfected, with a big smile on his face. Somehow, someway, he was able to wash off all the grime and residue. How he was able to do this and what type of substance he used, is still a mystery.  When asked about it, Mr. Cleaned waffled on his answer.

Then there was the incident with Aunt Jemima. Jemima was also sweet and gooey and this had all the makings of a huge scandal. The rumors gained credence when Mr. Clean appeared with a noticeable black eye, reportedly the result of an altercation with Uncle Ben.  However, advertising agency executives fearing the onslaught of negative publicity, rushed in to concoct a story, explaining that Clean and Ben were fighting over prime advertising spots on Monday Night Football games, and not Aunt Jemima.  Nothing was ever proven otherwise.

Finally, there was the time when Marie Callender allegedly walked in on Mr. Clean and Betty Crocker going at it on the kitchen table.  The location made total sense since both of these icons do their best work in the kitchen.  Crocker said they were just testing the table to see if it was sturdy enough to hold all the side dishes she was going to prepare for a meal that evening.  Clean said Callender was fabricating the story because he had rejected her attention. He said he had no interest in Marie because he found her to be a “cold woman”, even frigid at times.

These alleged scandals were big news when then hit, but they faded away over time.  Mr. Clean was still considered extremely clean.

A few years ago Mr. Clean’s advertising agency attempted to improve his appearance and image by giving him a make-over. He had been a “tough guy” wearing an earring, long before it was fashionable and guys who shave their heads are a bit creepy, no? They softened his image, reportedly to make him more acceptable and pleasing to the modern woman. So they sent him to the spa for an eyebrow trim, facial, exfoliation, waxing, and mani/pedi. Well, la-di-frickin-da!  But maybe the real reason behind this action was to insulate Mr. Clean from these past scandals.

And now they feel Mr. Clean’s natural, manly, scent needs to covered-up by Gain.  What are you hiding Mr. Clean?  What stench are you trying to mask? This is a scandal of epic proportions. Yes, I am saying there is a chance that Mr. Clean is in fact, “dirty”.

I know this possibility seems outrageous. I know that if proven true, it will be painful to accept. However, based what has happened to other advertising figures and celebrities over the past year, we must at least consider that it could be true.  Hey, Hey, Hey, think about this the next time you enjoy some pudding, gelatin, or a made-fresh submarine sandwich.

In light of this obvious attempt to sanitize an already supposedly “Mr. Clean”, I think the Crocker incident should be reexamined.  Around nine months after the kitchen table incident, Betty Crocker gave birth to the Pillsbury Dough Boy. At the time it was naturally thought that Bib – the Michelin Man, was the father.  Bib and Betty were involved in a very public relationship at the time. The Dough Boy, being all white and puffy, does resemble the tire guy. And it was also well known, in one of the most incredible, stupendous, ironies of all time; that Bib preferred not to use rubbers. And of course, nothing says you loved him, like something in the oven.

I think a yeast sample and an appearance on the Maury Povich show is called for to determine who fathered Popin’ Fresh (ironically his name describes what got the sub sandwich guy in trouble).

I demand a complete, thorough, investigation.  But not by Congress, they all need to be soaked naked in Gain for about a month. No, I am calling on the authorities to bring in the most qualified advertising icon for this job, Toucan
Sam ("Follow my nose! It always knows!") to determine if a cover-up exists. I hope I am wrong about Mr. Clean, but something really smells about this situation, and it isn’t the Gain.


Monday, September 21, 2015

Not An Afternoon Delight

I was busy working in my home office one afternoon when I was interrupted by the doorbell. I scurried downstairs to find my neighbor, Hot Carla, standing at my door, appearing somewhat distraught.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need someone to talk to”, she explained.
I hesitated before I nodded, because I had work to finish and of course I was a bit uncomfortable being alone with Hot Carla in my home. I mean this is Hot Carla, and well, you know. But I invited her in since it seemed like the neighborly, Christian, thing to do.
She thanked me and assured me the discussion would not take long.  I discretely took a peek at the clock. If the discussion took 30 minutes, I still had time to finish my work on time. More importantly, my wife wasn’t due home for another hour and obviously Hot Carla had to be long gone by then.  As she moved past me, I took note how much perfume she was wearing to determine if I needed to deodorize the room after she left.
I directed her over to the loveseat and motioned for her to have a seat, and I swear she had in fact started to sit. I turned my back, walked over to the far end of the couch and sat where there would be a full six feet of space between us.  But apparently Hot Carla does not like people to be far apart when discussing personal issues, because she had not sat down on the love seat. She waited until I sat down on the couch, then she kicked off her shoes and sat down right next to me.  And “sat” is not the optimal term; because she pulled her feet up off the floor behind her. So I guess she curled up next to me on the couch.
Now this is not what you think (If it were, I wouldn’t be blogging about it. And you are all totally disgusting for even going there). Hot Carla’s father was ill and she needed some fatherly advice.  She would typically be able to get that advice from her father, but obviously not in this case. So I was serving the role of “father-figure”.  When young, attractive, women start valuing your paternal wisdom more than other male-type functions that you are willing to perform, you know you are traveling down the hill, not up it.  This realization is one of those that is both uplifting yet disturbing at the same time.
Like many beautiful babes, Hot Carla is oblivious to how hot she really is and what affect this sitting arrangement might have on me.  So Carla’s intentions are innocent, she just wants to be this close when discussing very personal matters.
Now I know the guys out there are wondering how Hot Carla is dressed since she is “curled” inches away from me on the couch.  I can say that it was summer, it was hot, and Hot Carla was dressed for coolness and comfort.  So in the way of clothing; not much. She looked so hot I think I noticed some wisps of smoke emanating from her body.  Carla may have been dressed to stay cool, but suddenly it was sweltering where I was seated and I was seated way too close for comfort.
Now you might accuse me at this time of having impure thoughts, but this is absolutely not true. My thoughts were in fact totally pure --- in the undiluted sense of the word.  Even so, I was able to overcome this daunting obstacle.  It takes a skilled listener, with amazing super powers of concentration, to perform under these circumstances. You must keep your mind and all your bones totally under control.
So I listened intently and was able to offer Hot Carla some good advice.  However I was concerned that if the advice was too wise, and her father did croak, these meetings might become more frequent. At times she came close to breaking down in tears. I did keep glancing at the clock to make sure we did not go over the “allotted” time.
The conversation was winding down.  It had been a success. I had been able to help this damsel in distress by comforting her and providing the guidance she so desperately needed.  Just call me Sir Ake-A-Lot. We must have been discussing something very important at that moment, because I failed to hear any noise in the garage.   By the time I heard the door open, it was too late to jump off of the couch and  propel my body through the air and onto the loveseat, which I swear I would have and could have done if I had only time.

In some cruel twist of fate, for some still unknown reason, my wife had decided, without warning I might add, to come home half-an-hour early that day.  She had never done this before. I mean who leaves work a half hour early for no good reason? Who I ask?  And yet there I am sitting on the couch with a shoeless, Hot Carla, in all her hotness, curled up next to me, as I greet my wife.
I look totally guilty of something, but I am totally innocent. The challenge is to try to maintain your composure and a believable facial expression, under extreme duress. It wasn’t so much deer in the headlights as it was buck caught in a compromising position. I resist the urge to immediately jump off the couch.
Instead I slowly rise up and move as carefully as an infantryman through a minefield, putting as much space between Carla and me as reasonably possible. At this point, one wrong move, one wrong look, or one wrong word, could cause an explosion of epic proportions.

“Carla’s father is ill”, I blurt out in attempt to diffuse the situation.  Fortunately Carla’s face communicates the severity of the situation.  It would have been a great time to unleash those tears. I know I wanted to cry right then.   But it does help that Carla does not recognize how things really appear. She is sweet, but rather blunt, and I could imagine her saying to my wife, “Don’t worry honey, we weren’t £*€!ing, we were only talking.” My wife offers her sympathy and engages in some polite small talk.  Since I don’t sit back down, fortunately Carla realizes the conversation is over and I walk her to the door.
Of course now there will be no comforting hug as we part. I do know it would have been a polite, platonic, neighborly, type hug. The kind of hug you would give your sister (if I had a sister) and I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt a thing. As I return, it seems the room temperature has dropped about 70 degrees.  I don’t say much the rest of the evening, and surprise! - - -  I lived to blog about it.
But once again, I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m striving to use my special powers and skills for noble purposes. I’m giving of myself to promote love, peace, and the betterment of humanity. For the record, I want to state again that I am totally, totally, innocent. Really, really, I am.  I was just trying to do the right thing, and the wrong thing happened …… again.

Monday, September 7, 2015

Nurses Need To Wear Undergarments

A hospital near me made the news by instituting a new, strict, dress code which applied to both health care workers and office personnel.  One rule which drew interest was: “All employees must wear underwear.”

Since I had just posted my “Just Say No To Going Commando”, I decided to join the debate to add some frivolity to the discussion.

I posted this comment on the discussion thread of the local newspaper:

Don Ake: Older people should never go commando anywhere - http://akespains.blogspot.com/2015/06/just-say-no-to-going-commando-ruu.html

This was responded to by a woman named Shelley (name changed)

Shelley: Speak for yourself. It’s the height of arrogance for anyone to believe they can tell everyone how to dress. By the way, I’m a boomer, and I dress exactly the way I want.

Apparently Shelley thinks my “commando” post is a serious commentary on dress codes. I’m assuming she dresses “the way she wants” is because she is not working (all companies have some dress codes) which is why she has time to engage in stupid arguments with people on the Internet.  But hey, she has attained the rank “Top Commenter” status on this particular message board so who I am to argue with her?  Who am I indeed?

However the seriousness and passion of her words reveal the existence of a rather large chain visible at the end of her comment. Unfortunately, if I see evidence of someone’s chain, it is almost impossible for me to resist the urge to yank it. (This even included former bosses, which incidentally didn’t help my career much). So I respond with:

Don Ake: Please don’t go commando Shelley, save yourself and all of us by making the wise choice.

Shelley: Like I said I do what I want. Whether I go commando or not is none of your business. Do us all a favor, and keep your generalities to yourself.

She still doesn’t realize I’m being silly. So ….. (yank, yank)

Don Ake: I can tell you are wearing panties because somehow they have gotten in a bunch. I am just performing a public service and trying to help you out.

Incredibly I must have been winning the argument, because “Nancy” (Another “Top Commentator!) joined the discussion in defense of Shelley.  And interesting enough, she is from Nova Scotia.  Why Nancy is so concerned about a hospital dress code in Ohio is baffling.  And I know she is wearing underwear, because you need to keep them beavers warm in the Great White North.

Nancy: Don Ake, No one asked or wants your help. Mansplaining isn’t it making it any better.

Now I take great exception to the mansplaining (talking down to women in a patronizing manner) accusation. For the record: I display the same arrogant, superior, know-it-all, attitude no matter who I am explaining something to. Man, woman, black, white, old, young, it is done exactly the same way!  Uh wait, that didn’t come out the right way…. Um, maybe it is the truth though.

Now if Nancy wants to join in, I am fully capable of engaging two women at the same time. No, I mean I can handle two women at once.  Uh, I guess what I really mean is that I can yank two chains simultaneously.

Don Ake: Oh Nancy, I think you have the same problem as Shelley. I suggest you debrief and then rebrief for the benefit of everyone you encounter today. And I do not mansplain. I am so brilliant that I must spread my wisdom everywhere!

Nancy: Don Ake, The only thing I see on this page that needs rebriefing is a big, shiny, bald, head.

Now I must really be dominating this argument if first I am accused of sexism and now she is attacking my appearance.  However Nancy appears to be young and cute and when a hot babe criticizes your appearance at my age, it does sting a bit. All the more, if in fact, she is not wearing any panties.  But she did notice my big head and you know what they say: big head, big ….. , whatever.

Don Ake: Nancy, For the sake of all humanity, unbind your panties woman, set them free! You and everyone else will be better for it.

And now it was time for Shelley to jump back on top of me, er I mean respond …
Shelley: Obviously Nancy, Don is a mysoginist (sic). He thinks his opinion is more than what it is, his opinion.  He has yet to learn his opinion only matters to him.  He also has an inflated sense of his own intelligence.

At this point I am laughing out loud.  It is difficult to have an inflated sense of intelligence, when I am being ridiculous.  However, I am intelligent enough to know when someone is being ludicrous and yanking my chain, unlike some people I know who have attained the esteemed rank as “Top Commenter”.
As far as being a misogynist, I want to say for the record:  I have never massaged a Miss and do not plan to do so in the future.  Of course if she is of legal age and needs a massage for medical reasons or to save her life, I may make an exception.

Her uniform needs to be "complete"
Furthermore, while the hospital’s dress code may be excessive, I do want the medical workers there to wear undergarments.  It is essential to provide a hygienic environment. Even more importantly, if I’m at the hospital for something cardiac related, I need to be sure the young, hot, blonde nurse attending to me is wearing panties.  If there is any indication, any at all, that she is going “au natural” under her uniform, this is going to end and it’s going to end very badly.