Rats and gamblers

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. I was just trying to keep my husband from becoming involved in gambling, as any conscientious wife would do. But before I knew it, wham! I had turned into a cold-blooded killer.

Held against my will at the video game store, I watched Joe read through all the games. He kept going back to one in particular. I looked at it more closely. Poker, said the cover. Thinking it my wifely duty to steer him away from the vice of gambling, I searched for something more suitable.

"How about this one?" I said encouragingly. I held up Ratatouille.

He read the description. " 'There are special cooking games, wild rides down the sewer, and logic games about matching control buttons,' " he read. He looked up. "Whoo, those 'special cooking games' sound exciting."

"If we get this one, I'll play it too," I said rashly.

And that is how Ratatouille came home with us.

He held me to my promise of playing the game with him. "Okay, but I hope there's no violence," I warned.

He assured me that this was a mild, pleasant sort of game.

"I meant from you," I said, "if I don't do very well at this game. Video games tend to increase real-life violence, you know."

He sighed and said he doubted he would be inspired to acts of violence if I didn't help Remy locate all his apple cores in a timely fashion.

"Just so you know," I said.

So I set about learning how to maneuver Remy around and helping him collect the apple cores. It was a good thing this was a game for beginners, and that every time I made a misstep, Remy got another life. Otherwise it would have been an extremely short game.

Just as I was learning how to make Remy do cartwheels, he came to a little bird hovering in the air. A spoon appeared in Remy's hand.

"What's this?" I said.

"You have to hit the bird with the spoon," Joe announced.

I was horrified. "I have to hit a cute widdle Tweety Bird?" I said. "What kind of game is this?"

"I don't think you'll hurt it," he assured me. "You'll just swipe it out of your way."

"Can't I just pretend it's not there?" I said desperately.

"You won't be able to move forward if you don't get it out of the way," he insisted.

Women, see, really don't care about things like moving forward, especially if it means taking out innocent little birds in the process. But, mindful of that real-life violence I might be instigating if I continued in my refusal, I hit the bird. It flew into a bazillion pieces.

I gave Joe the controller. "I think I'll just stick with Clue," I said. "At least all the killing in that game is theoretical. By the way, how many points did I rack up?"

"You don't get any points this time," Joe said. "This was just a tutorial."

I stared at him. "All that was just a tutorial? I haven't even played a real game yet?" I was exhausted.

A week later he went back to the video game store, without me, and got Poker. And I, the destroyer of innocent wildlife, could not say a word.

We would like to welcome back Squire #3, who was greatly missed the last few weeks. You had us worried there. We sincerely hope your absence was not due to any gambling or other unsavory pursuits.

Of commas and primitive plumbing

This blog deeply regrets the oversight Wednesday of a national occasion for celebration. I am speaking of National Punctuation Day. It just shows how busy our lives are these days that we would not take time out to at least mention such an occasion, particularly one that is so intimately connected to editing. Of course, at work we celebrated. We hung up a collection of comic strips about punctuation ("Honey, we just can't keep every stray comma you bring home"). We also went around talking in exclamation points all day!!! Yes, we really whooped it up. And you thought punctuation was boring.

Before we leave that topic, I would like to call for a moment of silence to honor all the fallen, misplaced, and abused commas, periods, question marks, exclamation marks, quotation marks, colons, semi-colons, quarter-colons, etc., those hard-working pillars of our language. Let us use this occasion to vow to restore them to their proper place in our communications.

Thank you!!!!!!!!!!!;

And now for today's topic, which is only slightly less on the public radar than proper punctuation: outhouses.

There is a movement in our neighborhood, which is a historic district, to preserve part of our past by restoring an old outhouse behind our row of houses. There are always difficulties involved in rehabilitating old buildings, and this one is no exception. For instance, I see one difficulty right off the bat.

a. To restore a structure, it is helpful if it first exists.
b. This outhouse does not currently exist, at least not in the location in which it is proposed to reside.

Now, I am all for restoration of things that link us to our past. I'm sure the people who lived here throughout the past 170 years would be thrilled to know that their homes have outlived them, and indeed have become somewhat fashionable, although they would no doubt think we are crazy to live in them when we could live somewhere that has straight walls, floors that do not slant 35 degrees, stairs that are not so steep that they propel you headlong toward the bottom, etc. But I'm also sure that, when modern plumbing finally came to this area -- which was, no joke, in the 1980s -- the residents at the time celebrated, in part, by taking an ax to the outhouses. At the dawn of the 21st century, they were finally moving into the 20th century!

But apparently some outhouses survived that attack, and now here we are, not all that much later, wanting to restore the area to its past shame by plopping an old outhouse from down the street in our backyard and fixing it up, no doubt much more attractively than it ever was when it was actually being used. While we're at it, maybe we should rip up all the pavement and restore the streets to their original dirt condition. With all the digging the power company has done on the streets lately, it might actually be an improvement.

Personally, I think the real reason for the Save the Outhouse project is that someone is getting a little paranoid about the economy, and figures that we should be prepared with emergency back-up facilities in case our water and electricity are shut off for some reason. Maybe it doesn't stop there. Is the outhouse merely a cover, the entrance into some as-yet-undisclosed bunker where we can all hide in case of disaster? In the future, will we celebrate our escape from a world in chaos by observing National Outhouse Day?

If so, I'll be sure to stash up some extra commas.

Parental adjustment

With my mom in the hospital for several weeks, Dad is certainly rising to the occasion, bringing her things to make life a little more comfortable and help her pass the time. For instance, he brings her the bills to pay, since she has always been the one to pay them ("she'll worry about them if I do them"). He brings her the crossword puzzle to work on, when he remembers, which is about once a week. He is even opening drawers he has never opened in his life to bring her the clothes she needs. Well, he brings clothes. They aren't always the ones she needs, as you can see from the following.

What Mom asks for
some pants
some shirts
socks
a pair of shoes

What Mom gets
several dresses
1 sock
entire bag of nylons
pumps that, for the last 15 years, she has worn only to church

"I don't know where your father thinks I'm going while I'm here," she said. "It's not like we get dressed up for dinner."

But Mom is upbeat each time I talk to her. Understand, this is not typical for my mother. A glass is never half-full for her. Her motto concerning glasses is more "Is that another dirty glass I have to wash?" But now, after a few weeks of having everything done for her, and awaiting a move to an assisted living program where my dad will join her, she is happier than ever. I think she is thrilled at the prospect of -- perhaps for the first time in her life -- being waited on. "They give you three meals a day!" she says, rapturously. "I'll never have to cook again." The quality of the food presents no problem. This is a woman who thinks hospital food is fine dining. As long as she doesn't have to cook it, it tastes great.

Dad, of course, takes the prospect of being waited on for granted. It's all he knows. It's been a little tougher to accomplish without my mom at home, but he's a resourceful man. He has all the church ladies bringing food, doing laundry, even washing his dishes.

"You can't wash your own dishes, Dad?" I say.

"Well, they want to help," he says modestly. "I should let them help, shouldn't I?"

I hope none of them wants to help wash the windows, or paint the garage, because he will let them.

Although Dad is not as convinced as Mom that their new home will be a bed of roses, I'm sure he'll settle in soon. A handsome, charming 86-year-old man in an assisted living program? All the female residents will swoon, and the caregivers will probably give him a little extra attention. Who knows? They may even wash the dishes for him.

The Princess is called to the stand

I was called upon recently to give testimony in an extremely complex case. Being the sole witness, I was interrogated quite thoroughly. The prosecutor? Joe. The case? Whether or not a noise was actually heard in the middle of the night.

I share with you here a brief transcript of my testimony. The actual trial went on seemingly without end, due to the prosecutor's vast amount of skill and experience at grilling his spouse on the witness stand for the tiniest little things I might happen to mention.

Prosecutor: The witness alleges that she heard a noise in the middle of the night, although there were no other witnesses to this occurrence. Now, please tell us which night this was.
Me: Last night.
Prosecutor: And at what time did this alleged noise occur?
Me: Around 4:00.
Prosecutor: Can you be more specific?
Me: Um, 3:58?
Prosecutor: You don't sound very sure.
Me: I was trying to identify the sound; I was not paying attention to the clock.
Prosecutor: All right, 3:58. And what did this alleged noise sound like?
Me (thinking): Kind of like...ch-ch-ch.
Prosecutor: I see. And was this a rhythmic ch-ch-ch?
Me (screwing up face): No...I don't think so.
Prosecutor: Describe the sound some more.
Me: Well, it sort of sounded like paper...
Prosecutor (pouncing): How did it sound like paper?
Me: How many ways does paper sound?
Prosecutor (bristling): I'll ask the questions, thank you. There are any number of ways paper can sound. Did it sound like paper being crumpled, paper being ripped to shreds, paper being read, paper being dropped from a great height, paper being used with a comb to produce musical notes...?
Me (puzzled): No, I'd say it sounded more like paper rustling...but not really.
Prosecutor: "Not really"?
Me (starting to get impatient): That's the closest thing I can compare it to, but I don't even know for sure that it was paper.
Prosecutor: Okay, let's leave the description of the noise for a minute. How many times did you hear the alleged noise?
Me: About three or four.
Prosecutor: You're not sure?
Me: It was the middle of the night. I don't count very well in the middle of the night.
Prosecutor (sighing): Very well. And was it the same sound each time?
Me (thinking hard): No, it was a little different.
Prosecutor: How was it different?
Me: Uh, I don't know.
Prosecutor: Perhaps ch-ch-ch and then ch-ch-ch-ch?
Me: I don't know!
Prosecutor: Let's move on, then. Where did it seem like this sound was coming from? Outside?
Me: No, it was definitely inside.
Prosecutor: In the wall? An animal in the wall, perhaps?
Me: No, at first it sounded like it was downstairs, but then it sounded closer, like in the hallway...or maybe in the room across the hall...
Prosecutor (clearly shaken): In my library??
Me: Well, there is a lot of paper in that room.
Prosecutor: But you can't be sure.
Me: No, not really.
Prosecutor (somewhat relieved): Let's go back to what it sounded like. You seem to be having difficulty pinpointing that.
Me: Well, there was another sound in the room competing with it.
Prosecutor: Oh?
Me: My husband told me to nudge him when I heard the noise again, but when I tried to listen for it, this other sound kept getting in the way.
Prosecutor: And what sound was that?
Me: My husband, um, sleeping.
Prosecutor (bristling again): Well, clearly that has no bearing on the mysterious noise you heard, so we can strike that from the record. Now, what else can you tell us about the noise?
Me: I've already told you everything...this might not be what it was, but it sounded like...sort of...like something playing with paper.
Prosecutor: Something?
Me: Yeah, like maybe a mouse.
(The courtroom erupts in screams. When they have died down, the interrogation resumes.)
Prosecutor: So you think it was a mouse rustling paper?
Me: I don't know. It might have been.
Prosecutor: And did you get up to investigate the noise?
Me (in disbelief): Of course not. Would you?
Prosecutor: Certainly.
Me (accusingly): Then why didn't you?
Prosecutor (clearing his throat): Clearly we are dealing with a hostile witness here; that can also be stricken from the record. Now, let's review the facts you've given us. Around 3:58 last night, although you can't be sure of the time, you heard a noise, three or four times, although you can't be sure how many, that sounded like paper rustling, although you aren't sure, and that sounded like it was coming from the library, although you aren't sure.
Me: That about sums it up.
Prosecutor: Hmmm. It seems to me that we have little concrete evidence in this case. The witness, being a female, is perhaps somewhat prone to hearing strange noises during the night. Based on her testimony, I do not think we can conclusively say what the noise was, or even say with certainty that there was a -- ow! (sounds of the prosecutor being whapped over the head) Stop that! Ow! Somebody stop her!

This trial was halted due to an unfortunate courtroom injury on the part of the prosecutor. He was unable to continue the trial and may, perhaps, never practice his profession again, although, being a male, he is perhaps somewhat prone to grilling for information, and therefore -- ow! Stop that! Hey! Somebody stop him!

The truth about broccoli

WARNING: Today's post contains sensitive, even controversial, information about vegetables. If you are a vegetarian, or one of those people who faithfully consumes your recommended 73.6 servings of vegetables a day, or whatever it is now -- I notice they are always raising the daily allowance of fruits and vegetables, but never of ice cream -- you are strongly encouraged to do something other than read this blog. Unfortunately I have no suggestions of what.

Now, everyone knows that broccoli is a vegetable. Well, different vegetables come from different parts of a plant. Broccoli happens to come from the flower part of the plant. So (follow me closely here),

a) Broccoli is a flower.

And what is a flower?

b) A flower is the reproductive part of the plant.

Do you know what this means?

When you eat broccoli, you are eating a reproductive organ.

The same pretty much goes for cauliflower, which appears to be albino broccoli. In fact, with cauliflower, they didn't even attempt to disguise the fact that it is a flower. Artichokes are also flowers, which doesn't surprise me. Anything with a name that ugly has got to have some pretty severe issues.

But amazingly, we are openly encouraged, in the name of good nutrition, to consume these reproductive vegetable organs. We receive dire warnings about the irregularities of hot dogs, yet we are not told the truth about broccoli and its other flower counterparts. And nowhere do you hear the presidential candidates talking about this issue, although I'm pretty sure it is discussed somewhere in the Old Testament ("Thou shalt not eat reproductive organs").

But why stop with flowers? Fruits and seeds are also part of the reproductive area of the plant. It's time to write your Congressman about this issue! Or woman. Ask him, or her, where he/she stands on the broccoli vs. hot dog issue. But be warned: Most of our elected officials want to stay as far as possible from this one. They would rather discuss things like education.

Now, I'm not trying to sway anyone away from eating broccoli or cauliflower or artichokes. Now that you have the facts, it's up to you what you do with them. I'm just saying.

As for me and my house, we will stick with carrots. And ice cream, although not necessarily together.

Readers search for meaning (but they won't find it here)

For lack of anything better to do, today we return to our look at the search terms that lead readers to this blog. The great variety in these terms shows the depth and breadth of topics presented here. It also shows that I am not the only one who has nothing better to do.

Many people show an interest in involving themselves in community action, as is evident by their searches for things like "decorating your cubicle" and "decorating your co-worker's cubicle when they're on vacation." It is heartening to see that America's office workers are concerned about more than just collecting a paycheck. How thoughtful of someone to want to enhance a co-worker's space to welcome him or her back from a restful trip, probably to some exotic place the other person has never been and will probably never get to visit, like Tahiti. I am surprised the search terms did not also include "toilet paper."

Some readers are rightfully concerned about what is in today's food products, such as the person who searched for "crustaceans in donuts." People have known for years about hot dog fillers, but the tendency for donut suppliers to fill their donuts with questionable animal parts is lesser known. If your donut is crunchy and appears to have several appendages, well, I would stick with hot dogs. Or perhaps this reader was searching for a recipe, in which case I am glad I do not know this person and therefore cannot receive an invitation to brunch.

Crustaceans in donuts are by no means the only food-related searches I see. People are fascinated with "humorous Dove bar sayings." I have personally examined countless Dove bar sayings, in my free time and without any compensation, and have yet to find any I would classify as humorous. A possible way to be amused by Dove bars is to use the wrappers to decorate your co-worker's cubicle.

In this exciting election time, people also come to this blog to find out where their favorite candidates stand. This can be seen in the many searches for "humorous survey results" and "humorous polls." No doubt these people are hoping to find that yes! Dave Barry is ahead in the presidential race!

Speaking of Dave Barry, whose crusade against low-flush toilets is well known, there is -- judging from recent searches -- an apparent movement to popularize "short toilets." I am heartily in support of this, having been inconvenienced on more than one occasion when visiting my parents, whose toilets all come from some company named Jack the Giant's Commodes.

And finally, some queries focus on life's great mysteries, like "what happened to the cherry chewable Benadryl tablets?" I can only offer this suggestion: Do you get tired and sluggish upon consuming a hot dog? If so, I think you may have your answer.

This week

The Prissy Princess apologizes for any irregularities in the blog schedule this week. Her parents, the King and Queen, are experiencing some technical difficulties with their health, and she, in turn, is experiencing a measure of concern over them, as they live in a faraway kingdom that has been alleged, in this very blog, to be "boring." We are sure that her good humor, however slight it might be, will return shortly. We hope it will be without so many commas.

The importance of bananas, and other search terms

Many of you loyal readers enjoy this blog because, I suppose, you find yourselves in need of some slight humor in your lives. Or possibly because you are bored beyond bearing at work. But most of you probably do not realize that this blog also attracts individuals who are searching for some deep meaning in their lives. Of course, once they read four lines of anything I have written, they quickly realize they are in the wrong place, and they are never heard from again. But we can learn a lot from the issues that people are interested in by examining the search terms they use to get here, and so I'd like to share some examples of the important issues that have led desperately seeking individuals, almost like a beacon, to this blog.

First, bananas. This topic consistently ranks in the top five (out of a recorded six) search terms for this blog. One individual was interested in knowing about "bananas -- humorous importance in our life." Now this is a subject that I personally feel has long been neglected in our society. No one talks about how vital bananas are to our sense of humor, other than as a gag for making someone slip on a peel. Like so many other issues in our society, people feel safer with the surface humor of the banana and are unwilling to engage in deeper dialogue about it. It is encouraging that at least one person recognizes the potential for long-term happiness that bananas offer.

More than one reader, however, appears to be convinced that there is a connection between bananas and headaches. All I know is, I rarely eat bananas, but I sure get a lot of headaches. Perhaps these people are searching for bananas as a cure for headaches.

Many people look to this blog for guidance in how to communicate complex, vital thoughts in other languages. Several, for instance, have searched for how to say "I don't like to sing in Spanish," possibly as a way of getting out of a bad date. Another individual searched for "excuse me in Chinese." I'm thinking this person really messed up while visiting China, as Americans are so wont to do when abroad, or perhaps with the parents of a new girlfriend, in which case "I hang my head in shame and will never again attempt to see your daughter" might be a more appropriate phrase.

Some readers are clearly dissatisfied with their life in some way, often their looks. One search term revealed a desperate cry that "I wish I had the tongue of an okapi." Throughout the ages many other people have expressed this same longing, but it has never been recorded that any human possessed a tongue so long and rough that it could double as a back scrubber. My heart goes out to readers such as this one, for, as many of you know, this blog assiduously refrains from offering any practical advice.

Today I have been able to give you only a glimpse of what people out there are looking for when they visit this blog. I have much more to share, so tune in next week. Also, if anyone comes across a banana cure for headaches, please let me know.

All hail to the tribe of Illinois

I had planned to continue our discussion of interesting state facts today with my home state of Michigan, but my research turned up only one thing about Michigan: It is boring. This merely confirms what Joe, who is not from Michigan, has always suspected. If he had to give Michigan a motto, he never would have picked "If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you." His motto would be something more along the lines of "You couldn't find someplace more boring, except possibly Iowa."

However, the news for all you Illinois readers out there, particularly those of the male persuasion, is much better. Your state's name is a mixed marriage between an Indian word and a French suffix and means -- this is true -- "the superior tribe of men."

Yes, males of Illinois, I am sure this confirms what you have always suspected. I can hear the whooping and hollering from here. Of course, that could be coming from my own house, in which resides a male from this "superior tribe." Of course I think he is superior.


This is also good news for single women. A co-worker of mine, for instance, is convinced that all available males in Maryland are defective in some respect, despite the manliness of Maryland's motto, "manly deeds." Now I know, thanks to my research on state names, that she is right, and that she should move to Illinois.

The list of men who hail from the superior tribe of Illinois is certainly impressive. Walt Disney. Harrison Ford. Charlton Heston. Rock Hudson. Burl Ives. Bob Newhart. Ronald Reagan. Not to be outdone, Maryland has: John Wilkes Booth.

Possibly because of all this manliness, Illinois also broke with tradition, indeed federal regulation, when naming its state song. No standard "Illinois, My Illinois" for this tribe. They are so proud, so self-assured, that their state song is simply "Illinois." I wish I'd thought of that.

Illinoisans are also much more decisive than, say, people in Tennessee, which has no fewer than six state songs (which I'm sure is against some federal regulation), one of which is "Utah." The residents of Mississippi, in an effort to help those of us from other states with our perpetual difficulty in remembering how to spell their state's name, have simplified things by dividing the title of their state song into syllables: "Miss-iss-ipp-i." There are no words to this song, but chanting the title has become such a ritual for children everywhere that it is now a requirement in most school geography programs. You are probably chanting it right now.

Well, this concludes our look at interesting state facts. I hope all you single women will get a chance to check out that superior tribe of men from Illinois. If you're lucky, "superior tribe of men" means "men of great culinary ability."

Maryland, my homeland (at least for the last three years)

Today we will explore some fascinating facts about Maryland -- a state picked totally at random and having nothing to do with the fact that I live there -- such as its motto, why it is named Maryland instead of, say, Paradise, the state song, average number of insect bites per resident year round, etc. To be unbiased, I will also share some fascinating facts about other states, such as that most of them are much bigger.

First, the motto of Maryland. A state cannot pick just any motto. For instance, mottoes cannot be in English, and they cannot have anything to do with that particular state. Maryland's state motto, for instance, is "fatti maschii, parole femine," which means "manly deeds, womanly words." A looser, more literal translation might be "fat men, parole the women!" which makes at least as much sense.

For utterly no reason at all, I have always had a vague thought that Maryland is perhaps named after someone named Mary, but this just shows my ignorance of the complexities involved in naming states. Maryland is, in fact, named after the Queen of Charles 1 of England, whose name was NOT Mary. Her name was Henrietta Maria, but you can certainly understand why the founding fathers of the state chose Maryland as opposed to Henriettaland. It was probably Marialand originally, but we Marylanders like to make things easier on ourselves whenever possible.

Alas, Maryland is not the only state named after Henrietta Maria. North Dakota is, too, Dakota being Charles's pet name for his wife. Okay, not really, but supposedly Maine is named after this queen. Someone must have just picked random letters in the name Henrietta Maria ("How about Main?" "Hmmm, we need another vowel...I know! Let's put an E on the end so future generations of Americans, who do not know how to spell proper English, will know that this state was named after Merry Olde Englande!").

Maryland is by no means the only state with an interesting history behind its name. Connecticut, for instance, comes from the Native American word "quinnehtukqut," which means "And you thought Connecticut was hard to spell!" Iowa's name -- this is true -- comes "probably from an Indian word meaning beautiful." Having driven across Iowa, I can only say that I am certain the Indians never intended for this word to be applied to Iowa. They probably voted to name Hawaii this, but the Iowans overruled them.

State songs are apparently subject to federal naming guidelines, possibly to avoid potential legal issues such as the following:

Judge: Yes, Nevada, what are you proposing for the title of your state song?

Nevada (all three residents): Your honor, the State of Nevada submits "I love Nevada."

Judge: I'm sorry, that's already been taken by Georgia.

So to avoid confusion, state song titles basically go like this: "(Insert your state name here), my (insert your state name again in case someone didn't get it the first time)." Thus, you have "Maryland, My Maryland," "Michigan, My Michigan, "Florida, My Hot Humid Florida," etc. The exception is Ohio, whose state song is "Beautiful Ohio," which, given what I've seen of that state, certainly seems optimistic. Possibly whoever named it was comparing it to Iowa.

Maryland may be small, but it certainly has its share of interesting things to do. Points of interest are often listed as the U.S. Naval Academy, the National Aquarium, and Virginia. We even have a state dog, the Chesapeake Bay retriever, who is trained to retrieve the state crustacean, the Maryland blue crab. The state sport, jousting (really!), is often needed for getting the state crustacean away from the state dog.

There are, of course, many other interesting things about Maryland, some of which have yet to be discovered. Contrary to popular belief, the state does not collect data on the average number of insect bites per resident each year, so as soon as I finish calculating that, I'll let you know.

Punctuation gone bad

Most people, if they think of the editorial profession at all, have little idea of the enormous importance and, yes, difficulty of this job. It is not a job for the weak. Take this sentence I came across in our style guide at work one day, about the punctuation mark unfortunately known as the colon. When a colon follows a word that has been italicized, the style guide advised, "an effort should be made to italicize the colon."

One can infer from this the natural inclination of the colon to remain un-italicized. The note is not clear about what to do in the event you encounter resistance from the colon in your efforts to italicize it. Should you raise your voice at it? Threaten to reduce its status to semi-colon if it does not at once repent and submit to italicization? What if your efforts should prove fruitless? Do you banish the recalcitrant colon from your document? Are there rights you should read to it before doing so?

These are the issues with which we editors struggle on a daily basis. We wrestle continually with punctuation and other text that does not wish to have any formatting forced upon it, and occasionally with some text that does not wish to have any meaning forced upon it.

Not everyone, of course, appreciates the difficulties involved in keeping our written language under control. Some individuals, for instance, are of the opinion that punctuation should be allowed to roam freely throughout a selection of text, with no arbitrary demands or restrictions placed upon it. My husband is squarely in this camp. "Free the commas!" is his motto.

But for those of us who labor in this much-misunderstood profession, there is much work to be done. Our efforts to bring some order to the chaos of the written word must continue, including our efforts to italicize the colon.

The newspaper formerly containing news

In an effort to attract new readership -- or possibly just to see if anyone is paying attention -- our daily newspaper has made some exciting changes lately. The most noticeable is that it contains no actual news.

There are pictures -- lots of pictures. There are also headlines, most of which take up an entire page and leave no room for the articles that, historically, have accompanied the headlines. And there are plenty of ads for important news-related things, like wart removal.

But the news itself is apparently all shipped off to a cabin in the mountains of Utah, where it is jealously presided over by a little old man who is convinced that the day will come when the country will once again demand to see, in print, the dangers of wart removal. In the meantime, if readers must read some actual news, they are referred to reporters' blogs ("HURRICANE PATRINA HEADED STRAIGHT FOR...For locations and times, please log on to Timothy J. Scribbler's blog"). Someday even the headlines will be considered unnecessary, and the newspaper will consist entirely of blog listings.

The other noticeable change in the newspaper is that the comics, which used to enjoy a two-page spread, are now reduced to ant size and appear in the footer at the bottom of page 22. It is hard to tell the difference between the strips ("Is that Cathy cleaning out her shoe closet?" "No, I think it's Garfield throwing a toaster at Odie"). Soon the publishers will realize that they could save even more space by printing just the first panel of every strip, with a note to please refer to G. Kapfenschmatt's blog for the rest.

Now here's an idea for the newspaper, if it really wants to attract more readers: Since the comics are consistently the most favorite section of the newspaper (particularly among bloggers named ilovecomics), they should put ALL the news in comic strip format. Bucky and Satchel, for instance, could give us the important developments in the presidential campaign ("Bucky Katt: He will rid America of monkeys"). And the Family Circus could report on the most recent storm system ("Hurricane Dolly is moving through Florida, but it's Tropical Storm Jeffy that really has forecasters worried").

One thing has me perplexed. If there is no actual news in the newspaper anymore, why does it still weigh 29 pounds?

A weekend fun-raiser

This holiday weekend, instead of focusing only on fun and doing something for ourselves, we had a chance to do something different, something that would benefit others, something that would be a totally selfless act.

"Look, honey," I said, pointing to a flyer I had brought home from work. "Let's help fight autism by eating pizza!"

Uno's Pizzeria would donate 20% of our bill toward fighting autism, if only we would make the enormous sacrifice of eating what is arguably the world's best pizza. It would be tough, but the cause demanded commitment. If WE didn't consume a Primo Pepperoni -- with chunky tomato sauce, peppy pepperoni, and a thick crust that is personally my sole reason for eating this pizza -- and donate money from it, who would?

Our decision to participate gave us a renewed sense of purpose. All weekend, as we pursued other, more selfish activities, like shopping for groceries, we anticipated engaging in our quest. "It's almost time," we would encourage each other, "time to fight autism!"

We even trained for the event. In anticipation of ordering one of Uno's magnificent desserts (each of which is enough to feed the entire population of Minnesota), we refrained from eating dessert earlier that day. A chocolate chip cookie may have sneaked onto our plates at lunch, but we simply reclassified it as a vegetable. We were happy to make this sacrifice.

Finally the time came. We dressed accordingly, putting on baggy clothes to leave room for expanding waistlines. We didn't want to cheat the needy children of this country by eating within our means.

When the menus came, we decided to go all out. After all, this was for a good cause. Forget our usual order of just a small pizza. We ordered salad. We ordered drinks. We ordered the Chef's Choice Deep Dish Pizza, in which we got to select our own toppings ("We'll take one of each"). With each dish, we cheered each other on. "One more bite for autism!" we said while waving around a forkful of gooey cheese.

I am ashamed to say that we did experience a moment's hesitation on ordering dessert. We had underestimated the ability of our baggy clothes to accommodate the food necessary to fight for this worthy cause. We struggled to breathe. But we summoned, from deep within us, the will power to continue on our quest. (Plus, the waitress told us that the enormous chocolate chip cookie in the Deep Dish Sundae was all warm and gooey.) We told her to bring it on. "We can't quit now!" we said. "We will see this through to the end!"

We were so comatose at the end of dessert that we nearly forgot to give the waitress our coupon asking her to donate the 20%, but we managed to lurch in her direction just at the last minute. "Here!" we said, gasping. "We want to help...fight...autism!" And we collapsed on the floor.

Okay, so we didn't collapse. At least not at the restaurant. We did collapse at home, but it was with the satisfaction of those who know they have done their best on behalf of others.

Because of the toll this took on our bodies, our next effort to erase the world's ills will need to involve something a little less strenuous. "Help fight breast cancer by eating ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery!" sounds perfect.