November 23, 2009

I'm Thankful for Howard Hesseman


Has there ever been a television series that didn't air the obligatory Thanksgiving episode, where everyone in the peer group is somehow (wackily!) prevented from having dinner with their actual family, and instead spends it with the rest of the (wacky!) cast?

From Cheers to Friends (a multiple-repeat offender) to Felicity, the recipe is a stalwart, and I guarantee if your DVR keeps even moderately busy this week, you'll catch at least one of your new favorite shows dusting it off again.

Fortunately, thanks to Al Gore's Internets, everyone on earth can bask in the glory of the WKRP in Cincinnati "Turkeys Away" episode. For those enslaved by IT overlords who refuse you access to Hulu.com, whet your beaks here, then check it out from home.

Learn all about the first Thanksgiving here.

Learn how to say "thanks" in two dozen languages here.

Read Abraham Lincoln's Thanksgiving Proclamation here.

And remember the words of Johnny Carson:
Thanksgiving is an emotional holiday. People travel thousands of miles to be with people they only see once a year. And then they discover once a year is way too often.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

November 17, 2009

Whose Palm Do I Have to Grease to Move Up this List?


Back in July, I blogged about the Freedom House list of The Least Free Places on Earth. Not to be outdone, Transparency International has now released their annual Corruption Perceptions Index, which “measures the perceived level of public-sector corruption in 180 countries and territories around the world”.

Since Somalia was ranked as fifth on the Least Free Places list, and dead last on the Corruption Index, ScotticusFinch is prepared to annouce the 2009 winner of the “Place in Which Even a Superhero Should Hope to Never Accidentally Wake Up Award”...

Okay, it’s Detroit for the fourth straight year. But Somalia is a close second.

Unsurprisingly, Transparency International ranked New Zealand as the least-corrupt nation on earth. This is due mostly to the well-documented nigh-incorruptable nature of Hobbits.

It's a Wiggly Sack of Potatoes! It's a Smelly Plush Doll! It's... It's... Okay, it's my Kid in a Costume

Granted, so far it's all just playing dress-up, but the seeds are officially sown. I wonder if this is how Gandhi felt the first time he saw Gandhi Jr in a dhoti, or when Rollie Fingers first saw his boy sporting a dirty junior-high mustache.



On a superpower-related note, I can't help but notice that several of the millions of daily visitors to ScotticusFinch have neglected to vote on the last two polls (left sidebar). How can I be expected to advance the science of personal opinions unless you people participate? If you have already voted, go to your neighbor's cubicle while she's at lunch and vote again*. My bloated self-esteem could be at stake.

If you want to suggest a more click-worthy poll, please do so in the comments.

*See what I mean about being devoted to science?

November 5, 2009

14 Days Without Sleep Makes One Weak

I find a little giggle-gas before I begin increases my pleasure enormously.
A full two weeks ago, I drifted off under anesthetic while some eight-year-old with palsy practiced pumpkin-carving in my sinuses. Since then, and into the foreseeable future, I have been spending the hours between 10pm and 6am on the sofa, sitting straight up, pretending that I might eventually sleep. This overnight posture is required because of the 74 gallons of drainage (the medical term for snot) I now generate per night.

Every hour or so, I abandon my post on the sofa, stumble in the dark through the gauntlet of baby paraphernalia and empty tissue boxes to the bathroom, and force saltwater up my nose in direct conflict with everything I learned at YMCA swim class. The commotion, of course, convinces the dogs that it’s time for breakfast, so even after I find my way back to the couch, alternately dripping tainted saltwater and “drainage”, they sit attentively by my side, reminding me in that whiny dog language that their bowls are still empty. Never mind that it’s 1:45am.

Eventually baby Wyatt wakes up, and we go about our morning as if the night was somehow rejuvenating.

59 minutes out of every hour during the day, I hold my breath. Not by choice, but because my nose is clogged full of that stuff inside Cadbury Crème Eggs and breathing through my mouth all night has turned my throat into some sort of parched, scorched Taliban survival course. I try to save that one breath per hour for when the boss comes around to ask if everything is okay. “Yep,” I bark, which is code for “Please ignore the fact that I look like Martin Landau three days into a meth bender; I do not actually have the swine flu.” At least I assume it’s my boss. The hallucinations lately make it difficult to tell him apart from the giant Pillsbury Dough Boy who lives in the supply closet behind me.

Assurances have been made that I will eventually heal, although the “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!” banner hanging behind the Doc at my follow-up appointment was a bit disconcerting. And I’m pretty sure it was his lawyer who poked his head into the exam room, telling the Doc, “Hey, the judge totally isn’t buying it. You should probably have a bag packed and keep your passport on you.”

So for now, it’s back to the sofa and the Scotticus-shaped indentation that has formed within it, where I offer a fatted calf to the gods Kleenex, Ocean, Afrin, and Advil. I pray that they are appeased and benevolent, but I’m not holding my breath.