Category: Funny Business

Thought Facebook and Twitter were just places to be fed Russian propaganda?

Nope.

They also have mind-expanding tests, like “What 80s TV Star Are You?” “What Superhero Are You?” and “What Toxic Household Cleaner Are You?”

For the record I’m Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge, Batman, and Easy-Off Heavy Duty Oven Cleaner Aerosol Spray.

As an aside, it’s important to note that Batman is not a superhero because he possesses no super powers. He is in top physical condition, is extremely intelligent, and has billions of dollars’ worth of high-tech gadgetry at his disposal, but he is not a metahuman.

However, the Dark Knight was an option in the “What Superhero Are You?” test, so I’m proud to wear the cape and cowl.

Anyway, I saw one out there called “What Do Your Dreams Really Mean?” and it mentioned how some us have recurring dreams about things such as losing teeth, flying and running.

I honestly don’t recall losing teeth in a dream because, frankly, I rarely dream about going to the dentist, but I have taken flight and done my share of hauling ass while snoozing.

What the test didn’t address, though, was smoking.

I dream more, by far, about smoking cigarettes than anything else. And it all started once I stopped smoking.

I used to be a hardcore smoker, and by “hardcore smoker” I mean I took the opportunity to smoke pretty much whenever I was awake.

I would smoke in the shower … I kid you not. The cigarette didn’t stay lit for long, but every puff was worth it.

I would trample children and senior citizens leaving movie theaters in my effort to race outside the building and fire one up.

I would take my dog for a walk in the middle of the night just to have an excuse to go outside and smoke – even when I didn’t have a dog.

It was a serious problem.

However, I quit on June 10, 2010, and haven’t fallen off the wagon once.

But …

There is rarely a week that goes by when cigarettes don’t wind up in my dreamscape. There are studies that suggest people who have recently quit occasionally have such “visions,” but eight years out?

Damn, they must’ve made quite an impact on me.

In my most recent one, I was at a party at a large house and had left my cigarettes in the car.

I remember opening the door, reaching in and grabbing a pack of Kool Milds off the passenger seat.

I took a cigarette, placed it on my lips, lit it up, and inhaled.

I swear, I could almost taste it. The blue smoke spiraling toward the sky like a genie that had just escaped its bottle remains remarkably vivid.

It happens all the time.

Sometimes during the course of a dream, I’ll just casually light up; it’s merely a character trait. Other times, I know the cigarettes are missing and I’m compelled to track them down.

And when I wake up and realize I don’t smoke, I’m repulsed … I even feel slightly guilty.

I mean, I don’t miss the taste or smell at all when I’m awake. Both are gross to me now.  But there’s something in my subconscious that refuses to let go.

It makes you wonder.

Are dreams, in fact, merely glimpses into a parallel universe?

And in that parallel universe, do I have to buy cigarettes or are they provided for me as part of a government program?

Is smoking allowed in theaters? (If so, children and old people will be much safer because I’ll have no compelling reason to trample them).

Surely not.

I’m inclined to think the appearance of cigarettes after I go nite-nite is just one of those random dream things that will never be explained.

I’ve seen all sorts of weird things behind the walls of sleep, including but not confined to: former Night Court star Harry Anderson playing whack-a-mole at Chuck E. Cheese’s; the New York Jets winning another Super Bowl; Gal Gadot calling and asking if she could come over and play Yahtzee; the original Ramones opening for Celine Dion; Donald Trump and Paul Ryan performing a duet of “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” at Coachella; people with giant heads attempting to sell me term life insurance; and being bludgeoned with frozen fish sticks (Mrs. Gorton’s, to be precise) by a gang of ne’er-do-wells.

Some of my dreams are outlandish and others frighteningly real, but regardless, cigarettes manage to at least make a cameo appearance in many of them.

Fortunately, they can’t do a lot of damage to me while I sleep, so I need to just stop worrying about it. As long as I’m smoke-free in the real world, I’m in good shape.

It’s that bloodthirsty mob wielding frozen fish sticks I should probably be most concerned with.

Are you an animal person?

Technically, you are.

If you’re a human being you’re an animal, and if you’re a human being you’re also a person.

However, I’m an “animal person” in the sense that I have a real fondness for non-human animals and want them to be a major part of my life. Right now I’m the co-caregiver to a Sheltie named Charlie and two shelter cats, Thor and Bane.

But before I get to them, a bit of background.

I spent much of my youth as primarily a “dog person,” not so much by choice as by situation.

My parents – and I have since forgiven them for this – weren’t keen on having critters, but they most certainly didn’t want me to have a cat. My mother had a weird aversion to felines, and even repeated that apocryphal story about cats “sucking the breath out of babies.”

So on the off chance a baby showed up at our house, we had to make sure we didn’t have a cat around to take its breath away.

What the cat planned to do with the baby’s breath was never explained, although I understand it looks great in bouquets.

Anyway, they didn’t mind too much that I had a dog, as long as he stayed outside.

My first dog was Ringo, named after Ringo Starr. He was a big ol’ tan-and-black mutt (and serviceable drummer), but he was not allowed in the house.

And he never came in the house … as far as my folks knew.

While his primary residence was a doghouse in the backyard, I would often sneak him into the basement and sometimes – late at night – take him up to my room and let him sleep at the foot of the bed.

Who was a good dog?

Ringo was a good dog.

But as I grew up and grew older, I wanted to make animals equal partners in my world. That meant if I had a roof over my head, they had a roof over their heads.

And since I had no babies laying around with breath to be sucked out of their systems, I have had many a cat in my domicile over the years.

There have been boy cats and girl cats living in harmony with boy dogs and girl dogs, and every time any one of them crosses the Rainbow Bridge, it breaks my heart.

None of them can ever be replaced, but I believe it’s important to go to a shelter and rescue another if you’re willing and able to do so.

So that’s what my wife and I do and that means, for now, she has to deal with four boys (including myself).

Bane, our youngest cat, is nine months old and is starting to give off a Maine Coon vibe.

When we got him from the shelter I could hold him in my hand, and at night I’d take him to bed and he’d curl up under my chin.

Now he’s this gargantuan creature who has no regard for my personal space, spending a good portion of the evening plopped across my chest and purring so loudly he sounds like he should be racing at Daytona.

He’s also quite the shedder. You can’t wear black clothes around Bane because if you do, you’ll quickly look like a Sasquatch.

Thor, a 3-year old orange tabby, purrs very softly.

He also has a bad habit of attacking my butt for no apparent reason.

Used to when I would come home from work late at night, he would greet me first by rolling over for a belly rub and then – when I turned away – leap up and turn my chunky cheeks into his own personal scratching post.

If you should ever welcome me into your home or office and ask me to sit down, know that if I refuse I’m not being rude. It just means my tush has been mauled.

And just to be clear, Thor attacks my butt through my pants. I don’t walk around the house like Winnie The Pooh.

And Charlie? I don’t know if there’s ever been a sweeter dog.

He joyfully plays with his kitty bros, loves to go for walks, and sometimes just wants to squeeze up next to me when I watch TV. He’s the world’s youngest 10-year old canine.

About the only negative thing I can say about him is he has a tendency to raid the litter box for treats.

But it’s not my place to judge. If I was a dog, I’d probably do the same thing. I mean, what the hell?

But I’ll gladly choose lack of sleep, mangled buttocks and having a dog who walks around with a cat litter mustache over living in a house without animals.

The way I see it, we’re all part of one big animal family.

These are my people, even if they aren’t technically people.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and for many of you lovebirds it means flowers, chocolates and a romantic dinner, all framed by a soundtrack featuring Barry White, Harry Connick Jr. and Michael Buble.

What does it mean for me and my darling person?

We’ve recorded a bunch of “Your Worst Nightmare” episodes on Investigation Discovery, as well as of ID’s newest series, “Bride Killa.”

We’ll watch those, eat a whole pizza and then call it a night.

What … you don’t think that’s romantic?

Maybe not in the traditional sense. But then again, we’re married and we aren’t exactly “traditional” people.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ve done the whole Valentine’s Day shtick before.

In fourth grade I saved up all my pennies, nickels and quarters to buy my girlfriend a big, heart-shaped box of chocolates.

And this was a Whitman’s Sampler, too, not one of those knock-off brands full of cheap-ass chocolate filled with that weird jelly.

I can’t remember her name – or even what became of her – but I do know she had polished off the entire box by lunch period.

You’re welcome, fourth grade girlfriend, whoever you are and wherever you are.

Once in high school, of course, the stakes get much higher.

Maybe you’d actually have flowers sent to the school.

This was a truly “romantic” gesture, of course, but hardly cost-effective. The markup on flowers is about 500 percent on Valentine’s Day.

But if you go that route, just stick to red roses. I had a dozen yellow roses sent to my junior year girlfriend because I thought it was unique, not realizing yellow roses mean “friendship” and not “love.”

Turns out in my case that was not a correctable error.

And then when you become an adult, you can end up spending a fortune on Valentine’s Day.

There are roses AND chocolates AND a candlelight dinner at an intimate restaurant such as Cracker Barrel or Golden Corral.*

* Golden Corral makes you bring your own candle but it’s the best buffet in the USA, so it’s worth it.

Still, you play along with the holiday for as long as you have to, and then you finally (hopefully) get comfortable ignoring it.

And really, Saint Valentine’s Day was never meant to be about commerce.

It originated as a Western Christian Feast Day honoring a 3rd century Roman saint who was martyred, conveniently enough, on St. Valentine’s Day in 269.

I assume flowers were sent to his funeral, but I doubt Whitman’s Samplers were available back then.

Plus, sending chocolates would’ve been messed up.

You can thank Geoffrey Chaucer for making the day all about romance. In his 1382 poem, “Parliement of Foules” he wrote:

“For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.”

What stands out to me more than anything is that the dude could not spell. If you took a red ink marker to make corrections on his work, it’d look like the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.

However, if you decipher it, what Geoff is trying to say is that on Valentine’s Day, there will be birds making cheese.

I’m not sure what this has to do with flowers or candy, but this is what Mr. Wikipedia says and I am in no position to argue.

Certainly, there is nothing wrong with a traditional Valentine’s Day celebration.

A delicious dinner, a bottle of wine and then some intimate alone time (remember the safe word is “Gryffindor”) is a wonderful way to spend Cupid’s biggest sales day.
But my wife and I love each other and have fun any time we’re together so, at the risk of sounding cheesy, every day is Valentine’s Day for us.

And that being the case, we’ll just stick with the ID channel and a three-cheese pizza tonight.

Unless we decide to be spontaneous and head out to the Golden Corral. Nothing puts you in the mood like the endless chocolate fountain.