Zach Gets Subpoenaed.

It’s all Apple’s fault.

After doing a system recovery on my PC for the 10th time within a 12-month period, I had had enough.  Enough with the consistent updates.  Enough with my computer being absolutely vulnerable to cyber-attacks.  Enough of walking into a Starbucks and not being able to engage in conversation with anyone other than the baristas, due to all customers having their nose buried in their smartphones.

I needed to burst into the latter half of the previous decade.

I needed a laptop.

I researched.  So many choices.  A netbook wouldn’t be enough.  This machine would be replacing my PC as my main computer.  I wanted it to have power, a nigh-limitless hard drive, and wireless built in so I don’t get looks from passers-by while I twirl my USB wireless adapter over my head, hoping to find a signal.

I decided that if I was going to do this, I had to make a splash.  Go big, or go home.  My friends were helpful, offering advice on what I should be looking for.  It’s a wonderful thing, having technical aficionados as friends.

I told them what I wanted: A machine that could be used to help me jumpstart my career as one of America’s foremost comedians.  A machine that would allow me to upload and edit video and sound effortlessly.  A machine that, yes, would bring me to the pinnacle of human existence.

They listened, and most agreed: My best bet would be a MacBook.

Of course!  Apple is usually the leader, tech-wise.  The innovations they have made have allowed us to condense even more productivity into our lives.  No longer do we have to idly sit at the dinner table, wondering when Uncle Steve was going to be done with his story about saving penguins.  With Apple, we could let everyone know we were wondering when the story would end!  24/7 access to the world!

I wanted it, I needed it, I craved it!

But, how much was I willing to pay for such luxury?  I certainly could not afford a refurbished MacBook, let alone a sparkling new one.  I had to be savvy.  Clever.  A Suze Orman of the computer world.

I turned to CraigsList.

So many choices!  And lo and behold, what did I find but a used MacBook, being sold for a mere $400.

My expression was aghast.  Did this person not know the brilliance they had in their hands?!  And it was to be mine, all mine, less than 50 cents on the dollar!

I consulted with a friend.  Showed him the ad.  He told me to be careful, said it was too good to be true.  I had a moment of pause.  Indeed, it was.  What were they trying to pull?  An elaborate scam, perhaps?  A ruse to get me in a dark alley, only to rob me of the 400 greenbacks I would have on my person?

“To Hell with it!” I countered in my mind.  “Fortune favors the bold!  I am a man!  I will make this choice, and let the consequences come if they shall!”

With the training montage of Rocky IV playing in my mind, I boldly emailed the seller, informing them of my interest.  After pressing Send, I leaned back in my chair and let out a long exhalation.  I was in this for the long haul.

The next day, I met up with the seller, and made the transaction.  As I slipped back into my car, I admired the sleekness of the MacBook.  It had some weight to it, some heft.  But it felt warm in my hands.  It felt…safe.  Secure.  Comfortable.

I headed to the nearest Starbucks.  Finding a seat near a power outlet, I proudly unfurled the power adapter and plugged it in.  Not only am I enjoying your tea, you corporate entity, I am now also stealing your power!

My finger traced over the touchpad, the pointer coming to rest on the icon to get onto the internet.  Taking a deep breath, I clicked.

My eyes went wide. Not because I hadn’t realized that in order to access the WiFi at Starbucks, you had to either purchase a Rewards card, or the time in of itself.

No, my eyes went wide because the page that the browser opened to was a static page for Henrico County Public Schools.

That’s…odd.

I closed out the browser, and looked at the dashboard.  To the left of the trash can, was an image of what looked to be a small, green, dinosaur-like creature.  Hovering the mouse over this image conjured up the text “HCPS Apps.”  I clicked on the faux-dinosaur, and was greeted with several applications that would be put to use in an elementary school.  Slideshows on Egypt and Saturn.  A folder labeled “Funtertainment.”  Lesson plans for grades 1-6.

The revelation hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was in possession of stolen property.

Closing the page, turning off the laptop, I made my way quickly out of the Starbucks.  Returning home in record time, I pulled the MacBook out again, turned it on, and took another long look.

Nope, nothing had changed.  Same static page, same faux-dinosaur.  Same slideshows on Egypt and Saturn.

There was only one thing to do.  I picked up my phone and got in touch with the police.  You don’t steal from kids.

As I’m talking with the officer on the other end of the line, I notice the light next to the built-in web camera (yet another innovation I was looking forward to using) began to flash on and off.  My mind went back to a story I read a few weeks ago, about how schools could remotely access the web cameras.  There is much debate over the ethics of schools having this power, with one argument being that if the technology were ever stolen, the camera could be used to catch an image of the suspect.

And that’s when another revelation hit.  This camera was taking photos of me.  On the phone.  With the cops.  I immediately said a silent blessing that I had decided to take the virtuous route and inform the authorities of my possession of the hot property.

Now, nearly a week later, and the story has come to a fairly happy ending.  The laptop was returned to its rightful owners.  The suspect who had sold me the computer in the first place had been arrested and was close to being arraigned.  I should have my money returned to me, more than likely after the case goes to court within the next couple of months.  And I’ll get to miss a day of work, once I’m subpoenaed to go and testify.  Hopefully it’ll be around the time Iron Man 2 has been released.

After all, there’s nothing like enjoying a movie on a hot summer day after being a witness in a larceny case.

-ZA

I Am Single for a Reason.

Valentine’s Day is coming this weekend.  A wonderful time of year.  A time of love, joy, happiness.  A time where you remind your significant other just how much of a part they are in your life, and that without them by your side, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.

Unless you’re single.

In that case, you spend this weekend with your other single friends.  Perhaps you’ll go to a bar or a restaurant, and make condescending remarks under your breath as you mock the lovey-dovey couples around you, making goo-goo eyes at each other over the chocolate mousse or whatever it is couples get in celebration of their love.  After this group commiseration, 7 times out of 10  you’ll find yourself back at your place, listening to Michelle Branch’s “Goodbye To You” and wondering just where you went wrong in the past year to find yourself alone on the single most romantic day in the 365 days that comprise the calendar.

Wait, that’s just me?

I have a very good reason why I am single.

I am physically/mentally unable to ask a girl out in a straightforward manner.

Looking back on the 10 years I’ve been in the dating game, I have come to realize that my past couple of relationships in college were ignited by the girl taking the dive and asking me to some activity or out for a meal.

In high school, however, I still operated under the archaic idea that the man is supposed to be the one doing the asking out.

It’s a simple process.  Step 1) Approach girl.  Step 2) Ask girl out.  Step 3) If “Yes,” make plans.  If “No,” shrug it off and try again.

Not for me, though.  Oh, no.  If I was going to ask a girl out, damn it, she was going to remember it.

My first attempt in gaining a date was for the homecoming dance of my senior year.  I had not dated all through high school, and in a bid to have some fun my final year in public education, as well as disprove my mother’s theory that I was gay, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and get a date.

I was interested in this one girl, who for the sake of her, I’ll give a pseudonym.  Let’s call her Jane.  Jane was a sophomore (I think: I haven’t talked to her in over 5 years).  She was a cute girl, nice, and I thought she’d be fun to take to a dance (She was, for the record).  Since this was to be my first time in asking a girl out in the 3-plus years I had been in high school, I wanted to make it memorable.  But how, how?!

It was then I looked down at the newspaper we got every Wednesday, and inspiration struck.  Peering up at me from the print was that day’s word jumble.

That was it.  I was going to make a puzzle.

Not just any puzzle.  I was going to make a rebus.

For those of you who are not part of the puzzle-loving crowd, a rebus is a puzzle where pictures are used to identify words.  For example, a picture of an eye would signify “I,” and so on.  I spent two weeks working this puzzle out in my unused notebook for physics, writing about 10 drafts until I had a decent puzzle.  It looked great on paper, and would no doubt win Jane over.

We had 5th period together.  I received permission from the teacher to use the chalkboard to write out this puzzle, and further permission from the teacher in my preceding class to leave ten minutes early so I would have plenty of time to get the puzzle onto the board.  I told my friends about my plan, and they all approved, telling me it was a genius idea, and no doubt that Jane would say yes.

I strolled into my 5th period class ten minutes early on that day, full of confidence.  The teacher and I exchanged knowing looks, her informing the class of freshmen what I was doing.  After telling the class, I got a few appreciative “Awwws” from some of the girls, along with a couple of confused looks from the guys.  No concern of mine.  They were lowly freshmen.  What did they know about asking someone out?

I picked up that chalk and proceeded to draw out my rebus.  My notebook in my other hand, I painstakingly recreated that final draft of that rebus, finishing it just as the bell rang, indicating 5th period was to begin.  I set the chalk down, wiped my hands clean of the dust, and got the rose out of my teacher’s fridge, which she had graciously kept in there for me.  I took another look at my creation, and nodded in satisfaction.  I began it with Jane’s name, followed by the rebus, ending with my name.  The message was simple, once deciphered: “Will you go to the dance with me?”  I had been clever in my choice of pictures: A quill pen, followed by -Qu, +W, a picture of a sheep with the female symbol overhead, a picture of a flower with an arrow pointing up beside, followed by -r&w, the number 2, a picture of a stick figure with little marks beside his legs to indicate dancing, the word “with”, and a picture of a bee, followed by -Be, then +M.

Perhaps I had been too clever.

Jane walked in.  I was sitting on the makeshift stage next to the door.  My friend, who was in on my plan, pointed the message out to Jane.  She went over to the board, saw her name, then mine.  She looked at me, smiled, and asked, “What is this?”  I smiled back and told her she’d have to figure it out.  She laughed, shook her head, and looked at the board.

And looked.

And looked.

Then she cocked her head slightly to the right, and looked some more.

By now, there were other people standing next to her, all attempting to figure out this rebus.  I stayed on the stage, still holding the rose behind my back.  I could hear the small crowd talking amongst themselves:

“What do you think that is?” “It looks like a feather.” “But a feather doesn’t have a q or a u in it.” “Is that supposed to be a sheep?” “What’s that stick figure guy doing?  Running?”

In my desire to make this attempt at getting a date memorable, I had forgot the fact that I am terrible at drawing.

Five minutes passed.  Then ten.  I shuffled my feet.  My teacher just stared at me.  The rose behind my back felt like lead.  This entire plan was going to hell.

Finally, I cleared my throat, stepped down off the stage, and explained it.  Jane’s eyes lit up as she looked it over again and with a quick nod, said “Oh, yeah!  I see it now!”  I presented her the rose, which she accepted and responded to by giving me a hug and agreeing to accompany me to the homecoming dance.

I’m pleased to say that we had a great time.  She was a sweet girl, and I’m sure she still is.

Now, though, whenever I get the inclination to ask a girl out, I decide against it.  Odds are I’d end up making it so complex, it could be used as a plot point in the next Da Vinci Code.

Someday I’ll get the hang of asking a girl out in a straightforward manner.  Until then, I’ll have Michelle Branch on repeat.

-ZA

Why I Have Failed at Twitter.

Curse you, Twitter bird. Curse you.

Last year, I jumped on the bandwagon.  I joined in the Twitter craze.  I was young.  Naive.  Full of optimism that this branch of social media would once again bear fruits of knowledge and connect me to a larger portion of the world.

Now, some months later, I hang my head in shame.

I have failed Twitter.  Utterly and completely failed it.

How did I fall so far, so fast?  It’s difficult to say, but I have a couple of ideas.

For one, I’m bombastic.  Loquacious.  And yes, a little pompous.  I like to hear myself talk (mostly) and certainly enjoy going back to read what I’ve written.  But with Twitter’s 140-character limit, I found myself constrained.  My thoughts require more than 140 characters, blast it!  Talk to the people who text me; they’ll tell you my responses, while inane, typically reach the breaking point of the 160 characters afforded to me by my wireless carrier!

With Twitter’s 140 character limit, my brilliant writings become dull, witless, monosyllabic piles of dreck that a man who has received the miracle of eyesight after 20 years of blindness would take one glance upon them and immediately wish to return to the darkness.

Another is the self-promotion.  My god, people.  To paraphrase one of the most eloquent speakers of our times, Terrell Owens, “They love them some them.”  Every time I would log on, there would advertisements thrown at me from all directions…”Buy from me!  Come to my party!  Look at this photo of take-out I got from Taco Bell!  Now look at my tweet about eating Taco Bell!”

Twitter-loyalists will pipe up now, defending this, saying that we are bombarded with advertisements every day of our lives.  True.  However, I do not have to scroll through all those advertisements in the hope that there may be something worthwhile amongst these proclamations of self-promotion.

I admit, I attempted these advertisements early in my Twitter life.  But once again my pomposity, love of verbiage, and adversity to internet shorthand limited what I could advertise.  And now my daily tweet deals with a contest wherein I re-tweet a phrase in hopes of winning money for a car.  I have become a shill.

Another reason I have gloriously failed?  My location and access to technology.  I live 20 minutes outside of Richmond, as well as owning a cell phone that lacks a camera or any other kind of recording device.  Therefore, the great events I hear about being promoted in the city, as well as the real-time events, have no bearing on me.  I would have gone sledding in Byrd Park, if my car had not been snowed in and I lived anywhere close to that area.  But I do not.  And the tweets I put up there about events happening in my area?  The Richmonders don’t care.  I’m the outsider looking in.  The homeless man on Christmas Eve, looking into the window of the home that contains a loving family, where a turkey is being carved amidst marital and familial bliss.  I desperately wish to join their world, but know I would be shunned for my lack of social graces.

As for the lack of technology, I can not send twit-pics.  I can not become the metaphorical mayor of some place.  Even if I did, the places I visit on a regular basis would elicit no response, positive or negative.  My tweet followers would look and see I became the mayor of Wawa, and the reaction would be a yawn, a shrug, and their thumbs moving to indicate they had become the mayor of some upscale, chic cafe on Cary Street.  I have no hope.

So yes, I have failed Twitter.  I have failed it gloriously.  Will I keep it?  Sure.  There may come a time when I will utilize it to its full advantage, and become renowned for my sharp, biting wit that is oh-so-brief.  But soon I will put it on hiatus, and perhaps work on whittling my creative thoughts down to an acceptable length.

But for now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shill for a car company.

-ZA

Tales of Anxiety, Part 1.

No doubt about it, I am an anxious person.  Not that my anxiety prevents me from being a hard-working, semi-productive member of society, but it’s always there, in the back of my mind.  Occasionally it gets bad enough where I begin freaking out over whether I’m walking in straight line.  Once I’m assured I am, I begin to get nervous yet again…what if I have to make a sudden turn?! 

And so on.

My anxiety especially peaks when I’m around people I am unfamiliar with.  This is one reason why I rarely go out to clubs, busy restaurants, amusement parks, sidewalks.  I always have the feeling I am in their way, or that if I’m not in their way right then, I certainly will be in their way within the hour.  Of course, all the fretting I do about impeding their path usually leads to me and this stranger having an awkward encounter, where I try like hell to get away from them. 

The latter event occurred yesterday.  I was in Barnes & Noble, browsing the “Buy2, Get 1 Free” table near the entrance.  I hear the woosh of the air that accompanies a door swinging open and look up.  It was a woman, looked to be in her late-30s.  She was talking on her cell phone, somewhat loudly.  I go back to looking at the books, as I’m used to people having no idea how loud they’re being when they are discussing plans with their friend over the phone on the wine tasting party that’s happening on Saturday.

I hear the phone-lady say adieu to her friend, followed by the sound of the phone dropping into her faux eco-friendly bag.

And then, silence.

I look up, and this woman is staring at me.  Our eyes meet briefly, and I give a quick smile and nod.  A genial greeting, really.  No malice whatsoever.  Her response to this lack of malice was a brief smile before going back to a straight face and staring at me.  I go back to looking over the BOGO table, but my attention is now split.  Every now and then I’ll look up and the woman’s still there.  She has her phone out and is now texting.

Following is my brief internal monologue:

“Why is that woman staring at me?  I don’t know her.  I doubt she knows me.  Don’t think our social circles would really intersect.  Maybe she wants to look at this table, too?  Then why isn’t she?  It’s a large table.  Certainly big enough for at least two people to peruse.  Why is she still standing there?  God, I wish she’d say something.  Come on, lady!  What do you want from me?!  Would you please just go walk somewhere else or something?!  Gah, forget this!”

I turn toward the exit, stepping away from the table lined with books.  I turn to look back and see this lady walking through where I was just standing to get to the bookshelf that was to the right of the table.  Not a horrible thing, except that there was plenty of room on the other side of the table where she could have easily made it to the shelf without freaking me out.

With my head turned, I don’t pay attention to my dragging feet, and catch the corner of the rug with the rubber edges.  I stumble, taking the corner of the rug with me.  The Barnes & Noble employees all stare at me as I attempt to kick the rug back into place, having no success and finally having to squat down to maneuver it into a place near where it was originally.

After finishing that task, I just slowly backed out of the store.  There was no longer any need for me to be there.  I had done enough.

-ZA

The True Victim of the Leno/O’Brien Feud.

As it’s been reported through several news outlets, Jay Leno is moving back to the timeslot of 11:35pm.  This move is due to his current show, creatively titled The Jay Leno Show is doing dismal numbers, reducing the lead-in audience to local affiliates’ news programs, which hurts the advertising revenue.

Conan O’Brien, the redheaded gentleman who took over for Jay Leno in the 11:35pm slot, is extremely agitated and has spent the past week or so throwing epithets out toward the NBC network.

But, people, you’ve heard all of this, from several other media-savvy bloggers who are much more in tune with the late-night world than I am.  Therefore, I’m going to push aside all the main chatter, and focus on one subject that has not received the least amount of attention.

What’s going to happen to Andy Richter?

Think about it, ladies and gentlemen.  The man is basically known as Conan’s right-hand guy!  He was the Ed McMahon to O’Brien’s Carson.  And now that NBC has all but sealed the deal on getting Conan off of NBC, what is Andy going to do?

Star in a TV series?  Doubtful.  With a quick glance at his IMDb page, it’s painfully obvious that he’s unable to carry a show:

• Andy Richter Controls the Universe: 19 episodes.  Two seasons, although it wasn’t brought back for a third, due to the majority of America becoming convinced they’re more entertained by vapid women with surgically-enhanced bodies vying for the affections of some guy with a bad haircut who pretends to be a millionaire but…surprise!…he’s not*.
• Andy Barker, P.I.: 4 episodes.  For perspective, the sitcom Teen Angel, a TGIF sitcom concerning a friend whose guardian angel is his friend who just recently died from eating a 6-month old hamburger (Thanks, Wikipedia!) lasted for 17 episodes.

His other credits include a couple of Nickelodeon shows dealing with penguins, another one about some chick named B, and so forth.

Ladies and gentlemen, do you really want Andy Richter to be forced to make his living voicing a species that’ll be wiped out in 5 years due to climate change?  I think not.

So remember, friends.  Once Conan’s off the air, be sure to send Andy a card wishing him the best of luck in his endeavors.  Conan will be fine.  As will Max Weinberg, since he gets to go and drum for Bruce Springsteen.

And Andy will bounce back, as he always does.  Just remember, this late-night war has far more victims than can be imagined.

-ZA

*I honestly don’t know if Andy Richter Controls the Universe was cancelled to make way for Joe Millionaire.  I just like to bring up that horrible, horrible reality show whenever possible.

A quick thing to get your day off right.

Craig Ferguson: A true cold open conoissuer.

A Brief Guide to Un-friending.

This is going to be a short and sweet entry, as it’s lunch-time and the stomach’s a-rumbling.

Recently, a friend of mine on Facebook joined the group, “Unfriended…Why?!”.  I’m sure we’ve all looked at our list of friends, noticed that the number is one or two less than the previous day, and wondered where exactly we went wrong.

To perhaps help your wondering, I’ve decided to give a quick list of why I have un-friended people in the past.

Reasons

• You friend me, send me a brief message saying “Hey!  How you been?!”, then don’t contact me for the rest of the year.
• You friend me, only to have access to my information in an attempt to get “closer” to me, either geographically or emotionally.
• You friend me, and then immediately bombard me with requests to join Mafia Wars, FarmVille, ZooTopia, etc.
• You friend me, and it becomes apparent you are a habitual group-joiner.  Every time I look at my Live/News Feed, it informs me you’ve joined yet another group.  I know I could simply hide your philandering updates, but I prefer to judge and judge harshly.
• You friend me, and you’re an ass.
• You friend me, and  you’re a demon.

• You friend me, only because you’re part of some crazy virtual scavenger hunt, and need someone who lives in the Richmond region.

Those are a few reasons.  Feel free to add your own, or call me out on one or two of them.

-ZA

The Night Before MoB’s Christmas.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and through the Bees’ house,

They were enjoying the night, and no, they weren’t soused.

Their spirits were filled with holiday cheer,

Knowing that Santa would soon be here.

Aaron stayed up to catch the big man,

While Zach checked the Bees’ page, wanting more fans.

And Molly wore her Snuggie. Stacey had one too,

They ate Christmas cookies; the frosting was blue.

When from the front door, there came such a knocking.

They all went quiet, their watches tick-tocking.

The door burst open, and who should appear

But Ryan, who moved to the west this year!

They leapt from their places, each from their seating,

To give Mr. Hansinger a holiday greeting.

He looked around, curious, a query on his mind,

“Where is Jenni?” he wondered, “She wasn’t far behind.”

At that moment, Jenni came into the scene,

Followed by Santa, who wasn’t looking so keen.

“Guys!” hollered Jenni, “Something’s wrong with Saint Nick!”

Aaron agreed, “He does look a little sick.”

“Santa, what’s wrong?” Molly inquired,

“Your breathing is shallow, your skin is perspired.”

“Oh, child!” Santa bellowed, shaking his head,

“It’s food poisoning, and I must get to bed.

“But there are  toys left to give,  smiles to be had;

I can’t go on, though, I feel so bad!”

Stacey stood up, threw her Snuggie to the ground.

“No Christmas for children?  Not while I’m around!”

The Bees looked at each other, they knew what had to be done.

It was now up to them to ensure holiday fun.

Laying up Santa onto the couch,

They rallyed together, not one a slouch.

 Ryan and Aaron were the men in the back,

Organizing the presents in Santa’s sack.

Zach and Molly kept the reindeer at bay,

Assuring them Santa would be okay.

Stacey and Jenni got in the front, both took the reins,

While Aaron hollered out, “Stacey driving? Are you insane?!”

But there was no time to argue, for in a quick minute,

Santa’s sleigh was airborne, with the Bees in it.

Around the world they flew, gifts handed out.

The kids were so happy, they all danced about.

Soon, the night was done, the Bees were a-twitter,

And when they returned to their house, their hearts went a-flitter.

For standing in the living room, in the early morn,

Was none other than last name Michaels, first name Lorne.

“Santa told me what you did,” Lorne droned in his voice;

“Very impressive, and I’ve made a choice:

“I want you all to be part of Saturday Night Live.”

The Bees’ mouths dropped open; Molly yelled, “High Five!”

They celebrated that day, with rolls and nog made from eggs,

While Ryan danced, using many Stanky Legs.

The moral of the story, friends, is to keep close sight,

One day you may find us yelling, “Live from New York, it’s Saturday Night!”

-ZA

A Guide to Surviving Snowfall.

Here in Virginia, a state of emergency has been declared in advance of the massive amount of snow we’re allegedly going to be seeing within nine hours.  Snowfall in Richmond is expected to reach anywhere from 3 to 5 inches.

Yes, Virginia, it’s time to panic.  Civilization as we know it is going to devolve back to the days of the cave-people.  We’ll be fighting wooly mammoths in no time.

Fortunately, having lived in Virginia all my life, I have made a guide to surviving the catastrophe known as a moderate snowfall.  Join me, won’t you?

24 HOURS BEFORE SNOW

This is when you venture out into society in an attempt to scavenge all you can for the two or three days you will be buried under snow.  The main places to visit are Home Depot/Lowes, and your choice of grocery store.  Be sure to stock up on toilet paper, milk, bread, eggs, ammunition, and multiple shovels (one to dig yourself out of snowbanks, the others for melee combat).  Also, be sure to purchase at least one red bandana.  The bandana, as decreed in the Great Blizzard of 1993, is a symbol to all that you have no intention of raiding their supplies.

12 HOURS BEFORE SNOW

Here is where paths diverge slightly.  For those living in single-family homes, especially on cul-de-sacs, be sure to get a jump on slippery roads by pre-salting your driveway, steps, and sidewalk.  If any deer attempt to eat the salt, shoot them and strip off the pelts.  Once the world economy collapses due to the moderate snowfall, deer meat and pelts will be considered the newest and best form of currency.

For those living in apartment buildings or condos, be sure that your doors and windows have multiple locks, and that they are in use.  Cabin fever sets in quickly for our ADD-addled lifestyles, and you don’t want some guy coming into your apartment at 3am, wondering if you’d like to engage in a game of Strip Risk.

6 HOURS TO SNOW

Pray.

SNOWFALL

Stay inside, but near a window with your photographing tool of choice, be it a camera, camera-phone, or iPhone.  Those with internet capabilities on their phones, send a photo and an update every five minutes.  Acceptable captions for photos include: “It’s so pretty!” “I’m glad we closed early!” “I don’t want to be out in that!” or any variation thereof.  Those who are more of the business sense would be inclined to take photos of any surplus supplies they have, accmpanied with a caption detailing how much you are selling each supply for.  The ground rules for resale are as follows:

Toilet Paper: Half deer pelt per roll.

Bread: Full deer pelt per loaf.

Milk: Full deer pelt, along with 5 pounds of deer meat.  If not able to recompense with deer, the rights to the first-born offspring is an acceptable substitute.

Shovels: Do NOT sell your shovels.  You don’t want to further arm your neighbors-soon-to-be-enemies-of-your-territory.

6 HOURS AFTER SNOW

Depending on depth of snow, you may wish to venture outside.  This brings one of two advantages: 1) You will be one of the first out there and able to declare yourself the new King, and 2) You can see which of your neighbors is not fully prepared, and exploit it to your advantage.

AFTER THE SNOW HAS MELTED

Dispose of any spoiled deer meat.  Keep the pelts.  Go around to your neighbors and apologize for placing a crusade against their household.  If necessary, return the first-born offspring.

Have a good laugh, and forget about everything you just read until next year, when the same hysteria resumes.

-ZA

The Carb Factory – An Assembly of the Real Reason for Dining Out

As a highly regarded analyst in this fine country, I have decided to take a look at the restaurants of our nation. In doing this, I have noticed a trend and look to capitalize on my findings. When trying to determine where to dine out, what is the most common deciding factor? The answer: bread.

As a forward thinker, I have been working on a business proposal to bring all the great breads of “Restaurant Nation” under one roof – The Carb Factory. The Carb Factory will feature all of the best of the best in bread. The reason for going to Olive Garden: garlic bread. That’s in. Red Lobster is famous for their Cheddar Bay Biscuits. They’re on the menu. The wheat bread from The Cheesecake Factory… it’s a menu item. You’d like the baguette from Panera? Oh, I believe you mean a #4. KFC’s biscuits, Little Caesars Crazy Bread, BK’s Croissan’wich croissant – all a part of The Carb Factory! We wanted to take it a step further than just bringing all of your favorite breads under one roof. Brought straight from Hooters is, our soon to be famous, Wing Balls! It’s all of that outstanding breading from the world’s best wings, taken off the chicken and rolled into a perfect orb, then dipped in your choice of wing sauce. Bon appetite! To complete the whole meal, make sure you order something to quench your thirst. If you haven’t guessed it yet, the only thing served at The Carb Factory is beer! It’s like delicious bread in a liquid form, so drink up everyone! I’m so excited! I can’t wait to read the stellar reviews Zagat will have for this brand new place of familiar taste!

I know that many Americans go on no carb diets, but when they fall off the wagon (as the great taste of carbs cause many to eventually do) they’ll need a place to go, too. The Carb Factory puts a lot of emphasis on the family and community atmosphere which makes this a great place to go. If you’re going to fall off the wagon, why not fall into the arms of those who love you? Well, they’re all down at The Carb Factory, so come on by! What feels more like a family meal than a bowl of oven-baked White House Rolls with a side of gravy or marinara? If you are one who is very committed to a health-conscious diet and just won’t budge, then you may order off our salad menu which features our variety of crouton bowls accompanied with your favorite dressing. After treating yourself with a healthy choice crouton bowl, you’ll surely feel you’ve earned a chance to indulge in a guilty pleasure, so order some of our Pokey Sticks that come straight from Gumby’s in Blacksburg! These things are so good that they could break up a marriage! Luckily, you won’t have to put your relationship on the line because The Carb Factory is an outstanding date destination, so there’s no need to cancel a date to eat them. Make a reservation instead!

I hope you all have the chance to drop in and partake in my vision. I’m just a simple man with a goal to create a menu that offers you all the very best. Believe me, there’s something in here for everyone to enjoy, so next time you have to think about where to dine out next, I think you’ll find the choice is clear. The Carb Factory – Wheat love to see you!

RH