Here's the Story . . . of a Man Named Tony

Throughout television history there've been many examples of model fathers.  Some, like Andy Taylor and Ward Cleaver, were models of kindness and understanding while others would better serve as an example of how NOT to raise a family.  Homer Simpson and Al Bundy come immediately to mind.  Generally speaking, though, every TV dad was more or less a perfect match for his particular family.  Sure, Al Bundy was an idiot, but so were his wife and kids.  Ward Cleaver was a great father, and his family reflected that.

So whaddaya say we have a little fun here?  What if we took one of our favorite TV families and replaced their father with the dad from a different show entirely?  I mean, how would the Brady kids have turned out if their father was, say, Tony Soprano?

Remember the episode of the Brady Bunch where a bully named Buddy Hinton picked on Cindy for talking with a lisp?  "Baby talk, baby talk, it's a wonder you can walk," he'd say, sending poor Cindy home in tears.  One afternoon, on their way home from Clinton Avenue Elementary School, Peter decided to stand up for his little sister, telling Buddy to knock it off.  Buddy then said to Peter, "why don't you make me?" and ended up kicking Peter's ass.  Peter and Cindy went home with their tails between their legs, and told their father what had happened.  Being an unrealistically optimistic pacifist, Mike Brady tried to reason with Buddy's father, with no success.  But how would Tony Brady (formerly Soprano) have handled the situation?

We pick up the scene in the Brady family room, with Peter and Cindy talking to their father. 

TONY: Whoa, what the fuck happened to your face, Pete?

PETER: I got in a fight with Buddy Hinton.

TONY: A fight over what?

PETER: He was making fun of Cindy.

TONY: Is that right.

CINDY: Yeth, Daddy.  He wath making fun of my lithp.  He thaid I thound like a baby.

TONY: That's why I told your mother to take you to the fuckin' speech therapist.  Haven't ya been going?

CINDY: Mommy thaid not to tell you we've been going to the mall inthtead of the thpeech clatheth.  That would be tattling.

TONY: I'll deal wit' your mother later.  So Peter, dis Hinton character, I might wanna have a word wit' his fuckin' father.  You happen to know where he lives?

PETER: The Hintons live over on Sherwood Avenue, it's the blue house with the cobblestone driveway.  I can show you if you want.

CINDY: Can I go too, Daddy?  I want to thee you talk to Mithter Hinton.

TONY: No, Cindy, you better stay here wit' Alice.  Let's go, Pete, we gotta stop by and pick up Silvio and Christopher and then we'll have a little chat wit' dat douchebag's old man.

Tony and Peter make a quick stop at Brady Bing, the strip club Tony owns and manages.  Peter repeats the whole story to Tony's consiglieri Silvio Dante and lower-level associate Christopher Moltisanti.  They drive over to the Hintons' place and Tony rings the doorbell. 

MR. HINTON (opening the door): Who the hell are you greaseballs?

Silvio busts Mr. Hinton in the temple with the butt-end of his .44-caliber pistol, and then unleashes a knee to the stugots (that's mob talk for "nuts").  Hinton crumples to the ground, where Christopher and Sil proceed to kick him repeatedly in the ribs. 

TONY: Get the fuck up, ya fuckin' fanook.  Chris, Sil, help him out.

Christopher and Sil lift the semi-conscious Hinton to his feet and hold him upright. 

TONY: Where's your kid?

HINTON: Humph?

TONY: Your son Buddy.  Get him out here.  He should see this.

HINTON (groaning): Buddy!  Come down here for a minute!

Buddy hustles down the stairs. 

BUDDY: What is it Da - aaaaah!  What's going on?

TONY: Hi Buddy.  So I hear youse been makin' fun of my little girl Cindy.  Is that right?

BUDDY: NO!  I NEVER SAID ANYTHING TO HER!

Tony pulls out his own pistol and fires a bullet into Mr. Hinton's thigh.  Christopher punctuates this with an elbow to Hinton's mouth. 

TONY (to Mr. Hinton, who is moaning in pain): You might wanna explain to your kid dat he should probably tell da truth in dis situation.

HINTON (pulling out what's left of his broken front teeth): Buthy . . . jutht tell Mither Brady duh trooth . . .

PETER: Gee, Mr. Hinton, you sure talk funny!

Christopher and Sil chuckle softly, and drop Mr. Hinton who curls up in a fetal position on the living room floor. 

BUDDY: Okay, okay, I've been teasing Cindy, but I was only playing around.  I didn't mean to hurt her feelings.  I'll never do it again, I promise.

TONY: Whaddaya tink, Peter?  Does Buddy sound like he's sorry?  Or do you tink he might need a little more, how should we say dis, um, encouragement?

PETER: He's been doing it for a while, Dad, and remember he did punch me in the face.

TONY: Right, I almost forgot about dat.  Christopher, go get da baseball bat from da trunk.

CHRISTOPHER: You got it, T.

Christopher exits, then returns a moment later wielding a 33-ounce Louisville Slugger, Jorge Posada model. 

CHRISTOPHER: T, you're not gonna ask me to beat up a kid, are ya? 

TONY: No, of course not.  Give da bat to Peter.

Peter takes the bat and without a word, rams it knob-first into Buddy's mouth.  Then, in one swift motion, he swings low, dislocating the younger Hinton's right knee.  Buddy falls to the ground next to his father, crying. 

BUDDY: I'm thorry!  I'm thorry!  I'm thorry!

PETER (to Buddy): Baby talk, baby talk, it'll be a while till you can walk.  C'mon Dad, let's get the fuck outta here.

TONY: Dat's my boy.

Tony, Peter, Silvio, and Christopher leave the house, leaving Buddy and his dad lying on the floor bleeding.

We're not even going to discuss what would happen to Mike Brady if he somehow had to take over the Soprano family.


d

McAlpha and Omega

You know things have gotten out of hand when McDonald's has the nerve to print brochures outlining their menu's "nutrition facts".  Worrying about nutrition while you're stuffing a Double Quarter Pounder down your throat is kind of like analyzing the medical records of a Tijuana hooker.  If it were really that important to you, you wouldn't be there in the first place.

It's not just Mickey D's, though.  It seems like all fast food chains have suddenly realized that, hey, perhaps the food we're serving is somehow contributing to our country's obesity problem.  Maybe we should sprinkle in a few McSalads and BK Fruit Cups to balance out the Triple Whoppers and McLesterol Burgers.

Which is a shame.

When I go to a fast food restaurant, I have no delusions about what I'm doing to my body.  Don't insult my intelligence with a Healthy Choice menu or whatever you're calling it.  If I want a salad, I'll go to the grocery store, buy a bunch of vegetables and some low calorie dressing, then go home and make myself a healthy lunch.  At In-N-Out Burger, though, just give me the damn burger and fries and be done with it.  I won't hold you responsible.

Even Subway has gotten into the act.  For years, Subway has sort of put itself up on this pedestal of "we're better for you than those burger places," proclaiming that their sandwiches are lower in fat and less destructive to the human body than Big Macs or Macho Burritos.  This came as a surprise to no one.  But now Subway is taking steps to make their product even more nutritionally sound.

Let me back up for a minute and tell you that I've always been a big sandwich fan.  I grew up in New Jersey which is basically the sandwich capital of the world.  My dad would regularly stop by Mike's Sub Shop in Dunellen and bring home foot-long subs for the family, and to this day I have never had a sandwich that approached the unparalleled deliciousness of Mike's Italian Special.

Note: Mike's Sub Shop is not an official sponsor of Knucklehead Humor, nor have they paid an advertising fee.  However, if Mike feels compelled to send me a year's supply of Italian Specials, I would not turn down such an offer.

Yes, Luke, we do have Omega 3 bread.

Anyway, I was getting my lunch at Subway yesterday when the sandwich artist (they really call themselves that) asked me if I wanted to try the new Omega 3 bread.

"Omega 3 bread?" I said.  "Sounds like something the waiter would drop off at your table if you were having dinner at the Mos Eisley Cantina."

"Where's that?"

"Never mind.  What's Omega 3 bread?"

"It's a 9-grain wheat bread with Omega 3 nutrients added."

"And Omega 3 nutrients are what, exactly?"  I asked.

"Um . . . well, they're like . . ."

"Forget it, doesn't matter.  I'll give it a try."  I was going to get my foot-long Italian BMT on wheat bread anyway, might as well see what this Omega 3 was all about.

As it turns out, Omega 3 bread is plain old wheat bread fortified with wood chips, lawn clippings, and -- if I'm not mistaken -- sand.  High fiber is one thing, but it tasted like I was eating my front yard.  With onions.  Okay, maybe it was a bit better for me, but it couldn't make THAT much of a difference.  I'm going back to the plain old white bread, pronto.

The moral to this story, if there is one, would be: Don't screw around trying to be something you're not.  Decide what you are, and stick with it.

Hey, it worked for the Big Mac.


d

The Light is On, But Nobody's Home

About a month ago, I finally decided that enough was enough.  My car was in the shop -- again -- because it was leaking some sort of fluid from the undercarriage.  Maybe it was oil, maybe it was transmission fluid, hell, for all I know about cars it may have been a pint and a half of Newman's Own Low-Calorie Balsamic Vinaigrette salad dressing that was pooling in my garage.  Anyway, after making a fourth attempt at repairing the leak, my mechanic Roger called me with the bad news.

"Hi Chris.  This is Roger from Lucky Lugnut's Auto Repair.  I have a bit of bad news for you."

"Great.  What's up?"

"Well, I found the leak.  It's being caused by a pressure build-up in the transmission that forces the fluid out through the fill pipe.  I'm going to have to refer you to a specialist."

Suddenly I was imagining a surgical team led by Dr. Derek "McDreamy" Shepherd working feverishly to repair the damaged transmission fluid arteries or whatever.

"A specialist?" I asked Roger.  "What's that gonna cost me?"

"Hard to say.  Best case about $750.  But if the transmission needs to be replaced, it could run a couple grand."

That's when I came up with Plan B.

I took the piece of crap (due to potential litigation I'm not at liberty to tell you what kind of car this was, but  I'll give you a hint . . . it rhymes with "bored florist") to our local Carmax and traded it in for a lovely 2008 Chrysler Sebring.

The Chrysler is awesome.  Since it's a newer model, there are none of the problems that I had with the Bored Florist.  No leaks, no weird rattling noise from the back end.  I was enjoying complete automotive peace of mind.

For about a month.

A few nights ago, Theresa and I were on our way to the movies when I heard a "ding" and noticed that one of the dashboard lights had come on.  It looked like this:

I had no clue what this light meant.  The "low fuel" light looks like a gas pump, the "check engine" light looks like an engine, but this?  It looks like a harp.  Or a horseshoe.  At first I didn't get all worked up about it because the car had been running fine.  But when I took a second look at the warning light, I noticed the exclamation point right there in the center.  An exclamation point!  Certainly, the Chrysler Motor Company wouldn't use such a dramatic symbol unless something was terribly, horribly, about-to-cause-the-vehicle-to-burst-into-flames wrong.  We would have to get this taken care of at once!

Or maybe it could wait until after the movie.  We left the theater at about 9:30 and I started the car.

"Hey!  The light's not on anymore!" I said.

"Oh, cool," said Theresa.  "Must've just been -"

DING!

"Crap, the light's back on."

I drove home and logged on to chrysler.com, where I was able to download the Owner's Manual for the 2008 Chrysler Sebring.  As it turns out, the light on my dashboard indicates that the air pressure in one (or more) of my tires has fallen below the recommended level.

Seriously?  There's a "check the air in your tires" light?  You ask me, this is a waste of electricity and a major pain in the ass.  What next, a "turn down the radio" light?  A buzzer that goes off when the drink in your cup-holder is running low?

I checked the tires, and what do you know, there was a nail in the left rear.  The tire wasn't flat, but apparently the car noticed the slow leak.

Amazing.

The next day, I replaced the two rear tires because, as my dad once said, never replace one tire at a time because the tire guy has a couple kids in college and needs money for their tuition.  Or something like that.  Is it just me, or does it seem like tires cost a lot more than they should?

I picked the car up at America's Tire Center, and sure enough, the light was no longer illuminated.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy one of those scented pine trees.  The "check air freshener" light just came on.


d

The A Word

It takes a special type of person to be a substitute teacher, and by "special" I of course mean someone who possesses a college degree, an outgoing personality, and an utter disregard for his own personal well-being.  The daily routine of a substitute teacher starts with a phone call at the crack of dawn telling him the school, grade level, and the name of the teacher for the class he's been assigned that day.  When he arrives at the school, he's given the keys to the classroom and a folder containing the roll sheets and lesson plans for the day.  At least, it usually contains lesson plans.  Sometimes, though, the regular teacher has neglected this critical responsibility leaving the sub to either rely on other teachers for support or simply "wing it" in an effort to make it through the day.

Little known fact: The absence of lesson plans for the sub is what led to the creation of popular classroom games such as "Silent Ball" and "Head Up, Seven Up".

After getting his keys and folder, the sub wanders around campus looking for the right classroom.  Inevitably, this journey ends with the sub confidently entering the room, realizing he's in the wrong place (because there's already a teacher in there) and asking, "I'm sorry, could you tell me where room 215 is?"

He finally finds room 215, writes his name on the white board, and waits for the arrival of 30-35 children who will spend the rest of the day making him completely miserable.

At least, that was my experience in the three years I spent as a substitute teacher.

Here's the thing, though, it provided me with a few great stories, one of which I've entitled "The A Word."

I was subbing for a fifth grade teacher named Mrs. Walton.  The morning had gone as well as could be expected, fifteen minutes of math followed by two and a half hours of Head Up, Seven Up.  After lunch, two girls in the class, Pauline and Stephanie, came running up to me.

"Hey, Mr. whatever your name is," said Stephanie.  That's another thing about being a sub.  Write it on the board as many times as you want, unless you're a stand-up comedian or have movie-star looks, kids will never remember your name.  I'm neither of those things, so regularly had to settle for "Mr. whatever your name is" or "Yo, teacher dude."

"Yes, Stephanie?" I replied.

"I don't want to be a tattle tale or anything, but Pauline just called me the B word."

Time for a quick lesson on elementary school vocabulary.  When a student doesn't want to get in trouble for using profanity, he or she refers to cuss words by their first letter.  The F word, for instance, is self-explanatory and needs no elaboration; however, other words are not so clear.  For kindergarteners, the S word is "shut up", by second grade it evolves to "stupid".  It's not until the middle of fourth grade that it becomes the S word that we all know and love.  That would be shit, for the less "street smart" among you.  The B word is another one that's pretty universal, so when Stephanie fired her accusation at Pauline, it's safe to say that everyone was on the same page.

"Okay, Pauline," I said.  "Why did you call Stephanie the B word?  I've known her for a long time, almost four hours now, and I'm sure that she's not a b-, uh, one of those."

Pauline was indignant.  "I called her that because Stephanie called me the A word."

This one threw me.  The only A word I could think of was the one that sort of rhymes with "hassle", but from what I could tell about Stephanie, that's a word she wouldn't have used.  I mean, I could've been wrong, but she didn't strike me as a mean or foul-mouthed kid.  So, taking a bit of a risk, I asked for clarification.

"Um, Pauline, what's the A word?" I asked.

"Idiot."

Stephanie raised a quizzical eyebrow at Pauline, then looked at me.  In grand gesture that would've made any circus ringmaster proud, she extended her arms toward Pauline and shouted, "TA DA!"

Trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle my laughter, I told Stephanie, "Okay, okay.  Steph, promise me that you won't ever use the A word at school again?"

"Okay, Mr. whatever your name is," she said.  "I won't."

Pauline seemed satisfied.


d

OperaTron XJ-15

Reality television hit an all-time low this season, when America's Got Talent allowed a robot to enter the competition.  Bearing an incredible resemblance to an actual human child, the OperaTron XJ-15 (also known as "Jackie Evancho") advanced through the competition singing opera classics and a few popular showtunes.  

If you missed its performance, click here to view it now.

The OperaTron technology is really pretty amazing.  The computerized voice is flawless, however the manufacturers were unable to create a child's voice with the necessary range, pitch, and overall quality to successfully mimic a professional opera singer, so the end result is an adult voice coming out of a child's mouth.  The disconnect between what the audience is seeing and what it's hearing is a bit off-putting at first, but after a couple songs, you get used to it.

The OperaTron XJ-15 has a few other glitches as well.  When it's not in "sing mode," OperaTron is only capable of two or three different facial expressions.  It stares blankly into the distance, flashes a charming smile, and . . . okay, it's capable of two facial expressions.  The artificial intelligence is also somewhat limited.  The OperaTron understands basic questions such as "How does it feel to be performing in front of millions of people?", "What do you have to say to the judges after hearing their comments?" and "Isn't Piers Morgan an insufferable prick?"; however, its responses all begin with the phrase "I'm really amazed . . . " or "I'm very happy . . . ".  It's a shame that after creating such an incredibly human-looking robot, OperaTron's software development department couldn't make it talk like an actual person.

Still, I have to give credit where credit is due.  After all, it must've been tempting for the robot's designers to use their product for more profit-based ventures like drug-smuggling.  Hell, they probably could've made millions mass-producing a whole army of Bomb-a-Tron XJ-15's and selling them to the Taliban.  Instead, they chose to use their invention to perform opera classics on a contrived and cheesy TV talent show.

And for that, I applaud them.  To quote the OperaTron XJ-15 itself, "I'm really amazed."


d

Cute or Crap?

After the last time I criticized my fiance Theresa, when I got on her case about being overly picky with the bagels and ice and how she always finds "one more thing" for us to do while we're out and about, I promised myself that I'd leave her alone for a while.  This was partly because I don't want to come across as being a mean-spirited jerk, but if we're going to be completely honest, I'm really tired of sleeping on the sofa.  So believe me when I tell you I really didn't plan on picking on her anytime soon.

But then she went and did something that makes it absolutely impossible for me not to share it with you, the outside world.

I need to start by saying that of all the holidays on the calendar, Halloween is the one Theresa looks forward to the most.  She loves Christmas, of course, and every Easter she always fills our pantry with a stunning array of Peeps, but nothing compares to her pathological obsession with Halloween.  Every year, she buys a few more creepy accessories and decorations for the house.  Fake spider webs for the front porch, plastic pumpkins, glow-in-the-dark skeletons, candy bowls with a bony hand sticking up from the bottom -- you name it, we have it.

I'm not complaining, exactly.  Some of the stuff is pretty cool, especially the electronic Frankenstein that talks and removes its own head.  And once we get all the decorations in place, our house could give Disneyland's Haunted Mansion a run for its money.  Trick or treaters are always impressed, and it's kind of fun to see the little ones approach our front door with trepidation, like they're thinking "man, I don't know if a fun-size Snickers bar is worth wetting my Spiderman costume for."

None of that, however, makes up for the ridiculous crap Theresa bought for the house the other night.

We were shopping at Vons Supermarket for a few random groceries when Theresa noticed the Halloween supplies and decorations on display.  I should mention at this point that it was Labor Day.  That's right, almost two complete months until Halloween, and the goodies are already out for purchase.  I don't know ANYONE who shops for Halloween stuff this early.

Okay, I take that back.  I know ONE person.

I'm convinced that Theresa will buy absolutely anything that has a pumpkin or a skull on it.  Take for example this bizarre statue that now graces our living room.

Where do I even begin?  It looks like a cross between Bozo the Clown and the Great Pumpkin.  And what the hell is he holding in his hand?  A weird little parasol?  Candy Corn on a Stick?  I have no friggin' idea.  But hey, it's a PUMPKIN!  So it's ours.

Not even our dog Newton is safe from Theresa's Halloween addiction.  Look what she did to him.

I think Newt should get in touch with PETA, because this is CERTAINLY not an ethical way to treat an animal.  He looks like he could star in an all-canine production of The Pirates of Penzance. 

But I've saved the worst for last.  Of all the things Theresa has "had to have" for Halloween, this next piece of crap is by far the most ridiculous. 

That's right, folks, it's a glittery cupcake with a doll's head popping out the top.  At least, I think it's a doll.  It sort of looks like Jack Skellington from "A Nightmare Before Christmas," but it's more like something you'd find on the Island of Misfit Toys.  It's just spooky, and not in a good way.  And it was SIXTEEN DOLLARS!  You know how many Kit Kats that could buy?

I tried to talk her out of it.  Clearly, this was a factory reject that some conniving retailer slapped a pumpkin and the word "BOO" on to pass off as a Halloween decoration.  "Seriously," I said, "why the hell do we need that for our house?"

"It's unique."

"Granted, but it's ridiculous.  It's a cupcake.  With a head popping out."

"I know, I love it!"

Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in my effort to keep this . . . thing . . . out of our house.  But we still don't see eye to eye on it, not even close.  So Theresa and I have agreed to let you, dear Knucklehead readers, be the judges.  Take a look once again at the Doll in a Cupcake.  What do YOU think? 

Is it cute?  Or is it crap?


d

What Ever Happened To . . . Ranger Smith?

John Francis Smith served as chief forest ranger at Jellystone National Park from 1955 to 1981, earning a reputation as a friendly-yet-firm peacekeeper who did his best to ensure the safety of the thousands of tourists who visited Jellystone each year.  For the most part, Ranger Smith did his job perfectly.  In fact, in 1968, he was presented with the Servicewide Harry Yount Award for his "overall impact, record of accomplishment, and excellence in traditional ranger duties."  The Harry Yount is the most prestigious award a park ranger can receive, so Ranger Smith's co-workers celebrated their colleague's accomplishment with a lavish party and his award plaque was proudly displayed at Jellystone headquarters.

Starting in 1972, however, Smith's work performance started to suffer.  Not coincidentally, that's the same year that a hat-wearing brown bear named Yogi arrived in Jellystone.  Proclaiming himself to be "smarter than the average bear," Yogi, along with his perpetually-stoned accomplice Boo-Boo, continually ransacked campsites, hi-jacked RV's, and occasionally mauled random tourists simply to rob them of their "pick-a-nick baskets."  To be fair, Yogi's larcenous tendencies were not born of mischief, it was his all-consuming addiction to deviled eggs and potato salad that made him do it.

That's no excuse though.  He was still a criminal and as such, Ranger Smith took it upon himself to rid Jellystone of the dastardly bear and his guilty-by-association sidekick.

Initially, Smith's efforts were futile.  Not only was Yogi indeed smarter than the average bear, he was apparently smarter than the average award-winning park ranger.  No matter what tactics Ranger Smith tried, Yogi continued to separate campers from their picnic baskets and over a period of several years park attendance dropped dramatically.  I mean, really, who wants to go camping when there's a pretty good chance your deviled eggs are going to get swiped?  And of course, as tourism decreased, so did Jellystone's revenue and there was talk of massive cutbacks including the laying off of park rangers.

That's when Ranger Smith decided to take drastic measures to get rid of Yogi Bear once and for all.  So he contacted the Acme Company.

Acme was a corporation attempting to rebound from a troubled history.  In the mid-70's, the company lost a high-profile lawsuit (W. E. Coyote v. Acme Company, 1974) which cost Acme seventeen million dollars in punitive damages and led to a complete overhaul of their manufacturing guidelines and safety procedures.  According to Acme CEO Hannibal Blatch, "We at Acme maintain that our products have always been held to rigorous quality-control standards.  The lawsuit brought against us by Wile E. Coyote was frivolous at best, fraudulent at worst.  Seriously, what did the guy think was gonna happen when he attached an Acme Giant Spring to a friggin' boulder?  And our Acme Catapult comes with a very detailed operator's manual, instructing the customer to stand off to the side of the catapult after the loading process.  The reason for this is simple.  If you load an extremely heavy object into the catapult like, for example, another friggin' boulder, the device has a tendency to tip over backwards and crush anyone standing directly behind it.  Still, losing that lawsuit made all of us at Acme take a more serious approach to product quality, and we haven't had any complaints since."

Ranger John Smith was well aware of Acme's new-and-improved reputation, and when he placed an order for some highly sophisticated deadly devices, he was rewarded with state-of-the-art equipment.

The morning of July 15, 1981, the last day of Yogi Bear's life, literally started off with a bang.  Ranger Smith had set a picnic basket full of Acme Exploding Deviled Eggs and Acme Radioactive Potato Salad right next to the entrance to Yogi and Boo-Boo's cave.  When Yogi went outside for his morning stroll, he couldn't help but take the bait.

"Hey, Boo-Boo!  Take a look at this pick-a-nick basket.  Hey hey hee!"

"I don't know, Yogi," said Boo-Boo.  "Don't you think that's a little suspicious?  A picnic basket just sitting out here with nobody around?"

"Nonsense, Boob.  Never look a gift basket in the mouth."  He scarfed down a spoonful of potato salad and a half dozen deviled eggs, and with one horrific KABOOM, Yogi erupted like Old Faithful, if Old Faithful spouted blood, fur, and bear guts instead of water and steam.

Boo-Boo, though shaken, was physically unharmed.

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for the good folks at PETA to figure out what had happened, and when they did they were all over Ranger Smith like a fur coat on a Mafia mistress.  Succumbing to the media pressure, Jellystone Park's Board of Directors relieved the dishonored ranger of his duties, which is to say, they gave him the boot.

John Francis Smith packed up his belongings, sold his house in Casper, Wyoming and bought a lovely cottage on Martha's Vineyard where he is currently a best-selling novelist.  His most recent novel, Deader Than the Average Bear, tells the story of a Chicago football star who gets into trouble with the local crime syndicate.

Smith says he has no regrets about his past.

"Look, I'm not proud of what I did back at Jellystone," he said in a recent interview.  "I was frustrated, I lost my temper, things happened that I can't take back.  I'm enjoying my life as a writer, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.  I mean, hell, park rangers make about thirty grand a year.  My last book pulled in three million.  Who's laughing now, Yogi?"

Boo-Boo died in 1984 when a hunter blew his head off.  He is now a cozy rug in front of a fireplace in Aspen, Colorado.




s

Blogger Throwdown Results

The Blogger Throwdown Results are in!

To catch those of you up who may have missed it, Reputation@Stake from "The Stupid Bet" challenged me to a Blogger Throwdown, where the two of us wrote on the same topic, with Rep trying to mimic my style, such as it is.  Readers then cast their votes as to who wrote which piece.

Although Rep was able to fool a few people including a couple long-time Knucklehead readers (I'm looking at YOU, Mariann and Dr. Grumpy), most of you correctly identified "What Ever Happened To . . . Ranger Smith (Version B)" as being written by me.  I've reworked my version, which will appear in its regular spot on Knucklehead tomorrow morning.

I gotta say, though, Reputation@Stake did a pretty fair job.  One line in particular, something about Yogi Bear running in a straight line but somehow passing the same tree twenty times, was something that I definitely could have come up with.  Great work, Reppy!

Apparently the Blogger Throwdown is an idea that Reputation@Stake is going to run with, challenging other bloggers to the same type of competition.  So Reppy, if you're reading this, allow me to point you in the direction of a couple guys named Suldog and Mike W-J.

Thanks for thinking of me for this contest, Rep.  It was a blast!


d

What Ever Happened To . . . Ranger Smith? (Blogger Throwdown Edition)

As I mentioned a couple days ago, a blogger by the name of Reputation@Stake (from the blog The Stupid Bet) has challenged me to a Blogger Throwdown.  According to the Official Blogger Throwdown Rulebook, Fifth Edition, as the challenger I am permitted to select a topic for both myself and Mr. @Stake to write about.  Readers are then asked to determine which piece was written by me, and which was written by Mr. @Stake.  The idea, of course, is for Mr. @Stake to try to copy my style and "fool" my readership into thinking he's me.

Which calls into question his sanity, but what the hell, it should be fun.

So the topic I chose is another episode in my "What Ever Happened To . . . " series, this time focusing on Yogi Bear's arch nemesis, Ranger John Smith.  The two pieces will be labeled "Version A" and "Version B", all you have to do is figure out who wrote what and post your opinion in the comment section.  The truth will be revealed a few days after the initial posting.  Have fun!


WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO . . . Ranger Smith?  (VERSION A)

The problems for Ranger Smith started long before he was a Park Ranger chasing two nicely dressed bears away from pick-i-nick baskets. Before ever meeting Yogi, he’d struggled with the rejection of being passed over for the part of The Lone Ranger. His mood lightened momentarily when he got the part on The Yogi Bear Show, but darkened just as quickly when he learned that the show wouldn’t be renamed after him, nor would he be the lead character. In fact, learning that even someone with a name like Boo Boo, would get higher billing than him, is what first drove him to binge drinking.

“On camera it may have been difficult to see,” says Cindy Bear, Yogi’s on-screen love interest, “but most of the time he was as wasted as a homeless bartender.”

But Cindy was also part of the trouble. Ranger Smith had a not-so-secret crush on Cindy, and constantly badgered the script writers to put in a passionate make-out scene between he and Cindy. They said America wasn’t ready for an inter-species couple yet, at least not until HBO became available. But Cindy did not feel the same way about him, yet she would often try to make him feel better by buying him a whiskey with a beer chaser.

Jellystone Park could be a tough place to work. Running in a straight line, and passing the same tree twenty times, can be very disorienting. Eventually Smitty (as squirrels affectionately called him) decided to call it quits. This decision came immediately after hearing that the show had been canceled, but he still felt good about his decision.

But the demand for rangers in Hollywood is somewhat low, so he was forced to look for income in less reputable places. And that’s what led him into the seedy underground world of RPS (Rock, Paper, Scissors). Competitions were fierce, and could turn violent if competitors brought real scissors or rocks. But Smitty was a natural, and he dreamed of making it into the Professional RPS League.

He hoped that going pro might impress Cindy.

That dream finally became a reality in January of 1993. Unfortunately Cindy was hibernating at the time, so Smitty had to wait until Spring to tell her. But before he could, a couple of things happened. A new show was debuting, called, “Power Rangers.” Ranger Smith felt this was his big chance to break back into show business. And since ESPN refused to televise RPS Championships, he saw that it might be his only chance to be on screen again.

So he retired from the RPS League and headed back to Hollywood.

Unfortunately he was not the type of ranger they were looking for. He tried to return to RPS, but the league was dwindling, unable to compete with the new flashier sport, “Chain, Leather, Knives.”

So Ranger Smith decided it was time to go after Cindy, once and for all. It had been a long winter, and she was still unconscious, but he crawled into her cave anyway. Unfortunately her paws were wrapped around another bear, who was wearing a much better tie than Smitty had ever worn.

With this final failure, Ranger Smith completely lost it. He started running around naked in the National Park, living under boulders or in hollow logs, and barking at the moon. He has become somewhat of an urban legend, and visitors come to the park hoping to catch a rare glimpse of the mad man of the woods. But the only time he is really seen anymore, is when he comes out to steal people’s pick-i-nick baskets.

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO . . . Ranger Smith?  (VERSION B)

John Francis Smith served as chief forest ranger at Jellystone National Park from 1955 to 1981, earning a reputation as a friendly-yet-firm peacekeeper who did his best to ensure the safety of the thousands of tourists who visited Jellystone each year.  For the most part, Ranger Smith did his job perfectly.  In fact, in 1968, he was presented with the Servicewide Harry Yount Award for his "overall impact, record of accomplishment, and excellence in traditional ranger duties."  The Harry Yount is the most prestigious award a park ranger can receive, so this was quite the big deal for everyone at Jellystone.  His fellow rangers threw a gala celebration in Ranger Smith's honor, and his Harry Yount plaque was displayed at park headquarters.

Starting in 1972, however, Smith's work performance started to suffer.  Not coincidentally, that's the same year that a hat-wearing brown bear named Yogi arrived in Jellystone.  Proclaiming himself to be "smarter than the average bear," Yogi, along with his accomplice Boo-Boo, continually ransacked campsites, hi-jacked RV's, and occasionally mauled random tourists simply to rob them of their "pick-a-nick baskets."  To be fair, Yogi's larcenous tendencies were not born of mischief, it was his all-consuming addiction to deviled eggs and potato salad that made him do it.

That's no excuse though.  He was still a criminal and as such, Ranger Smith took it upon himself to rid Jellystone of the dastardly bear and his guilty-by-association sidekick.

Initially, Smith's efforts were futile.  Not only was Yogi indeed smarter than the average bear, he was apparently smarter than the average Harry Yount Award-winning park ranger.  No matter what tactics Ranger Smith tried, Yogi continued to separate campers from their picnic baskets and over a period of several years park attendance dropped dramatically.  I mean, really, who wants to go camping when there's a pretty good chance your deviled eggs are going to get swiped?  And of course, as tourism decreased, so did Jellystone's revenue and there was talk of massive cutbacks including the laying off of park rangers.

That's when Ranger Smith decided to take drastic measures to get rid of Yogi Bear once and for all.  So he contacted the Acme Company.

Acme was a corporation attempting to rebound from a troubled history.  In the mid-70's, the company lost a high-profile lawsuit (Coyote v. Acme, US District Court, Southwestern District of Arizona, 1974) which cost Acme seventeen million dollars in punitive damages and led to a complete overhaul of their manufacturing guidelines and safety procedures.  As a result, when Ranger John Smith placed an order for some highly sophisticated deadly devices, he was rewarded with state-of-the-art equipment.

The morning of July 15, 1981, the last day of Yogi Bear's life, literally started off with a bang.  Ranger Smith had set a picnic basket full of Acme Exploding Deviled Eggs and Acme Radioactive Potato Salad right next to the entrance to Yogi and Boo-Boo's cave.  When Yogi went outside for his morning stroll, he couldn't help but take the bait.

"Hey, Boo-Boo!  Take a look at this pick-a-nick basket.  Hey hey hee!"

"I don't know, Yogi," said Boo-Boo.  "Don't you think that's a little suspicious?  A picnic basket just sitting out here with nobody around?"

"Nonsense, Boob.  Never look a gift basket in the mouth."  He scarfed down a spoonful of potato salad and a half dozen deviled eggs, and with one horrific KABOOM, Yogi erupted like Old Faithful, if Old Faithful spouted blood, fur, and bear guts instead of water and steam.

Boo-Boo, though shaken, was physically unharmed.

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for the good folks at PETA to figure out what had happened, and when they did they were all over Ranger Smith like a fur coat on a Mafia mistress.  Succumbing to the media pressure, Jellystone Park's Board of Directors relieved the dishonored ranger of his duties, which is to say, they gave him the boot.

John Francis Smith packed up his belongings, sold his house in Casper, Wyoming and bought a lovely cottage on Martha's Vineyard where he is currently a best-selling novelist.  His most recent novel, Deader Than the Average Bear, tells the story of a Chicago football star who gets into trouble with the local crime syndicate.

Smith says he has no regrets about his past.

"Look, I'm not proud of what I did back at Jellystone," he said in a recent interview.  "I was frustrated, I lost my temper, things happened that I can't take back.  I'm enjoying my life as a writer, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.  I mean, hell, park rangers make about thirty grand a year.  My last book pulled in three million.  Who's laughing now, Yogi?"

Boo-Boo died in 1984 when a hunter blew his head off.  He is now a cozy rug in front of a fireplace in Aspen, Colorado.




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Blogger Throwdown Challenge!

Okay, this should be fun.  A guy by the name of Reputation@Stake (probably not his actual name), author of the very funny blog The Stupid Bet, has challenged me to what he calls a "Blogger Throwdown."  Here's the concept:

In a few days, right here on Knucklehead!, you'll find a post containing two pieces on the same topic.  Seeing as I'm the one who was challenged, I was permitted to select said topic, which will be "What Ever Happened To . . . Ranger Smith?" (you know, Mr. Ranger from the Yogi Bear cartoons).  I'll write my version, and Mr. @Stake will attempt to imitate my style in his separate version.  Readers will be asked to figure out who wrote which piece, and share their opinion in the comment section.  I guess the idea is that Reputation@Stake will see how good a job he can do imitating my style (which calls into question his judgment, but hey, this was his idea not mine). 

Also, I'm not allowed to cheat by giving hints.  For example, I'm not permitted to say that my piece will contain the word "festooned" somewhere in the text, nor would it be kosher to tell you that at some point Yogi Bear will find a picnic basket full of In-N-Out Double Doubles.  So I'm not going to do that.

Really, I'm not.  This will be more fun if it's completely on the up-and-up.

Anyway, the Throwdown will be taking place on Tuesday (if all goes according to plan), so be sure to stop by then and see how good Reputation@Stake is at mimicking my style.

Like that's some sort of accomplishment . . .


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The Best and the Worst: Fast Food Menu Items

 Okay, I'll just come right out and say it, I eat way too much fast food.  I could make a lot of excuses for my poor eating habits like my job keeps me so busy I only have time to grab a quick lunch, or I'm not a very good cook, or fast food is a cheap way to fill my belly.  All those things are true, but if we're going to be completely honest about it, I just really, really like a good burger.  Or a burrito.  And fries.  Given my experience with the quick-cuisine industry, I'm happy to share with you the best and the worst of what our fast food chains have to offer.

THE BEST

1. Double Double (In-N-Out Burger)

This one is a no-brainer.  For those of you not on the West Coast, In-N-Out Burger makes the greatest hamburgers known to man, and the Double Double is their crown jewel.  Two patties, two slices of cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and secret sauce.  Simple, yet perfect.  And while that's the "basic" formula for the Double Double, there's a whole "underground" menu available for those of us in the know.  First of all, there is no limit on the number of patties and cheese slices you can order -- the 3x3, the 4x4, whatever you want.  Legend has it that someone once ordered a 100x100 for a party, at the everyday low price of $98.  "Animal Style" burgers (my personal favorite) are made with a mustard-grilled burger, sauce, tomatoes, pickles, and grilled onions, the "Flying Dutchman" is just the meat and cheese with no bun.  Whatever your preference, In-N-Out Burger is the best of the best.

2. Macho Combination Burrito (Del Taco)

When my family first moved to California my Aunt Judy, who lived in Hollywood at the time, introduced me to the Macho Combo and I've been a fan ever since.  It weighs about fifteen pounds (okay, maybe not that much but it seems like it when it's sitting in your belly), contains beef, beans, veggies, two kinds of hot sauce and sour cream, and is mucho delicioso.  I get mine with no sour cream or green sauce, and with extra red sauce.  Like I said, these things are enormous.  A grizzly bear could hibernate for an entire winter after eating just one.  Of course, his farts would wipe out a small village.

3. Homestyle Chicken Filet (Wendy's)

I'm not a huge fan of fast food chicken sandwiches, but I'll make an exception with Wendy's.  There's nothing at all fancy about it -- just a breaded chicken breast, lettuce, tomato, and mayonaisse -- but the chicken is always juicy.  Pair this up with a cup of Wendy's chili and a chocolate Frosty and that's one heck of a lunch.  Back in the 80's I worked at Wendy's during the infamous "Where's the Beef" era and when it got close to closing time, a couple of us would drop a few chicken breasts into the fryer hoping that there would be "leftovers" when it came time to lock up.  They made a great late-night snack.

4. Cole Slaw (KFC)

Cole slaw is an interesting dish.  My mom's recipe is absolutely delicious, while the stuff you get in the deli section of Stater Brothers supermarket tastes like lawn clippings soaked in tepid dishwater.  There's just no industry standard for cole slaw.  But if there were, Kentucky Fried Chicken's entry would most definitely be the one to shoot for.  If KFC existed on Mount Olympus, Zeus and Apollo would've shunned ambrosia and nectar in favor of cole slaw and crispy Snackers. 

5. French Fries (McDonald's)

McDonald's French Fries are the Beatles of the fast food industry.  The best, without any competitors even close to attaining their pure and unquestioned greatness.  I don't know what the McRecipe is for their fries, but my guess is that a key ingredient is crack because once you eat one, you just keep eating and eating and eating.  In my forty-plus years of McDonald's customership, I can honestly tell you I've never thrown away a single fry, not even the burned and cripsy McRejects.  I would have no problem whatsoever with McDonald's creating a fifth size for their French Fries -- small, medium, large, Super Size, and Infinity.  A bargain at any price.




THE WORST

1. Chicken McNuggets (McDonald's)

It amazes me that the same group of chefs who came up with the world's greatest French Fries also created the single most disgusting lumps of crap to ever grace a McMenu (have I worn out the McJokes yet?  I believe I have.).  Seriously, the Chicken McNuggets are so terrible that I once saw a few hundred hens and roosters picketing outside the McDonald's corporate headquarters.  But let's not kid ourselves here.  If you believe that McNuggets are made with 100% pure chicken, you probably also think Joan Rivers has never had plastic surgery.  The first clue that something's not right in McDonaldland is the nuggets only come in three McShapes (yeah, I went there again): a rough circle, kidney-shaped, and something that vaguely resembles one of  Santa Claus's boots.  Whatever the shape, the one constant is their taste which can best be described as spongy cardboard.  No amount of barbecue sauce can make up for that.

2. Taco (Jack in the Box)

A basic rule of thumb in the fast food industry is this:  If the word "taco" doesn't appear in the name of your restaurant, you have no business making tacos.  Nowhere is this more obvious than at Jack in the Box.  Jack's tacos are unique in the fact that aside from the cheese and vegetables, they come "preformed" as a frozen taco shell with a lump of meat/sauce/seasonings wedged inside.  This is deep-fried, pried open by the "cook" and filled with lettuce, tomatoes and cheese.  More often than not, the shell ends up limp and soggy, dripping grease and recently-thawed beef juice all over the place.  Since they taste like sewage, the mess is simply not worth it.

3. Whopper (Burger King)

When a restaurant chain dubs itself the burger "king", you'd expect it to serve burgers that go beyond the level of mediocre.  The Whopper isn't an especially horrible hamburger, but it's hardly exceptional.  Besides, it's made with mayonnaise as a standard ingredient.  Oh sure, I could "have it my way" and simply tell them to hold the mayo, but what's the point?  The fact that they even considered using mayonnaise on a burger kills their credibility from the get-go.  If we were to look at all the major fast food chains in the country (and we're going to come fairly close), I doubt we could rank Burger King's hamburgers in the top ten.  It takes more than flame-broiling, that's for damn sure.

4. Big Carl/Big Shef (Carl's Jr./Hardee's)

Not too long ago, Carl's Jr. (Hardees in some parts of the country) came up with a burger called the "Big Carl" designed to compete with -- or more accurately, copy -- the Big Mac.  Two all beef patties, special sauce, etc., etc., with the only difference being its larger size.  I've had a couple Big Carls and to tell you the truth, they're pretty decent.  But they're not quite the Big Mac.  But all that's beside the point.  I have no respect for a restaurant that shamelessly rips off one of its rivals.  It's like that commercial where the creepy Burger King guy sneaks into McDonald's at night and steals the blueprint for the Egg McMuffin.  There's a reason other companies steal from Mickey D's.  It's because they know they're not as good.  Just a bunch of sore McLosers (I just can't seem to help myself).

5. French Fries (In-N-Out Burger)

Remember when I mentioned the McDonald's paradox, how odd it is that the company that makes the best fries on the planet also makes repulsive chicken nuggets?  In-N-Out Burger has a similar situation, only in reverse.  They make incredible hamburgers, but their fries flat-out suck.  The problem is simple.  In-N-Out makes its French fries from actual potatoes and nothing else, if you can believe it.  You can see the employees over by the fryers, slicing the spuds and submerging them in the grease.  They leave out all the tasty additives and preservatives (like the crack they use at McD's, for example).  In a perfect world, In-N-Out would merge with McDonald's and serve Double Double cheeseburgers with McFries.

But with my luck, they'd go with In-N-Out fries and Chicken McNuggets.


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