Losing My Religion

I'm so tired of having Jehovah's Witnesses ringing my doorbell and asking if I'd like a pamphlet about Jesus. And I appreciate the whole freedom of religion thing, but some religions seem to have more freedom than others. But I digress.

I know these people have the right to go door to door selling Jesus, but I hate hate hate it when they ring the doorbell of a house with a mezuzah. Hello? We're Jews. We're not looking to switch teams. If you're such a big religious scholar then you should be able to recognize Hebrew.

And that thing on my doorpost isn't a crack pipe with a note from my mom inside.

A Whole New Meaning for Woody Woodpecker

Need to rekindle your relationship? Maybe a Jildo is just what you're looking for.

To be honest, it looks like someone got the bright idea to saw off a bedpost in the heat of passion. And what are you supposed to use for lube? MinWax? But I understand the Jildo is giving its silicone counterparts, er, stiff competition.

I guess some people march to the beat of a different drumstick.

Yankees Suck!

Just wanted to point out that the Red Sox are in first place in the AL East and 8.5 games ahead of the Yankees.

And I'm thrilled we let Roger Clemens get away. The Bronx Bombers can have him (for $28 million, no less). That guy is high maintenance and his ego is wicked lahge.

Yell Until You're Blue In The Tooth

Can I just say that people who walk around with those Bluetooth headsets wrapped around one ear look really weird. I understand that if you're going to talk on the phone and drive, it's safer if you're wearing a hands-free device. But, I'm sorry, when I see you walking around chatting on one of those things, it looks like you've got a big cockroach attached to your head.

And if I'm on the opposite side from your Bluetooth/cockroach ear, you look like you're talking, no actually yelling, to yourself.

Which brings me to my next kvetch. Why are cell phones actually yell phones? Why do people always seem to be screaming when they're talking on the phone in a public place? I thought digital technology made it easier to have a clear conversation. But it always seems that when I'm standing in line to buy a movie ticket, check out of the grocery store or mail a package at the post office (in other words, when I'm trapped), some crazy yahoo is telling his buddy fortissimo voce about how drunk he got the night before.

I wish, just once, that every Bluetooth headset would jump off the ear of its owner and morph into Gregor Samsa who would then lecture these blowhards on basic etiquette.

Pass The Maalox

I don't like the word "gastropub." It means a bar or pub that offers high-end beers, a decent wine list and a menu that most foodies would appreciate. It's not a place for the Bud and beer nuts crowd.

But if a place like that is meant to stimulate my salivary glands, why does the name sound so darned medical?

The prefix "gastro" is derived from the Greek word gastros meaning "stomach." Hence, gastroenterology is the study of the digestive system and digestive diseases. And then there's gastric bypass surgery and gastroenteritis. Funny, my tummy's not growling now.

Call me a Philistine, but I just can't get from fluorescent lights and a barrium enema to cedar plank salmon and a '97 Bordeaux.

No Left Turn

A few days ago, ScientificAmerican.com published an article stating that left-handed women have a higher risk of dying. I almost proved that to be true at age six when I tried to fly by jumping off the top of the slide in my backyard. Instead of buying the farm, however, I hit a tree and broke my left arm.

And you know what they say, "If it doesn't kill you, it'll make you stronger." Well, it didn't kill me but it did make me feel a bit off-kilter because my sinister second grade teacher decided my bandaged left arm provided her with the perfect opportunity to squelch my gauche tendencies.

She forced me to write right-handed.

So I became just like the rest of my family - ambidextrous. My father, another born lefty, was switched as a kid, too, but still threw a ball left-handed. My mother is a true lefty but plays tennis right-handed, and my brother does everything lefty except writing.

And, despite my second grade teacher's intentions, I still do a whole bunch of things left-handed. But right after the big switcheroo, I got an F in penmanship for two straight years, and even now, a hand-written letter from me closely resembles the Rosetta Stone. Go figure.

But Officer, I Swear I Was Going Only 5

I got a ticket for walking too fast on the Mission Beach boardwalk.

Okay, not really, but I could. There's a speed limit on the boardwalk - 8 miles per hour - and I'm pretty fleet-footed when I've got my game face on. With all the traffic along the beach, it makes perfect sense to make the public aware that going too fast, even on the boardwalk, can cause an accident.

But why 8 miles per hour? Why not 6 or 11?

And how do you track your speed? I've never seen a skater, jogger or walker using a speedometer. Maybe some of the more tricked out bikes have something that measures speed, but most beach cruisers are pretty scaled down.

So how the heck are you supposed to know if you're doing 9 and need to start thinking up excuses? Gee officer, I just bought these sneakers and I had no idea they could go that fast.

I can just picture it, a cop sitting in a beach chair with a burrito in one hand and a radar gun in the other. Yeah, that's where I want my tax dollars going.