Dig: Being a Tree-Hugger

Don't get me wrong. I'm no Ed Begley, Jr. (whose ANNUAL electric bill is $200 because of all his solar-poweredness), I'm more of a fair-weather environmental freak. I kind of dig the feeling I get in my belly when I do my little part to protect this big blue marble that we live on. Here are some things that I do so my grandchildren can enjoy hay fever because the goldenrod has a place to grow and the whole place isn't just paved over like a big parking lot:

I pick up litter. Not all of it but if I see a Snickers wrapper on the ground, I might just pick it up. As you know from a previous post, I don't really understand littering so I'm kind of enabling the inconsiderate assholes who throw their crap on the ground. That means you, Mr. Smoker-Man.

I recycle newspapers, bottles, cans, etc. That's kind of a gimme. Everyone should do that especially if your friendly neighborhood garbage man provides one of those nifty blue container things to put the Target ads, Spaghettios cans and skim (I'm trying to watch my girlish figure)milk jugs in.

I use those funky fluorescent light bulbs at home. Those bastards are expensive but they do last a lot longer. I've been using them for a couple of years now and have yet to replace one.

I use those re-usable canvas bags for my groceries. This one kind of puts me over the edge, I think. I actually bring my own bags with me to the store like a true granola-lover - and one of them is even made of hemp! Unfortunately, I forget to do this sometimes so I still throw away a lot of those damn plastic bags. I have to admit, though, said damn plastic bags are good for throwing away diapers with poo in them. They're not necessary for diapers with just pee but you really don't want a diaper with poo living in your garbage can for a whole week unless they are sealed up sufficiently like the Anal Retentive Chef would do.

I turn off the light in my office at work when I leave it. According to a website that I think did actual research on the subject, if you're going to be gone from your office for more than 15 minutes, you should turn off the light. My co-workers used to make fun of me but after I popped one of them in the nose, they stopped. If you're a cube-dweller your life sucks anyway so you have my permission to run all the electrical appliances you see fit.

I use my own mug at Starbuck's instead of using yet another paper cup. I win three ways on this one. First, I'm not using a paper cup (which isn't even recyclable because there is a small amount of plastic in it). Second, I actually drink less VentiNonfatNoWhipMocha because the mug is a grande size, not venti. Third, the nice people at S'buck's take a cool ten cents off the price for using my own mug! I'm huge! I must confess, though, that this little token of eco-friendliness comes at a cost. See, that mug I'm using is made out of dead dinosaurs which sacrificed themselves to become oil which could be turned into plastic which eventually became my mug. Not very granola-y. For that matter, when I wash said mug, I use electricity to run the dishwasher and natural gas to heat up the water to make it clean. I may have to rethink this one...

I only use cold water to do the laundry. I suppose if I actually worked for a living and my clothes got real dirt on them I might need to use hot water but I'm happy to report that the dirt and odor associated with being a middle-management slacker comes out just fine with cold water!

So those are the things that I do to reduce my carbon footprint - whatever the hell that is. In the scheme of things, I'm pretty much doing the easy stuff which is kind of how I live my life. Even though I drive a Toyota, it's not a Prius - and I don't carpool even though there are a handful of people who work in the same building as me that live within a 5-mile radius of my house. I also still get two newspapers a day even though all the news that I need is available on line (stopping the newspapers might be next environmentally selfless act, actually).

I'll keep you posted on my progress on adding a 200' wind turbine to the top of the house and convincing the family to only flush every other time.

Hate: The Number of Words on the Shampoo Bottle

I debated about posting this in the Don't Get section because having a whole bunch of words on the shampoo bottle just doesn't make sense to me. However, my confusion over the whole issue soon turned to hatred and I'm pleased with my decision to share with you my hatred (not confusion) for the number of words on the shampoo bottle. You could say I Dig my Hate, which could quite possibly put this whole post in the Dig category. Or, you could just agree with me that the whole thing matters about as much as anything related to Jamie Spears' underage pregnancy.

In case there was any doubt that this slacker is a morning person in any way, shape or form, let me kill that rumor right now. I hate getting my lazy arse out of bed in the morning. If I was told that tomorrow at 7:15, Pam Anderson would be backing up a Brink's truck full of money to my front door, I would set my alarm for 7:06 so that I could hit the snooze alarm once before Pam knocked on my door. Upon receipt of said cash and perhaps a quickie (and I do mean quick!)with Pam, I would go right back to bed and enjoy my new found wealth at a more civilized hour like 10:30.

And yet the shampoo people expect me to read their stupid bottles in the shower. Inconceivable (that's a Princess Bride reference for all you Andre The Giant fans out there)! I'm lucky to make it into the bathroom every morning without shedding any blood from my kneecaps or shins and you think I care if my shampoo is gentle enough for me? Gentle, schmentle! Dude, I've used the bar that sits in the nasty soap tray thing far too often to worry about if the shampoo is for dry hair or oily hair. How about one that's just for hair? Keep It Simple, Stupid!

Usually, the label on the front of the shampoo bottle uses a whole bunch of words like rejuvenate, gentle, fresh and clean. Apparently, all shampoos perform these tasks on your hair whether you have oily hair, dry hair, permed hair, colored hair or generally fucked-up hair. I'm convinced that the only thing that makes one shampoo different than other is the shape of the bottle. It's all in the presentation, you know, and a gallon jug just don't look as nice as a lavender-colored bottle with a nifty little flip-top thing on it that is impossible to open with wet hands. I guess the color of the stuff helps to differentiate one shampoo from another although there aren't really that money colors either. You have a few shades of blue and green and white but not many blood-red shampoos out there. There's a look for you!

OK, back to the number of words. Lots of shampoos have a conditioner that go with them. They're a system. God forbid you wash your hair and not use the associated conditioner with it! What are you, a heathen?! And so the conditioner bottle and the shampoo bottle are designed with the same colors and shape and top and crap until the only difference is that one says shampoo and the other says conditioner. Again, unless Pam hops in the shower to read the labels for me (pause here to wrap your brain around that for a minute) after she delivers my money, it's a real pain to sort through all the nifty adjectives (fresh, clean, etc) to get to the one word that is really what I'm looking for.

So that's the front of the bottle. Lots of words and the one I'm looking for (I'll give you a hint - it ends in "poo") is buried under a bunch of stupid-ness.

The stupidity continues on the back of the bottle. Do I really care what the ingredients are? Aren't the ingredients really just "shampoo"? I know there is other crap in there but quit wasting my time and your ink with telling me all about it. I don't care. Lastly, we must discuss the directions on a bottle of shampoo. Yes, I'm sorry, we must. Many a lame stand-up comedian (or blogger) has built an act (or blog) around those goofy directions to Lather, Rinse, Repeat. However, you would be hard-pressed to find such beautiful simplicity on a bottle of shampoo today. You would long for such simplicity while lathering up your 'do. No longer do you Lather/Rinse/Repeat. Now, you Apply shampoo to wet hair, Massage into the scalp, and Repeat if desired. Who repeats? Whose hair is so frickin' dirty that they must repeat? If you need a shower so bad that you must repeat, you should probably be out shopping for a hat instead of fouling someone's shower stall!

Remember when there was a big push on to have generic products in the store? The packaging was black and white and the beer said "Beer" on it and the ketchup said "Ketchup" and the Dorito-like nacho cheese-flavored chips said "Nasty Tasting Pseudo-Doritos"? That's kind of the direction I'm going here, boys and girls, plunk down a black and white bottle that says "shampoo" and I'm a whole lot less inclined to screw it up and I'll have that much less bitterness in my life. And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go sit patiently by my front door for Pam to show up.

Dig: Old School Saturday Morning Cartoons

You know how much I dig TV. Despite stupid game shows, I take great pleasure in sitting in front of the boob tube letting my mind turn to mush. Don't get me wrong, there ain't much on the old telly that does much to make me smarter with the exception of some of the stuff on the Discovery Channel ("Bone Marrow is Your Friend!"). And what makes your mind mushier than a quality Bugs Bunny cartoon?!

So I'm 40. I've got all kinds of responsibilities with kids, dogs, cars, house (singular) and my on-going efforts to keep them fooled at work. But let's go back to those carefree days when I was about seven, shall we? I do my thing in first grade all week long and go to bed Friday night with nary a care in the world. And then Saturday morning comes, the clouds part and the angels sing - to the tune of the Looney Tunes theme song! Pour me a bowl of FrankenBerry cereal and begin the slightly racist, highly violent entertainment! See you at noon!

Because of the aforementioned kids, I could still watch plenty of cartoons. My kids know that the cartoon channels are 29, 63 and 65. They sure don't know which channel is C-Span but, for that matter, neither do I. And let me tell you something about the cartoons that are on these days - they're kind of freaky! The artwork is really pretty cool and there are boatloads of references that only parents would pick up - just as much, if not more so, than the old Merrie Melodies cartoons of old. But they're not quite as innocent as the ones I used to watch...

So, let's review a few of my old faves, shall we?

Bugs Bunny is the man. He has a devil-may-care attitude, gets all the chicks and makes Elmer Fudd look like an idiot all the time. Heck, he even had that sweet job in the army checking to see if any of the missiles were duds by hitting them with a hammer. And how about all that pain and misery he put Daffy Duck through? That's good stuff! Rabbit season? I think not!

As we've discussed before, I have zero musical ability. Bugs, however, could play the piano with his hands (feet?) AND with his ears! Certainly, if it weren't for Bugs, I would never have been exposed to opera in that old classic, The Barber of Seville. The scene where Bugs shaves Elmer's face with the little lawnmower just kills me!

Let's move on to the Road Runner. Bugs had his Elmer and the Road Runner had Wile E. Coyote. What a great name! That poor son-of-a-bitch sure got screwed by the Road Runner, didn't he? Just how many anvils are out in the middle of the desert, anyway? And who is the mastermind behind the quality products at Acme? One of my favorite aspects of the Road Runner cartoons, though, was the ability to defy gravity all the time. How many times did Wile E. suspend in mid-air long enough to hold up a little sign and then have his body stretch all out before plummeting to his "death"? Now that's entertainment!

Tom and Jerry sucked.

There were a few minor players that I enjoyed, though. Pepe Le Pew ("le pant, le heave"), Foghorn Leghorn ("Fortunately, I keep my feathers numbered for, for just such an emergency"), Droopy ("Hello, boys"), Marvin the Martian, the Tasmanian Devil and even that bulldog on the construction site who befriends the kitten (no voices, just music). These guys added a little variety to the falling anvils, mis-firing shotguns and Acme Electro-magnets with their own brand of violence. They didn't have the same stereotypical references to the Japanese or Native Americans as Bugs did but, in hindsight, they were still plenty offensive.

Do NOT get me started on anime as an art form. They don't even have anvils!

So, there you go. If you want to make me happy (and I'm sure you do) just hook me up with some Frankenberry cereal (I'll settle for Cap'n Crunch with Crunch Berries in a pinch), crank up some old Bugs Bunny cartoons and don't disturb me until the last boulder crushes Wile E. Coyote!

Don't Get: How Dog Show Winners are Determined

God bless cable TV! With a million channels to choose from, you can sure stumble onto some random, obscure stuff can't you? There are now a boatload of home makeover shows and two boatloads of cooking shows and reruns of every sitcom from Sanford and Son to Alice. And then mixed in there is the occasional dog show. I think the cable TV programming people figured if Redd Foxx (love the spelling of his name!) could still command an audience, so could a schnauzer being dragged around a ring by a lesbian dog handler in sensible shoes.

You've stopped for a minute or two on the riveting coverage of the Westminster Kennel Club dog show, right? They're big deals in the dog world. They take place in Madison Square Garden and stuff and if you're a dog dude/dudette, it's the pinnacle of showing Fido to the rest of the world. Of course, the dogs aren't named Fido, they're named Champion Lobuff Hollyridge Kisskadee (that's a real name from this year's show!). And these dogs ain't exactly out rolling in dead squirrels or even fetching a frisbee in your back yard with you. Instead, they're busy being groomed and coiffed and having more money spent on them than most people spend on their kids. You know darn well that everything in the lesbian dog handler's house is dog-related: wallpaper, doormat, throw pillows, coffee mug, toilet paper and generally all kinds of chachki.

So that's fine - you're psycho about dogs and you drag said dog to the dog show and parade him around. Whatever. But I don't know how anyone can tell if one dog is better than another. Who even knows the criteria? The announcers apparently know because they make comments like "Look at that Corgi's attitude - clearly this dog is made for __________ !" To me, it doesn't really matter what he dog is so clearly made for. I'd just kind of like to know if it's going to hump my leg and if it's going to be all yippy and stuff. Same goes for a Lab of any kind. Exactly what is the proper length for the ear to kind of flop over? Again, the announcers, judges and lesbian handlers must know because supposedly one Lab is better than another and is going to be awarded Best In Show. However, I'm going to make a bold statement here and suggest that perhaps the announcers SHARE WITH THE AUDIENCE exactly what makes one yippy little fuzzball different from the yippy little fuzzball next to it in the lineup!

Ever watch Texas Hold 'Em on TV? If you're not a gambler, it's about as much fun as watching grass grow but if you like playing poker, it's a good time. The thing about all the poker shows on TV is that even though there is some lingo and jargon that you have to learn, at least there are some nifty graphics and hidden cameras and stuff to let the viewer know who has the best hand. Because of all these cool features that the TV people have added to involve the audience, I can see that the Vietnamese guy with the pair of queens is probably going to beat the Vietnamese guy with the pair of nines. Now compare that to what the audience knows about the dog being pranced around the ring. The audience knows that it is a .... dog. If it's a male dog, the audience sees the dog's ENORMOUS nuts because I swear the camera guy makes sure to get one good nut shot of every male dog just to make me feel inadequate but beyond that, the announcer just lets us know that what we are looking at is a Shih Tzu and that last year he came in second place and is really trying to take Best In Show this year. Huh? Exactly what is the dog doing to make himself a better dog? Last year he was a dog and this year he is ...... still a dog. Maybe his nuts got bigger, I don't know.

And then the moment of truth! Of all the Sporting Dogs or Working Dogs or Toy Dogs, there is one Best Dog. And hell if I know how that dog is determined to be the best friggin' dog in the joint! The Best In Show (BIS) dog sure as hell better not let those stinky-ass dog farts that are so, so nasty! What the BIS dog should do is fetch my pipe and slippers and bark when a bad guy comes to steal my plasma TV. That's my definition of a BIS dog.

This year was a big upset because a lowly beagle won (BIS). You know all those lesbians in their sensible shoes were aghast at the idea of a dumb-ass beagle beating out their precious Lhasa Apso. Take that, lesbos! The only way a yippy little fuzzball like a Lhasa Apso is going to be BIS is if there is a "Works Well to Clean Hardwood Floors" category.

Come on over to my casa sometime and meet my dog. She's part chocolate lab and part something else. Her hair kind of stands up on the back of neck that makes people think she is mean but she's not. She loves to swim and chase a tennis ball and frisbee all day long and then shake all the water off herself onto you. She'll sit when I tell her to - most of the time. That's her in the post about my hatred for Tupperware. She's no BIS, but then again, I'm no lesbian.

Hate: Not Having any Musical Ability

You know how some people can sing and play the piano or guitar or cello or flute or the sousaphone or even the cow bell? And it sounds like music? You know - those people that actually have a right side of their brain? Yeah, well, I'm not one of them and it kind of sucks. I couldn't sing my way out of a paper bag. I couldn't carry a tune if it had a handle. I can't play the spoons, let alone a sousaphone! So I'm kind of jealous of people who can actually make music that doesn't sound like a cat being strangled. Not that I dislike the sound of a cat being strangled but it just doesn't have the same appeal as a good Eddie Van Halen guitar solo.

Mind you, it's not for lack of trying. My mom used to give me piano lessons when I was a wee lad. She would knock on the door pretending to be the teacher coming to the house (she was a little out there sometimes) and I can still picture the red book of beginner lessons that she would "bring" with her to the lesson. She'd try to teach me middle C and sharps and flats and stuff and it just didn't sink in. I was more fascinated with the cool metronome thing - it made better music than I ever did! Anyway, I'm clearly scarred emotionally by this experience with my mother and someday when the police psychologist is trying to talk me down from the ledge it will all make sense.

But my mom refused to give up on me and forced me into band starting in the 4th grade. I knew there was no way I could tackle anything more melodic than a tambourine but, get this, I couldn't even master the drums! Now, in 4th grade band, the drummer isn't exactly wailing away on a drum kit a la Tommy Lee so for me to suck at just keeping time on a bass drum is pretty frickin' pathetic! And so, like any true champion, I quit. Somewhere, Pavarotti breathed a sigh of relief that some dumb kid in America wasn't fouling the world of music.

My last effort to create any music was to purchase a harmonica. How hard can it be to play a harmonica?! One of the reasons that rock and rollers give for joining a band in the first place is to get babes. I'm all for gettin' babes so imagine the chicks I could get by whipping out my trusty harmonica while sitting around the campfire! Turns out that the harmonica makes one note by blowing and a different note by sucking. Who knew? So, because the chicks prefer actual music than just miscellanous notes strung together and, considering that I hate camping I wasn't hanging around campfires any too often, the harmonica did little to increase the number of notches in my bedpost. The only blowing and sucking going on was by me and it was only adding to the noise pollution in the world. Bugger!

Thus, I am frustrated that I can't get on stage and play the opening guitar riff from Satisfaction. Look how sweet Keith is looking in the pic above! Who wouldn't want to look like that? I'm forced to limit my screaming/singing/air guitaring/drumming to the confines of my car where no one can get hurt. I used to sing a little bit of The Doors to my youngest to try to get him to sleep but now that his eardrum is fully developed he tells me to just read a Dora the Explorer book instead. Just because my daughter can play Three Blind Mice on the recorder, she thinks she can tell me to stop singing Radar Love! If she's not careful, I'll bust out my harmonica and "play" Amazing Grace and show her just how awful I can be! Damn ingrates!

I know that you are thinking that I could tackle the whole music thing as an adult instead of a snot-nosed kid. You're thinking that music lessons as an adult might be more productive than music lessons as a kid, right? I would be more patient. I would understand the theory and not just remember that my right index finger has to go on the key in the middle of the keyboard. I could be like Grandma Moses and take up music as an adult instead of trying to be like Mozart who wrote symphonies at age five. Sure I would. And monkeys would fly out of my butt.

So instead of actually creating real live music, I must fantasize about standing on stage with 50,000 adoring fans waiting for me to lay down some righteous tunes with my guitar/phallic symbol. I'll throw in a few windmills like Pete Townsend, maybe sidle up to the lead singer like Little Steven does with Bruce Springsteen and to top it off, I'll light my guitar on fire like Jimi Hendrix! The place will erupt with awe and admiration of my musical genius! How does he do it?! Good looks AND musical ability! I'd love to give him obscene amounts of money to play at my private party honoring the invention of the bikini where he will, no doubt, be surrounded by hordes of bikini-clad babes!

Or I'll just continue to be a middle-management corporate suck-ass with no musical ability. Either one. Sigh...

Don't Get: Releasing a Statement

With all of the silliness going on in the world today, lots of people/governments/companies "release statements". Roger Clemens says he didn't do steroids so he releases a statement about it. Britney (I'm not going to include her last name - you know which trailer park drunken-ass slut I'm talking about) releases a statement about her kids or her booze or her crotch or something. The US navy released a statement saying that some Iranian warboats (Iran has warboats?!) acted in an "aggressive manner" so the US fired on them. People are releasing statements all over the joint and I'm just not sure why. Or how. Who do you call to release a statement? Is there a hotline? What if I have something important to say and I don't have one of those red hotline phones - how will the world hear my statement? My boss's boss's boss would say "let's unpack this" to understand it a little better. I hate that saying.

First of all, who is worthy of releasing a statement? Or, as Elaine Bennis would say, who is "statement-worthy?" Certainly, if you are a bigwig in whatever category you want to place yourself, you get to release a statement. Presidents, Popes, CEO's etc. Those are kind of the obvious ones that everyone would agree on. But how about the CEO of the company that makes the thread in the elastic of your underwear? Good elastic in my tighty-whiteys is pretty damn important to me but for those of you who prefer to go unencumbered by underwear, you probably are a little less concerned about it. Keeping your house in order down there isn't a big deal for you, apparently. But, for me, if Mr. Underwear-Elastic-Thread has something important to say, I'm all ears. For you commandos out there, not so much.

Celebrities are releasing statements all the friggin' time. By my use of the word "friggin'" in the previous sentence, you should take that to mean that I could give a rat's hairy ass about what most celebrities have to say. This applies to dumb-ass athletes as well as dumb-ass entertainers. Do I care whether or not Roger Clemens was on the juice? Only if it somehow helps me get chicks or make a mortgage payment or something. Do I care if Jennifer Love Hewitt's big caboose is a size 2 or not? Only if it means that she'll get naked to prove it. About the only time that I would like to hear what a celebrity has to say is to hear some dirt about another celebrity. Kind of like Kanye West saying that George Bush hates black people. That was classic! Especially the look on Mike Myers' face when he said it!

Just like the lesser-known CEO's out there, there are way too many people who are classified as celebrities. Just because you appeared on a TV show or a movie, doesn't mean that anyone cares about what you have to say. All of the Brady kids are entitled to release statements, but not Cousin Oliver! And neither do Chris and Tracy Partridge. Reuben Kincaid totally gets to, though.

So now that we are all clear on the "who", let's talk about the "what". Below are some topics and whether they are statement-worthy:

Cure for cancer? Gotta go with yes on that one.

Cure for being fat? If you don't know that Big Macs make you fat, you have bigger issues.

Big blizzard coming? Yep. Gotta know if I'm going to end up in the ditch or not.

Antarctic ice melting due to global warming? I have one word for you: "No shit, Sherlock!"

Lindsay Lohan back in rehab? See above.

Oil prices hit $100 per barrel? No. Don't piss me off any more than I already am.

Jen Love Hewitt is a size 2? No, unless the follow-up statement is "JLH gets naked"

See how easy this is, people? If it doesn't affect me, I don't need to know. Sure, I'm not too keen on the polar ice caps flooding my basement but am I supposed to send the ice from my handy-dandy icemaker in my fridge to the South Pole to help with the whole melting thing? I can do that but you might need to help a brother out with the postage.

Lastly (whenever someone says that, I'm always so frickin' thankful that they're finally shutting their pieholes!!), exactly HOW does one release a statement. To whom do I release my oh-so-important message? Do I write a letter to the editor? Do I contact my congressman? All the folks who do this on a regular basis have "people" to do it for them, but somehow this crap has to get into Us Weekly, right? Do the dumb-asses at Us Weekly call up Lindsay and ask her if anything new is going on? How come no one calls me? I got shit going on in my life all the time. In fact, just the other day, I bought some peanut butter! Based on the inane press releases that I see on a regular basis, surely someone wants to know about the massive PB shortage at my casa.

Boys and girls, with all the options for news sources these days we have just way too many people who think they have something important to say. The problem is that it's mostly dumb-asses saying it and we all know that a dumb-ass just ain't going to say anything worth listening to. To fix the situation and to rid our world of dumb-assedness, I suggest you release a statement saying that you wish all the dumb-asses who are releasing statement would just clam up. And then when you figure out how to do it, let me know because I've got a lot to get off my chest!

Don't Get: Why Some People Include Their Picture in Their Advertisements

Great title for a post, huh? Rolls right off the tongue!

So who does this? Who are the people that include a picture of themselves with their ad? Realtors do it. Car salesmen (yes, I know there are actually car saleswomen in the world, but I don't care) do it. Sometimes even hair-cutter-people (I refuse to use the word "stylist") do it. There aren't many purchases that are bigger in life than your house and your car so I can maybe understand why realtors and car salesmen do all they can to get their percentage of the sale. But does it really matter what the car dude looks like? I suppose he is trying to endear himself to me in his ad when he says "Big Joe won't say no!" with a big picture of himself in his sport coat and cheesy pose. I further suppose that most guys part with their money a lot quicker with a Pam Anderson look-alike than a Ruth Buzzy look-alike. So maybe this is where my cheapness overrides my guy-ness because, in the end, I'm just looking to dump my P.O.S. for as much as possible and drive off in a new ride for as little as possible. You could have long, crinkly hairs growing out of a mole on your nose but if you get me some free floormats, I'm all yours! No offense, Pam, but with easy access to pics of you when you were a few years younger, it's going to take more than a low-cut top to get me to spring for the completely unnecessary undercoating option.

So how about realtors? I gotta sell my shack and I need someone to get me top dollar and overlook the black mold and cracked foundation. Should be no sweat, right? Let me tell you what I don't need. I don't need someone to look good in a suit and use phrases like "open floor plan" and "better than new". What I need is someone to sell my crappy house to an unsuspecting sucker. If you can do that wearing a pair of cut-offs and a Motley Crue t-shirt with bed-head and an open sore on your upper lip and still make enough dough for both of us to treat the family to dinner, then sign me up! If George Wendt can get me an extra $5k on my house over George Clooney, then I'm going to have to kick People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive 2006 to the curb!

So who should have their pictures in their ads? Not many people. It don't matter what you look like as long as you is qualified to do what it is you do. Comprende'? I don't mean to sound all preachy and turn this into a whole "it don't matter what you look like as long as you is qualified to do what it is you do" thing, but shitsky, why do I care what my brain surgeon looks like? I'm glad to see that there aren't many brain surgeons advertising on billboards to drum up business but nobody really feels it necessary to post his mug in the waiting room either. Imagine, if you will, getting the news that you have a big crusty thing in the middle of your brain that needs to come out:

Referring Doctor: "Dude, you need to see a brain surgeon, toot-sweet!"

Dude: "Gotcha, Doc. Know any good ones? Someone that went to Harvard or something?"

R.D.: "Harvard, Schmarvard! I suggest Dr. Prettyboy because he has dreamy blue eyes!"

Dude: "Well, now that you mention it, it does feel like he is looking right into my soul..."

R.D.: "That's the spirit! I'll call his Parole Officer, I mean Secretary, and hook you up!"

Call me crazy but I would like to see Dr. Prettyboy's transcript beginning with second grade and interview several neighbors and ex-girlfriends before I want him poking around in my melon. Only after an exhaustive psychological work-up and a round of Trivial Pursuit would I let him remove my crusty thing.

How about plumbers? Kind of works the opposite way, doesn't it? If I saw an ad for a plumber that DIDN'T show the crack of his ass, I'd keep on looking. Same with a computer repair guy. Not so much the butt-crack thing but if he didn't have tape on his glasses, a whole bunch of zits and a peachfuzz mustache, I would have to question his abilities to fix my whatchamacallit.

Look, there are too many people who get by in this world just based on their looks. We all know how much I hate the talent-less Tyra Banks and if Shania Twain didn't look so friggin' hot in those ridiculous outfits, she wouldn't sell a single record. Anyone know how many tennis tournaments Anna Kournikova won? I know it ain't many but she still gets lots of attention and way too much money for endorsement deals.

So, realtors and car salesdudes - you leaches can just keep your pictures to yourself. Plumbers and IT nerds - let's see some buttcracks and peach fuzz so I know if you are worth a damn!