It's like they're trying to tell me something.

I've been getting calls supposedly from a collection agency recently. They occasionally leave messages stating they're calling on behalf of Giant Evil Credit Card Company, but usually they just ring my phone every couple hours, you know, just being friendly-like. It's surely a scam because I have an account with Giant Evil Credit Card Company that has never been over-limit or past due. Still, the concern that some jackass out there used my name to get credit and is using it to snap up Jeff Foxworthy memorabilia on eBay was enough to send me for a credit report.

So I go through the unnecessarily arduous steps to obtain my free credit report. At various stages in the process one has to prove that he's human by deciphering misshapen letters. I think, once in a while, bankers and credit card executives should have to prove humanity. Not by transcribing twisted text, but by illustrating some form of genuine kindness. Tax-deductible charity donations don't count. Something selfless and tangible. But I digress. The distorted characters I had to translate seemed to spell out their message to me and it's clear that they'll tolerate my existence as long as they're getting money out of it, but they sure don't like me.







It doesn't take too much imagination to turn FUQK 70 into FU*K YOU...

Go Bold! Or Don't!

So, I'm not particularly proud of my past with Taco Bell. I mean, it was back in college and everyone gets into things they think the better of later. I was simply poor and generally unwilling to cook for myself. So Taco Bell seemed like a good fit. By my junior year, I knew which particular locations had the best burritos, fastest drive-throughs, and least-sticky floors. I was living off the stuff. These days I make my own burritos out of stuff I purchase at the grocery store, but I admit it- I buy the Taco Bell sauce. I like it because it's way less spicy than most of the others on the shelf. Which makes the label design that much more amusing. I buy this stuff because I don't want to "go bold." I want to go mild. Then I want some warm milk while I watch Matlock.

Mr. Opportunity

A decade ago I bought a new Honda Civic. The nice folks at the dealership still seem to labor under the misapprehension that I'll be able to buy a new car again at some point in my life. That's looking increasingly improbable. Hope springs eternal and whatnot, so they send me postcards and letters asking for my business. Indeed, I once received a mailer with an enticing scratch-off pad. You know, like on Lottery tickets? It was from their service department and under the metallic blot was my personal service discount! I pulled a coin out of the nearest child's hand and began scratching furiously. Would I get a free tune-up? Maybe half off a timing belt replacement!

But my enthusiasm was naive and misplaced. Much like Ralphie decoding Little Orphan Annie's secret message, I was playing the chump. My personal discount was for $2 off any service. That's two dollars off. At a freaking car dealership! Somewhere, in the quietest, most remote part of my brain, the last non-cynical cell in my body cried out: "Son of a bitch!"

Which leads us to Mr. Opportunity up there. Last summer I got another solicitation from the sales department. They managed to insult my intelligence by mistaking the plural for the possessive. There was no shock or hurt this time. I'm a lot tougher now. After a disdainful snort, I made a solemn vow to myself. If I had the money for a new car, I'd take my business elsewhere.

Please Give Generously

Dear friends, It's my sincere hope that you haven't personally suffered from the Lymes. Even if you haven't, you surely know a friend, family member, or acquaintance who has endured the heartbreak of Lymes. That's why I'm asking you to look into your tick-bitten heart and reach into your wallet. Please help the neediest among us. Every $2,500 (plus tax) you donate buys an hour of hyperbaric therapy for some poor Lymer. And, if you donate today, we'll send you a free "I got pressured into hyperbaric therapy" t-shirt as our gift. So please, before my next boat payment comes due, won't you give to the Lymer fund?

This Time, it's Personally

It's something they take personal, huh? Well that's heartening. I just wish adverbs were something they took serious.

Sun Hats Gone Wild

Well, I'm back on the sun hat kick. As my similarly melanin-challenged friend John put it " All of my hats make me think I look somewhere between a homeless guy and an asshole who beats up homeless guys." Let's look at more of the contenders.

Here's the venerable Bucket Hat. I admit having something like this, but I've already successfully reproduced and can get away with wearing it. Fellas, if you want the ladies to know that you're genes aren't suitable for passing along to a new generation. Think of it as a public service. No suitable mate here, Miss, move along.

Remember Dumb Donald? This guy doesn't.

This one is a little unsettling. When someone comes up to you in this gear it's either "give me your wallet" or "I'm going to die of a gruesome skin ailment any minute now. If I crumple right now, please look inside my hat flap for my next-of-kin's phone number."

Our final contender is the ultra-brim. And don't let the goateed model fool you. The only guys that wear these are over 40 types who came back from the doctor with precancerous lesions on their heads. Put off buying the sun hat long enough and somebody might pick up this beauty for you.

Sun Hat Connundrum

Last year I lost my cancer virginity. I was diagnosed with a Basal Cell Carcinoma, also know as "The Good Cancer." And, for sure, if you have to get the big C, I'll take my tiny skin cancer over a Butterfly Glioma any day. But sreiously, the good cancer? How about the Least Bad Cancer?

I've been a hat wearer all my life, but now my hats require substantial brims and therein lies the problem. If you're a man looking for a sun hat, choices are limited to a few main styles, none of which are particularly attractive. If anybody knows of a less-lame hat style, I'd love to know about it.

Exhibit A: The Uncle Douche

Few articles of clothing impart douchebaggery as resolutely as the Panama hat. This hat says "I'm going to show up to your wedding drunk." It's the hat of the miscreant uncle or maybe Mom's boyfriend who makes the kids wait in the car for a couple hours while he "visits some friends" at the strip club.

Exhbit B: The Neo-Cowboy

About every 15 years there's a cowboy fad. First it was the late 70's with Urban Cowboy and then came the early 90's Garth Brooks stadium extravaganzas. So I guess we're about due. I can't wait to see droves of doughy sedentary work force types squeeze into jeans with huge belt buckles and doff pseudo cow-puncher headgear like this.

Exhibit C: The Chief Executive Asshole

The stony expression. The squared jaw. The narrow slits for eyes. And up top- the laser sharp lines of absolute domination. The CEA will destroy you utterly.

Exhibit D: The Jimmy Cracked Corn

Some folk'll never eat a skunk
But then again some folk'll
Like Cletus the slack jawed yokel.

Even more hat bashing...