29 Reasons I Hate Leap Days

 

1.     February is still the shortest month, unworthy of our love and admiration

2.   And it’s still annoying to spell and pronounce

3.   People talk about leap days on leap days

4.   People make jokes about leap days

5.   People talk about leap years 

6.   People make jokes about leap years

7.   “Time is artificial” 

8.   The word leap is too close to the word “creep”

9.   It feels like cheating

10. Is it the best we can do?

11.  It’s a leap of idiotic faith

12.  It's the same people who complain about daylight savings

13.  There's always some person born on a leap day pretending they are somehow still young

14.  Just because you celebrate your technical birthday every four years doesn't mean you are actually younger than anyone else in your peer group 

15.  Stores selling things they couldn't sell during Presidents' Weekend

16.  No one talks about the leap days on other planets

17.  It's never explained how the leap year figures into Punxsutawney Phil's annual outing 

18.  29 is a prime number

19.  It doesn't give you more time to do anything

20.  February 29th isn't even a holiday

21.  You have to work when it falls during the week

22.  February 30th sounds much cooler

23.  When is St. Patrick's Day again?

24.  Is it springtime yet?

25.  An extra day deserves a new name existing outside the seven day structure 

26.  I don't like what it does to watches

27.  I don’t like what it does to calendars 

28.  It honestly doesn’t make any sense 

29.  My solution would be to add two extra hours to every mont

Hack McAfee

 

Hey there, bro! Before you ask, no I don’t sit down, I stand in front of a high-priced chair for the entire duration of this television program. It’s part of my overall broadcasting contingency plan should I pass out from thinking too hard. I won’t take my shirt off, but I won’t put any sleeves on either. Consider that a compromise of sorts, tailored to the preferences of the viewers at home. The temperature in here is highly controlled by several of my producers. 

 

I know a thing or two about sports. Maybe not two. But I did play professional football. Was I skilled position? Did I get hit a lot? Did I have to be fast? Throw far? No, no, no and well, no. I punted. I was a punter. The guys who get a different helmet. This experience has inflated my ego like a standard issue Wilson. I have been in the trenches, thirty yards behind any tacklers, but you get the idea. 

 

I am not worried about developing any cognitive ideas, although you’ve probably noticed that the show’s subjects are not too hard on the brain. I couldn’t have afforded to play a position where the cerebellum was vulnerable. I certainly wouldn’t be hosting this show. Lots of shows disagree, we tend to agree. Lots of shows interrupt each other, we nod along and look at our phones into and out of commercial breaks. 

 

Jocks have long been accused of being stupid, just not about sports. I prefer being stupid about everything. It’s much easier that way.

 

I get paid a ton, so I could afford lots of shirts. But I also have integrity, which prevents me from changing my look. I don’t really get my appeal. I don’t say anything interesting, I don’t offer any real analysis, and I’m not that funny. I’m a middle of the road guy in the middle of the afternoon.

Lifting Shop

 

Stealing is stealing. And I don’t condone it. My concern is the erosion of our fine language. The language of Keats, Shakespeare, and Moe Howard. Shoplifting is a confusing phrase that connotes ransacking of the most feverish order. Images of people running through aisles grabbing everything that isn’t behind plexiglass. Seems to me like most of it takes place at or below eye level. 

So where’s the lifting? Shoplifting should be uplifting – for the morale of every employee, told to stand down during a flash mob. They could use some good news. But what shoplifting that is more technical and literal. Most shops exist on the street level. They are exposed to the sidewalk, the elements, and any person who wants to walk through that revolving door. 

 

It’s time it got a lift. Now the Brits call elevators lifts, but who wants to steal one of those? I’d like to see laundromats, bodegas, and delis move a little closer to heaven. Shoplifting could be a rallying cry for every establishment that’s wallowed for too long and too close to the gutter and all that entails. Why not contend with elevation, forcing would-be robbers into an actual uphill battle? 

 

Would it make any safer for shop owners? Maybe. But it would make their views of the countryside nicer and the smells in the squalid summer months a bit more tolerable. 

Clamato Change

What happened? Everything that was once modest, respectable and affordable is now scrawled across a sandwich board in blinding, glittering chalk. The clamato was what you drank in lieu of a strict adherence to the food pyramid. It provided vegetable (tomato), animal (clam), and mineral (salt). It was a modest choice for a modest person.   

It’s turned into a mark of high-class revelry, on par with the stiffest of martinis. But it’s just a can of juice of indeterminate origin. The beverage equivalent of Spam – which to many is a major selling point.  

Clamato has changed. It’s changed who notices it behind the tiny fridge, tucked away from prying eyes. It’s changed what it represents. It’s changed how it affects society and the people in it. 

But mostly, it’s changed the price. 

Lick in Boots

 

Lick in Boots used to be a journalist. Now, he’s a shadow, a facsimile, a ripple along a toxic pond. He was never Mike Wallace, Walter Cronkite, or Barbara Walters. But even in his ethical dotage, still desires to shake hands with the devil. Recently, he did exactly that, meeting the good Lord Satan in his subterranean dwelling. The following hard hitting exchange is what transpired. 

 

Lick: Pretty hot in here, huh? 

 

Devil: Just the way I like it. 

 

Lick: Thanks for inviting me into your home. 

 

Devil: I figured you’d want a preview, considering you’ll be back at some point in the future. 

 

Lick: That’s very thoughtful. How do you respond to people who call you “evil” or the “prince of darkness.” 

 

Devil: I’m a king. 

 

Lick: What about a fallen angel?

 

Devil: I was an angel and it bored me. You should be allowed to switch careers. You did it. Remember? 

 

Lick: That’s true. I don’t have an issue with how you operate, but many people do. I went to one of your grocery stores and I was pleasantly surprised by the number of flambés. So refreshing. I actually think you’ve created a Heaven on Hell.  

 

Devil: I appreciate that. It wasn’t always this way. But global warming has helped. 

 

Lick: So you aren’t a climate change denier? 

 

Devil: Far from it. I take credit for it. It’s summer all year round down here now, which makes grilling season.  

 

Lick: I have to ask you some questions that might make you a bit uncomfortable. So let me apologize right off the bat.  

 

Devil: Shoot. 

 

Lick: What’s it like having horns? 

 

Devil: It’s great. I can open bottles, sharpen knives, and other unmentionables. 

 

Lick: You’re famously red. Do you tan? 

 

Devil: Not in a few thousand years. 

 

Lick: What name do you prefer? 

 

Devil: Dev. It’s simple, monosyllabic, and casual. 

 

Lick: For my last question, which actor portrayed you the best?

 

Devil: Al Pacino. 

 

Lick: Your hooves look a little dull. Do you mind? 

 

Devil: Go right ahead. I have a few bunions, so watch out.

Lick: Don't worry, I don't bite.

Uniformity of Thought

 

When I was a kid, my school had a dress code. Because it was important to not only think the same, but also look the same. It’s why I’ve been puzzled by the baseball uniform controversy brewing in towns across the country, as the national pastime’s thaw begins to take hold in the waning moments of winter. I don’t get it. 

Players, fans, and what could only be described as “other” have been complaining about the baseball uniforms debuting this season. Apparently, it’s a big deal. Now, I don’t like uniforms. I don’t wear them; I don’t approve of them. That goes for fans and players alike. You’re quite literally putting a target on your back. If you’re under the age of 6, I might consider giving you a pass. But that’s only if I’m feeling generous and the Christmas spirit has long passed. 

The uniform discussion obscures a bigger sartorial situation, namely, that you don’t need them. Professional athletes should be able to dress anyway they want to perform. I prefer street clothes and would never turn down a chance to wear linen in public. But that’s just me. Some may like suits, fleece body socks, or any number of numbers. I’d love to see a shortstop diving for a line drive in the finest denim. The differences between the current uniforms and whatever the teams chose previous season is hard to fathom.

Most players make a good living and should be able to afford their own uniforms. Thatcould be a nice start. 

Hire learning

 

The old employment saw is to hire people smarter than you. In my case, smarter than me. That’s really saying something. I don’t agree with the practice in principle or the principle in practice. It doesn’t work.

 

Smart people tend to question things. They raise their hands and poke holes in flimsy systems. You don’t want yes man. You want nodders, clappers, and head shakers. The kind of underlings who don’t ask for something to be explained again because they won’t ever understand it. So why bother? 

 

You want your employees doubling as footstools, ottomans, and cup holders. This way they can pad their resume with an additional skill outside their chosen field of study. 

 

This might sound harsh until you realize whoever hired you thought the same thing.  

An office should resemble a soviet satellite state, with you installed as a strong willed and domineering party boss. This means stature as much as attitude. You should have a gray suit, thick eyebrows and a giant forehead. You should drink vodka by the quart and borscht by the gallon. You want to appreciate sour cream as a mighty condiment, bolstering any drag meal. You should know your history. You should purge frequently, but never after an expensive client dinner. Sure, there are oil paintings of your boss everywhere, but the for day-to-day operation this is your fiefdom. That's how a business runs smoothly - at least until the crops fail.  

 

Walkingjay

 

Crossing the street, any street, differs between certain segments of the populace in terms of anxiety and aplomb. There is not one way to get from one curb to the other. However, based on my extensive research, these are the most popular. 

 

Sprint-to-Stroll

This is a staple of a city whereby the pedestrian sprints across 75% of the street before slowly down to an inexplicably glacial gait for the last leg. It is here that they are hardly out of the woods, yet the message to passing cars is clear: watch out. 

 

The Tune Out

Where the focus is not on the cars, the lights, or anything going on in the material world, but rather, a lengthy podcast piped in from smartphone to headphones. This gives the individual a sense of invincibility, protected by the voices inside their head. 

 

The Flight

You know the natural human response to a grizzly bear? Fight or flight. Unfortunately, the former is not an option when it comes to a truck bearing down on you.

 

The Aren’t You Forgetting Something?

At the drop of a hat, this person sashays into traffic in search of their lost headgear. It’s a means to a end. In this case, the end being the opposite sidewalk.

 

The Ponder

This involves successfully traversing one lane of traffic, only to get stuck on the double yellow, an unceremonious midpoint where cars remain unimpressed by a job half done. 

 

The Strut

This is by far my favorite, and objectively the best. Here, there are no cares, no cars, no concerns. The Strutter moves at their own pace, slowly and deliberately. Stopping wherever and whenever to take in the scenery. It’s on everyone else to make room. In a way, it’s how some have approached society writ large. Selfish or not, it sure is entertaining from a vehicle. 

He Gets Branding Part II

 

I was disappointed that Jesus Christ was only peripherally involved in this year’s spate of Super Bowl commercials. Why was he not featured more prominently. Is he not one of our most reliable spokesmen – I mean, spokesmessiahs? I want to see the Nazarene hawking products from near and far. I want to see him looking directly into the camera. I want to see him insisting I “act now.” But if you just look at his biography, you’ll find plenty of brands that should be jumping at the chance to join forces. Here’s what I was thinking…

Hi, my name’s Jesus. You may remember me from such hit television shows as South Park or The Bible: A Hit Television Show. But today, I’m not here to preach. I’m here to sell. As anyone knows, I’m love walking on l almost as much as walking on it. And like you, I love drinking it too. I want to tell you about Dasani Bottled Wine. Turned into a great tasting merlot from the water you already love. 

I never walk into the desert without a spare pair of Birkenstocks.

I start all my DIY projects at The Home Depot. Remember, this is a carpenter talking. Be sure to listen to my podcast co-hosted with the great Bob Vila. 

I noticed by beard had a touch of gray. But I’m no Jerry Garcia. It’s why I use Just for Men – now Just for Messiahs. 

Head & Shoulders has hitched their wagon to my Star of Bethlehem.  

And as the Lamb of God, I’m here to strike a pious pose in only the finest Merino wool cable knit sweater. I’m also known as the Good Shepherd. 

Sleeping on hay is hard on the back. I should know, hailing from a manger. Many have wondered what I did during my “wilderness years.” The answer is obvious. I was looking for a good acupuncturist since my chiropractor wasn’t covered by insurance.  

He Gets Branding Part I

 

I was disappointed that Jesus Christ was only peripherally involved in this year’s spate of Super Bowl commercials. Why was he not featured more prominently. Is he not one of our most reliable spokesmen – I mean, spokesmessiahs? I want to see the Nazarene hawking products from near and far. I want to see him looking directly into the camera. I want to see him insisting I “act now.” But if you just look at his biography, you’ll find plenty of brands that should be jumping at the chance to join forces. To be continued...

Raisin D'etre

 

One of the benefits of inflation is being forced to once again, make my own granola. While browsing the shelves at any grocery store, I marvel at not just the prices, but the ingredients. I see pumpkin seeds, banana chips, dried cherries, shaved almonds, and yes, crushed filberts. We should know better. Granola is cereal by another name.

This is not the time to be clever. To introduce obscure nuts or exotic fruits. It’s time to stick to what we know and what has never led us astray. That is, of course, the raisin. The raisin does enough, without the obnoxious intrusion from produce with better PR. The raisin does plenty, adding a little flavor – but not too much – because this is granola, not a dessert at a fancy restaurant. 

Granola shouldn’t have dozens of ingredients. It should have four, maybe five. That’s it. The template for cereal has always been one or two, so why push things to an absurd, unsustainable degree with more? 

 

And like anyone with good humor, the raisin is dry.

This is Your Brain on Snow

 

Snow is a funny thing. Because a little goes a long way. You see a dusting predicted, blanketing your smartphone widget, and everything changes. How you think, how you talk, and how you live your life. You start talking about hunkering down, digging your heavy duty boots out of the crawlspace, and stocking up on all things canned. Beans, mostly, and other non-perishable items perfect for when the power goes out for a couple hours. Dormant phrases like, "I gotta stock up" and "lake effect" reemerge as the forecast changes.

You stare into space, not space, but sky – assessing the girth of a passing cloud, noting “there are flurries in there” and other non-scientific musings. What if the WiFi goes down and you’re forced to have a conversation with someone - anyone? You don’t talk about sledding or snowball fights but slipping and falling. The fun of snow has completely melted away. Years can go by between snowstorms. It doesn’t matter. A relapse is always right around the corner. Fear and confusion are never too far away. 

Snow is a serious thing. It makes you forgetful. You can’t remember how to lead a normal commute or carry on a normal conversation without breathlessly fogging up the closest window. You could “brave the elements” but that requires bravery. Too bad that when snow gets into the frontal lobe, that’s just not going to happen. 

 

When you’re on snow you might begin mentioning the number of things you suddenly cannot do. The places you can suddenly not go. You allude to centuries old blizzard mishaps and snowcapped horror stories. You don’t want a repeat of the Donner Party on the way to the bodega. You came to buy a snack, not to be a snack. 

 

This is your brain on snow. Any questions? 

Trade Marks

 

Every year, in early to mid-February the last football game of the season takes place. Only people can’t call it by its actual name since it’s trademarked by a certain organization famous for downplaying head injuries and until recently outlawing gambling. What if everything else containing the words super or bowl followed the same “Big Game” rules of engagement. Ignore for a moment the euphemistic malaise necessary to employ such a phrase. Why isn’t it called other stuff like say, The Large Competition, The Enormous Thing or That Stupid Turf Match? And why hasn’t someone slapped a T and M on the B and G yet? Either way, such a world would look a little something like this… 

Where you wouldn’t eat breakfast out of a cereal bowl, you’d eat it out of The Big Receptacle.

There would be no talk about life being a bowl of cherries or any other plain fruited approximation. It would be more of a simple Drupe Container, large enough to hold the weight of your existential angst.

You don’t go bowling with friends after work, but Ten Pinning – so long as you’re wearing special Traction Shoes.

Fish don’t swim in manmade fish bowls, after movie posters and dart boards a key component of standard bachelorhood décor, but rather, Water Boxes. 

Punch bowls don’t have to worry about buoyant excrement, Juice Dishes do. 

Clark Kent isn’t Superman; the Big Guy is. Or is that God? Neither have superpowers though. Those are “magicforces.”

Super Glue isn’t used to repair antique trinkets. That’s done with Amazing Adhesive. 

This all sounds pretty super, right? Well, not to bowl you over, but it’s actually quite stupid. 

Saint Timonious

 

Timonious was born in modern day Tunis, eighty-seven years after the crucifixion. He enjoyed the proximity to the lord, assuming it added to his already growing cache. His upbringing was privileged, coming from educated and wealthy stock. His preaching started on the schoolyard, not far from the Mediterranean. He knew he wasn’t just different from every other child, but better. He felt that in his bones. 

 

He'd stand atop wooden crates, rocks, really anything he could find to give himself a proper and prophetic stature. 

 

He never picked ups a check, preferring his followers to take care of it. He bathed several times a day and found alabaster to be his favorite material, adorning most every surface in his gallic Chateau. 

 

One of the very few saints who insisted on beatification in his lifetime. The way he put it, “I’m already a saint – you know it, I know it. Why not give me the title so I can charge more at book signings.” A special exception was made, and he toured the world as “the Living Saint™” here to lecture you sinners. He hoarded sponsorships, collection plates, and bejeweled footwear, especially anything of the open-toed variety. He had several houses, compounds, really. He got into banking. The “most profitable prophet,” as his chariot read. 

 

He thumbed his nose at martyrdom and prided himself on being a survivor, outlasting all of his contemporaries. He had a family, because “why not? To not pass on whatever I have, now that would be a sin.” 

 

He knew he was better than everyone else and, in many ways, he was. He never tired of telling people that, and they never tired of hearing it. It was a match made in heaven, only it was here on earth. He died at the ripe age of 132, choking on an oversized caper, dropping his trusty gilded chalice, spilling ceremonial wine all over his fine alabaster patio. Even he would say, he had a pretty good run. The hardest part of faith for him was worshipping Christ, someone who he doubted had anything on him. That was a daily test, one of the few he consistently failed. 

 

While we won’t see the likes of Saint Timonious again, his legacy lives on. And you never have to look far to find it. 

Cool Down

 

The ad agency Big Spaceship rebranded itself SPCSHP, now forced to explain the proper pronunciation using a parenthetical (in case you’re wondering, it’s still “spaceship”). This got me thinking: can I apply lessons from these purveyors of cool to my own life? 

 

I’d like to think so. Being cool used to be about leather jackets and smoking cigarettes. Sports cars and snazzy sunglasses. A well-timed quip or a perfectly tuned finger snap. These were the hallmarks of coolness since the beginning of time. But not everyone knows how to snap and few have access to great vintage clothing. 

 

Today, all you need is the caps lock key and an aversion to vowels. Now, my name is littered with vowels, starting with the very first letter.

 

Henceforth, I shall be known as LVR MSR (pronounced Oliver Mosier). It has a nice ring to it, don't you agree?

Lost and Not so Profound

 

Lots of places have a “lost and found.” It’s where gloves, hats, and electronic devices go when their owner’s carelessly misplace them. But there’s something very wrong here. “Win and found” makes a lot more sense. 

Some may say it's not yours. But whose is it then? It's not theirs. Someone has to win and someone definitely has to lose.

 

Think about it. It’s winter. This winter. It’s cold. Very cold. And you need a wool sweater before braving the frosty elements. Have you tried looking in the “lost and found?” While there you may find other items to your liking. Things people have tossed off, forgotten, or totally ignored. You have a few sweaters to choose from. Why not take both? Is that an iPad? The hat for my favorite team? You can find a new wardrobe and a new sense of self in the “lost and found.”

 

It sure sounds like a win to me. 

 

Formally Formerly

 

I don’t use Twitter. Oh, I’m sorry, I meant to say, X. Or should I have said “I don’t use X, formerly known as Twitter.” This is the clunky phrase that has pervaded our current discourse. When can we just say, “X?” Twitter was always too bird-oriented. Chickadees tweet, people drone on and on.

 

So how about now? Can we update it now? Soon, soon. There are strong precedents for abandoning the “formerly” trap. 

 

At some point, people stopped saying, “I was vacationing in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon,” figuring you’d be able to find the island on a map. 

 

When your dumbest, least ambitious friend comes back from medical school somewhere overseas, you can’t say, “Hey Mister, don’t stand with the fridge open.” Can you? He’s a doctor now. 

 

One day Marky Mark, good vibrator, became Mark Wahlberg, good actor. Few objected at the time and even fewer remember those heady days of shirtless music videos. 

 

The point is that names change. People move on. It’s time we did the same thing. There is something rather liberating about saying, “I hate X.” It’s open-ended, hopeful, and not all that specific. What more could you ask for? 

Defuncty Town

 

Apparently, Sports Illustrated is going away and many journalists are mourning its demise daily. It’s a shame, a sin, or something even greater. Can you imagine a world without Sports Illustrated? 

 

Well, I can. Since I haven’t had a subscription to the magazine in years, I can do it quite easily. But the culture really is poorer when a single publication of diminishing standards finally calls it quits? Perhaps. What about when Mademoiselle hung up those stilettos for good? How about when McClure’s threw their letterpresses into cold storage? Or when the good folks at the Partisan Review tossed hammers and sickles into a raging bonfire? 

 

Or what about magazines are still technically around but you wouldn’t really know it by perusing TikTok. Like say, The Saturday Evening Post or Esquire, once titans of the industry, now reduced to the margins of a post-it note. Is Banksy our Norman Rockwell? I hope not.

While dinosaurs have been extinct for 65 million years, The Dinosaur Times has been in the past sense for about three decades already. Where does the time go? 

Et Tu, Mute?

 

It’s understood that actions speak louder than words. But you know what speaks louder than both? No words. Especially when it comes to television shows. When I’m judging a program with several talking heads yapping away, I emphatically hit the mute button for an objective perspective. NO closed captioning either – that’s cheating. I can’t lip read either, so it’s purely about gestures and body language. The mood of the room is captured in every grin and raised eyebrow. 

Chaplin didn’t need words, neither did Keaton or Lloyd. That’s my bar. The great thing about TV, sports, or political punditry, is that you can be annoyed while the volume is at zero. Whatever else you say about it, that’s rather impressive. I don’t need to hear a word to form an intelligent opinion. I just need to watch the histrionics, the guffawing, and the ill-fitting suits. 

By watching on mute, I able to come away a better understanding those who crank the sound. I can see the shows for what they are, assessing their substance. And I can see what they are not.

 

Which is, almost uniformly, not very good.

Water we doing?

 

If you’re anything like me, you don’t know when to drink water

I can't figure it out, despite my alma mater 

Do I drink it in the morning?

Do I drink it without warning?

Do I drink it before bed? 

Do I drink it every meal or do I drink in lieu of bread?

Do I drink it when I’m thirsty or do I drink it when I’m bored? 

Do I drink it for myself or do I drink for my lord?
Do I drink it out of boxes or do I drink it cans?

Do I drink it out of bags or do I drink it from my hands? 

Do I drink it from the sea or do I drink it from the lakes?

Do I drink it from a gutter no matter what it tastes? 

Do I drink it from the sky when it starts to rain?

Do I drink it from a puddle when it starts to wane? 

Do I drink it by the ounce or do I drink it by the quart? 

Do I drink it for fun or do I drink it for sport?

Do I drink it from the faucet or do I drink it from the source?

Do I drink it from a hose with substantial g-force?

Do I drink it from a glass or do I drink it from a bowl?

Do I drink it from a spring or from a watering hole?

Do I drink it from a geyser?

Do I drink it to make me wiser?

Do I drink it when it’s snow or do I drink it when it’s ice?

Do I drink it unsweetened or do drink it with spice? 

Do I drink it as a gas or do I drink it from a glass? 

Do I drink it all the time?

Do I drink it with a lime?

Do I drink it until toxicity?

Do I drink it with electricity? 

I drink it all these ways and more, from the heavens to the ocean floor.

But I don’t drink it from a recyclable cup or a reusable bottle.

My philosophy forbids it as a hygienic Aristotle

So I shun Nalgene and S'well and Stanley and Yeti.

Yet I have plenty of options while being quite petty.