Hurtling Towards Disaster

Here’s today’s question: What has more than doubled over the past 50 years? Yes, the average split-level ranch, and just about any out-patient surgery you could name has more than doubled in price in that span. But, that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m talking about world population - or, the sum and total of us.

In 1960 - before most of you were born, and way before the internet, the microwave oven, or Real Housewives of Fill in the Blank - the world’s population was just over three billion. Today, the world’s population stands at around 6,880,000,000. That’s six billion, eight hundred and eighty million. It took us however many centuries it was to get to three billion, and we’ve more than doubled that in 50 years. The rate of growth is staggering.

Back in the Seventies, the acronym Z.P.G. was rather popular; pretty much everyone knew that it stood for Zero Population Growth. It was an idea that never really gained “traction”. Although some people seemed to take the threat of uncontrolled growth seriously, for the most part we’ve bred like rabbits doing tequila shots. And, if you do the math, we’re hurtling towards disaster, at a rate just barely within the realm of comprehension.

It doesn‘t take a genius to see the outlook is both dismal and dire. Suffice to say, our eco-system cannot hope to sustain many more of us. It has been suggested that a world population of 10 Billion will be the tipping point; beyond which an ever-increasing percentage of humankind will live in virtual squalor, literally imprisoned within a refrigerator sized plot of their own excrement.

It has also been conjectured that in the not-too-distant future, potable water will cost more than sweet crude oil, only the ultra-rich will be able to afford a 1,000 square foot single-family dwelling, and a vine-ripened tomato will be worth it’s weight in gold. Demand up, supply down, bad news all around.

Yes, we may colonize the moon sometime this century. We may even find a few other rocks floating around in space on which to plant our flag. But, right now the Earth is all we have. And we’re all getting an ever-dwindling slice of that.

I’m not suggesting that we stop reproducing, or that we could - any more so than we could stop polluting, killing each other, or Tweeting. I’m suggesting that we stop and think about what we’re doing. Before we do it.

How Bored Are You?

Stepping into a motel elevator, I witnessed two obviously inebriated gentlemen laughing and "listing a little to starboard". I got the impression they were there for a convention or something; they were wearing cheap suits with name tags and all. Just as the elevator doors were closing, a young women slipped in. "Hey, look", one of the guys blurted, "It's her. She must be following us". His buddy wheeled around. Glancing back over her shoulder, she appeared to recognize the revelers, and chuckling, dead-panned: "I'm not that bored".

Which got me to thinking: exactly how bored would she have to have been to actually have been following them? Which led me to wonder further: how bored are you? At this very moment? Somewhat bored, slightly bored, bored to tears? Well, let's find out. Following are six questions to determine exactly how bored you are. Or, maybe it's only five. Who cares, really?

Finish the sentence: "Right now, I am so bored _____":
1. Not bored at all, thanks. 300 pts.
2. I've had more exciting moments. 150 pts.
3. I'm hoping a telemarketer will call. (minus) 400 pts.

My idea of an exciting weekend would be:
1. Canoeing the rapids on Snake River. 500 pts.
2. Camping in the Smoky Mountains. 75 pts.
3. Watching Matrix Reloaded for the sixth - no, seventh time. (minus) 450 pts.

It's early Saturday evening and your phone rings. You hope it is:
1. An old friend, inviting you out for a night on the town. 275 pts.
2. Any friend, inviting you out for karaoke and mozzarella sticks. 125 pts.
3. A telemarketer. (minus) 900 pts.

You win tickets to a concert for a band you don't particularly care for. You:
1. Don't even bother to go get the tickets. 400 pts.
2. Sell the tickets on eBay. 150 pts.
3. Immediately call everyone you know with the news, dig out your Led Zeppelin tee shirt from storage, and drink two whole wine coolers before the show. (minus) 5000 pts.

The most exciting thing that happened this week was:
1. Business trip to Chicago. 325 pts.
2. Ran into casual acquaintance. Shot some pool and had a few beers. 175 pts.
3. Watched Matrix Reloaded for the seventh - no, eighth time. (minus) 750 pts.

Who would you most like to trade places with for one week?
1. That one guy that does that show where they drop him out of a helicopter on some God-forsaken plot of earth with only a Swiss army knife and some freeze-dried figs. 600 pts.
2. Mark Zuckerberg. 200 pts.
3. Ticket-taker at Comic-Con. (minus) 750 pts.

Scoring:
1500+: Why did you bother to take this quiz?
0 - 1500: No one will ever refer to you as Mr. Excitement, but hey, you got a life.
Less than zero: Quick, check and make sure you have a pulse. You do? Are you sure?

Things Men Won’t Say

Well, it appears the truce in the Battle of the Sexes is holding and everyone is trying to get along and be sensitive to each other’s needs and so on. And, I think that’s great.

But - we will never, I repeat never - be “like your girlfriends.”

Men will always be men, and woman will always be women.  We’re “wired” differently, or so it’s said. We have a different chemical make-up. Whereas the female of the species is chock full of estrogen, potassium, and that one chemical that makes their feet cold enough to shatter tungsten steel, men tend to lean towards chlorine, zinc, and trace amounts of nitro glycerin.

In other words - it’s not our fault that we can never be like your girlfriends. We have highly unstable chemicals coursing through our veins.

So - for the love of everything good and decent - please stop trying to make us like you. Seriously, how boring and inexplicably weird would it be if there were no discernable differences between us? No Yin to go with the Yang, if you get my drift.

And so it is that now - in the spirit of mutual understanding and continued harmony - I bring you Things Men Won’t Say. Ever:

“Honey, I just peeked into your closet and you don’t have nearly enough shoes.”
“Sure, you can go bar-hopping with your alcoholic, nymphomaniac girlfriends. Stay out as late as you like.”
“Darn, there’s nothing but sports on TV. Where’s the Sex and the City boxed set?”
“Why don’t we ever talk about the relationship anymore?”
“Oh, look! There’s a sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Grab your purse!”
“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: violent sports are a clear manifestation of a pseudo-ambiguous sexual urge coupled with a repressed oedipal conflict.”
“How about we just stay in and give each other pedicures tonight?”
“I get that from my Mother.”
“If one more person asks what’s up with me today, I am just going to scream.”
“Sex, sex, sex. Can’t we just cuddle every now and then?”

One more thing, ladies. We know when you throw out our ratty old t-shirts. We take out the garbage.

Falling Into Fall

I hate to see Summer go. I wail and bellow, and snort and stomp my feet. I cry like a child who’s just discovered Hannah Montana isn’t real. I hate it. In fact, I get so mad at Summer for leaving that I won’t return any of it’s phone calls for weeks.

Then - my eyes swollen and cheeks puffy from alligator tears - I force myself to face the grim reality that it’s over and now it’s time for Fall.

Seriously, Fall? A season so fantastic they named it after something clumsy people do. Why not just call it Nosepick? Or Bunion?

And to hear everyone go on and on about how great Fall is. “Oh the leaves are so pri-teeee. Feel that nip in the air?” Whatever.

So, I’m sucking it up and trying to look on the “bright side”. Of Fall. To come up with a few things about Fall that don’t totally gag me:

10. Football. This year, there will be 16,804 televised football games between Labor Day and January 2^nd. 7,157 of them will feature an announcer using the term “rose to the occasion” far too many times.
9. Air conditioner cuts off a few minutes here and there.
8. “Vomiting” jack-o-lanterns.
7. Crappy Summer replacement shows are replaced by crappy Fall premiere shows.
6. Octoberfest.
5. Grass stops growing like it was on steroids.
4. Line at the Dairy Queen drive-thru isn’t nearly as long.
3. Neighborhood third-graders stop pushing lemonade on every corner.
2. Get to pull that sweater with the patches on the elbows out of storage.
1. Anything looks better when you prop it up next to Winter.

So. That’s it. It’s the best I can do right now, okay? I have to go. Summer’s texted me like five times already today.