“CANADA IS OURS!” read the caption held by one beaver.
“We have been used for too long by Canada and we won’t
stand for it anymore” explained the head patriarch beaver as
he worked on his dam.

Beaver Nation alienation has been growing for some time
now. Its roots can be found as early as the 1970s when
Canada engaged in compassionate social engineering.
“For hundreds of years we were an integral part of the
Canadian economy. The Coureur de Bois and The Bay
became millionaires off our pelts. No more.” The Beaver
Boat Units are mobilizing and preparing to attack.

Canadian officials remained defiant if not donwright
unconcerned. A spokesperson for Defense Canada,
Normie-Gordie Burntstrudel “This is Canada. Everybody
loves us as we love ourselves. We are a peacecreating,
peacekeeping, peacegiving country” When pressed if the
Canadian military is prepared in the event of the attack he
continued with a confident smile “If we are attacked, which
we won’t be, we are ready.” One reporter asked how exactly
are they ready to which Mr. Burntstrudel answered “All of
Canada will unite. We’ve put in a call to the Inuit.” When
asked if Québec will take part in the defense of Canada all
he would comment is “they are distinct and thus have
distinct choices to make regarding their well-earned distinct
territory.”

None of this surprises The Beavers. “Canada always has
its head up its ass. We’re even forewarning them and they
still won’t budge. Dumbasses. They will see our anger is
real and our wrath swift and lethal.” Even the Québec
division is ready. “They don’t speak any English but we are
united in our cause.”

Anger on the street is mounting. The average Canadian is
outraged of the thought of even putting one loonie into the
military in defense of this country. “We need to put it in more
important places. Like public health” screamed one person.
Another quipped “What does beaver meat taste like? Is their
fur, like, still popular in Europe?”

Reports of Osama Bin Laden’s whereabouts took a new turn this week when a Pakistani woman reported sighting a tall man in a white robe with matching turban hit his head on a low doorway.

The woman’s suspicions about the identity of the man were further aroused when she noticed the entrance led to a recording studio.

So as not to create suspicion, she approached him without revealing who she thought he might be.

“Are you all right?” she asked, with demur innocence.

“No,” he said. “How can I be all right? Besides just cracking my head on this low doorway, I’m Osama Bin Laden.”

“Really?” she replied, thinking of the $25-million reward for turning him in, as well as her opportunity to contribute to the triumph of justice.

“Yes” he went on. “I haven’t been all right since I fled Tora Bora, because it’s even hard for me to get out long enough to make my audiotapes.”

“My, oh, my,” the woman commiserated, “Everybody thinks you’re in the remote regions near the Afghan border.”

“You’d think they’d know better,” he confided. “How could a spoiled rich boy like me live this long without some of the comforts only a city can provide, like a dialysis machine to keep me alive, and takeout food.”

“That makes sense,” she agreed.

“Yes, it does, but there’s no danger the authorities will figure out where I am, because every time I record a tape, we filter out the sounds of the city, like horns and sirens.”

“That’s very clever,” she said. “You’d think that when they see the tapes are filtered they might guess you’re in a place where there are background sounds.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t catch on. I don’t want them to take away from my next surprise move.”

“Oh, a surprise move,” she exclaimed. “Want to tell me about it?”

“No,” he told her, “because then it won’t be a surprise anymore. But just watch. I’m not going to slink around Karachi forever. I long for metropolitan delights in the more developed capitals of the world. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my recording session is due to start.”

Then he waved goodbye and reentered the doorway, this time remembering to duck.

The woman, excited to shortness of breath, went straight to the nearest police station and reported her astonishing interaction.

Police immediately launched a Karachi-wide search for Bin Laden, vowing to pursue him as part of their apparently somewhat porous terrorist dragnet.

They were, however, shocked when the very next day, Bin Laden called police headquarters and offered to turn himself in.

When asked why he had made the decision, when the police, many of whom are devout Muslims, were doing their utmost to help him evade capture, he replied, “I can’t stand it any longer. Hiding out every day, afraid to go outside for fear of getting into a conversation with a stranger who might report me, and having to spend all my time with my four wives, when I could be sitting in a topless club in America, like the martyrs I sent to fly planes into American buildings were doing shortly before their great sacrifice. Worse yet, one of my wives told me I may have misinterpreted The Koran, because, she reminded me, ‘Islam’ means peace. Praise be to God I didn’t, or I’ll have to turn myself in. ”

“Well, if you insist,” the police told him.

“I’ll let you know for sure in a day or two,” Osama replied, “I don’t want to do it and then regret it later, especially at the moment I’m being hanged.”

“That’s very understandable, revered sheik,” the Pakistani police officer replied. Then he added a reassurance that would undoubtedly have infuriated Pakistani President Musharaff, his much wiser leader and devoted American ally in the war on terror. “We must scour the city for you. Before you hang up, tell us your address, so we make sure to avoid it.”

Tom Attea, humorist and creator of NewsLaugh.com, has had six shows produced Off-Broadway and has written comedy for TV. Critics have called his writing “”delightfully funny” and “witty” with “good, genuine laughs.”

Another good citizen comes to the aid of the uninformed public. After years of eating Oreos, and enjoying them tremendously, somebody put on a pound or two. Who’s to blame? You know somebody is to blame. It couldn’t be the fault of the user. Did she exercise? Did she walk? Did she do her housework? No, she sat in front of her T.V. and ate Oreos.

When she realized she had gotten a little pudgy around the middle, she didn’t like it. She complained to a lawyer friend. The lawyer friend listened to her crying about being fat and did his best to assure her she was still beautiful. To make her feel better, he got them both glasses of milk and took a fresh bag of Oreos from her cabinet.

Making themselves comfortable at the kitchen table, they continued to dip the cookies and argue whether she was fat or not. For hours. Finally, to shut her up, he said he would find the cause. He absolutely knew it wasn’t her fault and he told her so.

And what did he discover while reading the ingredient list on the side of the bag? It’s the fault of Oreos! There is fat in the white filling! Shazam! Who would’ve thunk it? I wonder which college he went to? He was amazing! Now, another American icon is about to be erased.

Dads will not be able to show their sons how to twist off the top cookie carefully so they can lick the filling off. Little brothers will no longer be able to dip their Oreo into their big brother’s glass of milk, and enjoy a bit of brotherly camaraderie before being pushed away roughly. What will mothers put in the lunch boxes? Will we be able to carry one more straw of added stress in our daily lives?

In the years to come, someone will remember Oreos lovingly, and the children will say, “What the heck is an Oreo?”

Or beg, “Tell us about the old days, Daddy, when you use to eat Oreos.” Fathers will sigh sadly, and brush a tear away.

People are going to start hoarding them, just wait and see. The neighbor across the street just put a padlock on his freezer in his garage. I just know he has Oreos in there.

On Halloween, Oreo came out with orange filling. (I wonder if it was to get rid of the white filling that had the fat in it? Hey, it works for me.) They also have double chocolate. A cookie with chocolate filling. Oh, they probably have a lot of new ideas in their secret files. Now, what will they do if they are shut down?

People will lose their jobs. Nabisco will go bankrupt. It’s a real shame, but will the good citizen, with the over zealous lawyer, care? No. She knows her duty. Her concern is over the rest of us getting fat. She is looking out for us that are too ignorant to know there is fat in the filling. Anyone out there who didn’t already know this? Anyone?

I like fat. It keeps my hair shiny and my skin soft. Doing
without a bit of fat turns you into a dried up prune with straw for hair. I’d rather be round, myself.

Oreos are the cookies of distinction. You don’t just buy chocolate cookies. You must buy Oreos. When you bring the kids in for milk and cookies, their ears hear “milk and Oreos!” Can any other cookie put that ring of chocolate around a child’s mouth so sweetly? I don’t think so.

If this can be done to the King of cookies, what’s next? Ice Cream? Reese’s minis? The Golden Arches? It’s time for people to revolt. Stand up for your right to eat Oreos! In the meantime, run and grab all you can before they’re gone!

Update! May 17, 2003

The suit has been dropped. Wow! People can stand up and be revolting - it works! Kids can keep enjoying their Oreos, and mom and dad will not have to freeze them or hide them from the neighbors.

I wonder what else is on the Endangered Food List?

Harriet is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/
which is a site for Creative Writing.Her portfolio can be found at http://www.Writing.Com/authors/storytime.

3 Surefire Ways to Combat Rising Gas Prices
by Tim Ward

I have heard the rumblings of many of you in
Readerland about the recent spike in
gasoline prices. In fact it’s all I seem to
hear about lately. But at least it keeps you
from rumbling about the infrequency of my columns
and articles. Nonetheless, I have decided to
try to help you get through this crisis by
generously providing: 3 Ways to Combat Rising
Gas Prices!

1. Don’t Drive Your Car

This is, of course, the most obvious solution.
If you never take the old Plymouth out the
driveway, then it won’t matter that at current
gas prices it takes $125 to fill up the 30 gallon
gas tank, or that you only get about 2.51 miles
to the gallon. If you never drive, you could
care less.

Of course, I know what you’re going to say. “But
Tim, I have places I need to go-like work. And
the kids have school and soccer practice. And
then there’s grocery shopping and yoga lesssons
and dinner at the Richardsons and blah blah blah
and….” Ok, I get the point. Not everyone can
sit around the house writing not-so-funny articles
and searching the Internet for Drew Barrymore
photos like me. I fully understand that some of
you have a life. But just because you don’t drive
your own car doesn’t mean you can’t get around.
The answer?

2. Carpool

It’s seems so simple now doesn’t it. Instead of
using your gas-Use Someone Elses! Have someone else
pay $5.50 a gallon for gas to take your kids to
school. Make someone else dip into their retirement
fund just so they can cover the gas bill needed to
get you to the office and back everyday. Make someone
else get a second job so that they can have a full
tank of gas in their SUV when your daughter needs
to cruise the mall. It’s so simple.

Of course, the concept behind carpooling is that
everyone takes turns driving. So in a normal carpool
situation you would eventually be required to use
your car and spend your money driving others around.
But this is not a Normal Carpool Situation, this is
a Tim Ward Carpool Situation (TWCPS). In a TWCPS you
avoid using your own car by making it so that the other
carpool participants would rather walk barefoot on 120
degree asphalt than ride with you. You achieve this by:

(a) never washing or cleaning your car. Leave it
looking and smelling like the county landfill.

(b) Have the worst behaved child in your family sitting
in the front seat at all times. Feed the child lots of
candy so he/she is always superhyper.

(c) Refuse to discuss anything in your car except your
spouses bad bathing habits, bodily fluids, hang nails,
chest hair, etc.

(d) Only play reggae music on the radio. Loud!

You shouldn’t have to worry about anyone wanting to
ride with you ever again.

3. Ride the Bus/Subway

Many cities have a mass transit system that is an
alternative to driving your own vehicle. If you live
in a city that doesn’t have one don’t worry-you can
always move. Of course, riding public transportation
does have a few drawbacks, but these can be easily
overcome if you follow these simple guidelines:

1. No matter what happens never, ever make eye contact
with anyone. Making eye contact is an invitation for
someone to mug you.

2. No matter what happens never, ever give up your seat
to anyone. This is seen as weakness, and will be taken
as an invitation to mug you.

3. No matter how tempted you are never, ever strike up
a conversation with the person sitting next or across
from you. This is very annoying and can be taken as an
invitation for someone to mug you. Or worse, for someone
to talk back.

4. Always make sure you are alert to get on and off at the
right stop. Getting off at the wrong stop can lead to
immediate mugging.

5. Never, ever take children with you on public transportation.
Fellow passengers hate children. Children make you definite
mug victim material.

Well, there you have it. 3 ways to deal with rising gas prices.
Hopefully, you will be able to use these methods to keep
from spending twice your car’s Blue Book value just going
to Walmart. Hopefully, next time your friends are grumbling
and ranting about the mounting gas prices you will be able to
just sit back and smile, content because the issue no longer
concerns you. Hopefully, I’ve once more helped my loyal readers
in a time of crisis. And all I ask in return as a simple
thank you next time you see me. Just make sure we’re not on
the bus. I’d hate to have to mug you…

About the Author

Timothy Ward publishes the Ward Wide Webzine, a publication that refuses to bring you anything but the best articles and internet marketing tips. it is also slam-packed with humor and laughs. Subscribers are expected to interact through contest and submissions. To subscribe now visit:
http://www.wardwidewebzine.goduck.net

I am a miniature Dachshund. I may be small but my attitude is huge. My mom is a wonderful person and I am totally in love with her. However, when she goes out of town, she leaves me with her mom, my grandma. Grandma has two dogs. Babe is a Doberman/Shepherd cross and Mercedez is a Dalmatian/Black Lab cross. Zack is a big Doberman that belongs to a friend of my mom’s. I love Zack. He thinks I’m his parent. This journal is about the times I have been left at Grandma’s. It is written to my mom.

If you enjoy this journal, you have to read my first one – it is hilarious!! At least I think so and I should know!! If you read my whole journal, there is a special treat for you at the end.

Day 1
When you left today, I stood by the door for a very long time. I saw your suitcase and I just knew you would be coming back for me. I was a big boy - I didn’t cry - I just waited. Guess what? You didn’t come back. WHY?

Finally, I gave up and went to bed. Gramma came and got me when she went to bed and put me in bed with her - I did not want to be there. I ran upstairs to our bed and stayed there until I got too cold and then I crawled in with Gramma. I thought you would be coming back but you didn’t.

Day 2
You didn’t show. I do not understand it. My bag is still here so I guess I’m staying. I can’t believe it Mommy - I heard your voice on the telephone thingy- you were so close - you called me boo-boos. I was so happy. I ran downstairs to see you but you weren’t there. Are you playing some kind of a game with me? Please hurry back - I miss you so so much

I ran with the big dogs today. I like it when Gramma drives slowly so I can catch up. It is so much fun. I’m such a big brave boy!!
I was so excited today I almost peed. I heard daddy’s big truck and I knew that you and Zack were here too. I cried and jumped and cried and jumped and cried and jumped - do, da do, da do. So exciting. Then Gramma opened the door and I ran out to the big truck, but it was Grandpa - not you, Mom. Oh, well, that is pretty exciting too. He held me and played with me and threw my toy and let me sleep on his belly and gave me treats and, I’m tired now.

Day 3
Today, Gramma and Grandpa were going out and I could tell they weren’t going to let me come along. So, I ran downstairs and cried and cried by the big closet. Gramma knew what I wanted and she gave me my bed. I figured if you aren’t coming home then I am going to go to you. I got in my bag and tried to zip it shut. It wasn’t easy. I tried and tried until I got tired and went to sleep.

Then when Gramma and Grandpa were gone - I showed them how upset I was. I pooed all over the dining room - at least 10 spots - it was pretty awful. I didn’t care. They should have taken me with them. Grandpa is so cool - he didn’t yell at me or spank me or nothing. Then there is Gramma - she’s not as nice.

Day 4
Well, I guess sometimes I’m not too smart. This morning I got up and went upstairs and took Gramma right over to the fireplace and showed her where I peed last night. I smelled it to make sure it was mine and then she got mad at me. Then I went downstairs and showed her where I peed on your files of papers. I guess you are mad at me but I don’t care - you have no right to be mad at me when you leave me so much. Gramma is mean and she got mad at me. Grandpa picks me up and says - “That’s o.k. Louie, don’t worry - Gramma is a big meanie!” I LOVE Grandpa.

Day 5
Oh, Mommy….I hurt myself really bad today. Gramma was going to feed me and I ran to get my yummers and I hit my head square against the wood stair rail. I cried and couldn’t move. Gramma picked me up and carried me up to Grandpa’s lap. I shook and cried. It was awful.

I really made Gramma and Grandpa laugh tonight. I kept burying my ball under the blanket on the sofa and jumping up and down until I found it and then I would roll it onto Babe’s back. I did this for about 3 hours - it was fun to see them laugh so hard.

Day 6
It is cold today. I am lying by the fire thinking of you. Tonight Gramma and Grandpa went out. I asked them for my doggie bag before they left and I jumped in and slept. They didn’t take me with them. Meanies!! They were gone a long time. I was a good boy - at least as far as they know I was. I’ll never tell. What they don’t know - won’t hurt them.

Day 7
Gramma got up really early and went away - she was gone all day. This is great because I can poo all I want - Grandpa never notices. But, when Gramma got home she noticed - two places. I hid - I don’t think she will find me.

Then when Gramma got home, she put the groceries on the kitchen floor and went downstairs. Is she dumb or what? Of course I knew the groceries were for me. So I got the great big block of cheese. I took it out of the bag and dragged it to the front door. I tried to get outside but no such luck. I ate about one third of it before Gramma noticed. OHHHHHH, my tummy hurts. But it was worth every bite. She was so mad she had smoke coming out of her nostrils. But it was worth every bite. She took the girls for a run and made me stay home. But it was worth EVERY BITE!!!

Day 8
Today was a quiet day. I had a tummy ache from the cheese yesterday - it hurt a lot. But it was WORTH EVERY BITE!!! I went for a run with the girls - that’s always fun. I do something that drives Gramma and even Grandpa nuts. Mom, you took my leash so I can run free - THANK YOU VERY MUCH. So, every time they open the front door - I am outta there like a shot. I run to the neighbor’s and bark like crazy. You can hear me through the whole neighborhood and it gets all the other losers in the neighborhood barking. They don’t even know I’m in charge or what they are barking at. I bark until Gramma gets her shoes on and comes running up the hill after me. I hide under the truck so she can’t hit me - she’s mean you know. Today, she gave me a swat but I ran home so fast and hid under the covers until she forgot all about it. Then she told me what a precious sweet little boy I am. See, she forgot already.

Day 9
Today Grandpa packed his bag. I didn’t jump into my bag - I knew he wouldn’t be taking me - I am sad. I will really miss playing with him. He plays with me every night for a long time. He hides my ball and makes me find it. Such fun. I do a new thing that he loves — he laughs and laughs. I jump around like crazy trying to bury my ball. He thinks it’s funny - go figure!! He says I look like an idiot. He’s laughing - so who’s the idiot???

You called during the night and I heard your voice - even though I was under the covers. I got so excited I farted - it upset Gramma. Are you ever coming home?

Day 10
Mommy, Mommy, Mommy - you would be so proud of me. Gramma took the girls up the BIG HILL for a run today. I got out of the truck with them and I ran ALL THE WAY up to the top. I never stopped once and I kept up - well, pretty good. I jumped into the truck right away cuz I was pretty tired. But, aren’t you proud of me? Are you? Huh, are you? Are you proud of me, Mommy?

Gramma and her friend went out for a long time - it was very dark when they got home. Gramma should know better than to leave me home alone. But I was a good boy because when she came home I showed her where I peed. I couldn’t hold it and I was mad too, so I peed in your room. But I showed Gramma, she spanked me, go figure… and I cried. She should have praised me for showing her, right?

Day 11
Today I am sad - when are you coming home? Gramma took us for a run and she let me run all the way. We were almost at the turn around spot when the big dogs saw two men walking. They ran up to them and barked and then they jumped in the truck. I just couldn’t believe it. Didn’t they know they have to protect Gramma? What morons!! Well, I ran after them and they were walking fast - Gramma was running behind me - I don’t know why cuz I can take care of myself just fine. I barked and barked and the more I barked the faster they walked and the faster Gramma ran. I was protecting Gramma. Well, they finally stopped and I let them know who was the boss. Gramma got me and picked me up and I still barked - I don’t like men especially when they could hurt my Gramma. Gramma should have been proud of me but she told me to be quiet instead. Why wasn’t she grateful? She carried me all the way back to the truck with the other two morons in it. Then we went home and I went to sleep in the sun. A lady came over to look at the house and Gramma made us wait on the deck. It was so cold out there - I tell you, Mommy, Gramma is really mean when you aren’t here. Please come home soon - I don’t know how much more I can take.

Gramma said that it is time I earn my keep. She asked me to show you what she does all day. Go to this link and if you want to buy something from her, tell her I sent you and she will give you a really good deal www.gemsofcoloronline.com

Visit my site

Gloria is an author of inspirational and humorous articles. She also manages two business, one in the field of health and one in gemstones.

My girl thinks this dog is cute. She wants to save it from a shelter. Ooof. That is the ugliest dog ever.

I’ve never seen a dog with herpes before, but… Look, I feel bad for the little mutt. Poor guy is the Willie McGee of puppies.

My girl has such a huge heart. She loves animals. (Well, she loves all animals except rodents, and insects, and animals that smell bad… and she hates birds. But besides that, she loves animals.)

Me? Animals are what I call “uncooked food.”

No, I love dogs. Dogs give so much love and all they want from you are treats, a good belly rub and for you to pick up their poop at 2 am.

Okay, in one of the pictures, the dog KIND OF, MAYBE looks cute:

But in another picture, we are reminded that this is Satan’s dog.

How can I walk around with this ugly-ass dog?

Am I superficial because I care about a dog’s looks? Well, whatever. Looking at this dog is going to give me nightmares.

Then my girl is going to want to let this Satanic dog sleep in the bed with us. And I have to worry that it’s going to eat my flesh and swallow my soul?

No. Can’t do it. Let’s get a plant. Plants are cute.

http://www.hogwild.net

Discover more Twisted Humor

It’s amazing how similar we are to machines. We have jobs that
we are designed to be able to complete easily, and we do just
that. It may seem simple to us, but have you ever watched a cat
try to turn a doorknob? Have you ever tried to jump up to the
top of your china cabinet in a single bound? If you just tried
to accomplish that one, try shrinking yourself to one-tenth your
current size and try again, even harder right? We are designed
to do specific things, just like machines.

We’re not talking Darwin here, why we are designed the way we
are is not what I’m investigating here. Whether we randomly have
opposable thumbs, or if God put them there, whether we beat
other similar species because of our superior eyesight, or we
were just plain old lucky, is inconsequential to me. We’re here
and I like it.

But we are just another type of machine. We need fuel, we have
exhaust, we break down, we error, we complete tasks
successfully, and we even have keys to make us start. Our keys
are not small, silver, and painful when you sit on them, our
keys are made out of motivation. I like learning new things,
cash is a good motivator too, and I suppose some people enjoy
shiny objects, but sometimes I work and sometimes I don’t, it
depends if I have the right key. We are organic machines, built
by nature.

Compare us to a computer for instance. Lets look at the basic
components of a computer: RAM, processor, the hard drive, a
cooling system, a motherboard, an interface, and an assortment
of other accessories that vary from computer to computer in
quality and quantity. Now the main difference is that a slower
computer is an older computer; yet an older human is not
necessarily a slower human, at least not in thinking capacity.
The RAM is random access memory, or in a human, short term
memory. The processor, the ability to quickly determine what the
hell is happening around you. Hard drives can be fast or slow,
faster hard drives, such as SCSI drives, can bring information
up much quicker than a standard hard drive.

How hard is it for you to remember details of an event that
happened when you were ten years old? Maybe you’re a SCSI and
you can remember every shirt you ever wore, but most of us are
just regular old hard drives. Computers have cooling systems, we
have cooling systems, and we sweat so that evaporation can cool
our outer shells. You know what happens if a human overheats,
fevers can be very dangerous, much like an over heated computer,
something can break. The motherboard in our computers are very
similar to our central nervous system, they both control the
wheelings and dealings of the rest of the components. And of
course a computers interface, or our face; both show what is
happening inside. How about the mouse and keyboard, much like
our hands.

Did we create a computer in our own image? I doubt very highly
that someone looked at the machine that is a human, and decided
to base a computer system on us. If we didn’t do it on purpose,
maybe there are standards that all functioning nodes must meet?
That would imply that we are much closer to the creations we
create than we generally accept. It also suggests that something
created us, whether it be DNA and Darwin’s concepts, or God
Almighty.

So the next time your computer isn’t doing exactly what you want
it to do, don’t get mad, don’t smack it, you can swear at it if
you really want because that’s what I do, or you can try to
understand what the computer wants. It probably wants something
that makes sense. Think of a computer as a baby, it wants
something that it needs, it just sucks at telling you want it
wants. Or the next time your wife, or father, or great Uncle Bob
get sentimental over throwing out an old vehicle, don’t laugh.
The machine is a part of us, and not just because we invented,
built, used, and destroyed it. It’s a part of us because it some
ways, in a lot of ways, it’s just like us.

I was given a list of Do’s and Don’ts of interacting with people who have dementia. I’ve modified this list only slightly to guide you in safely interacting with corporate executives.

Do–Hold their hand. [Most executives want to shake your hand when you enter their office. I have found that it is best to allow them to hold your hand as long as they see fit. Extended handholding is non-verbal communication of endearment.]

Do–Keep your sense of humor. [Humor is critical with high-level corporate executives. Laugh at their cue, even if you aren’t quite sure what you are laughing at. Otherwise, they have a tendency of feeling alienated and can turn hostile. Likewise, if you find yourself laughing and they are not, curtail laughing or like the contrary, they have a tendency of feeling alienated and can turn hostile.]

Do–Keep things simple. [High-level executives are easily overwhelmed, which can generate a feeling of alienation, which can facilitate them turning hostile.]

Do–Give them simple easy tasks or have them focus on entertainment such as television. [It is best to keep high-level executives busy with unimportant activities. Lack of activities has a tendency to make them feel “out-of-the-loop.” This is dangerous. They will insert themselves into processes that were working fine without them. If possible, have a TV installed in their office and show them financial programs. They are easily distracted by dollar signs. Warning: dollar signs in red have been proven to generate hostility among high-level corporate executives.]

Do–Remain calm. [These executives have an uncanny ability to sense nervousness, which puts them ill-at-ease, which can facilitate them turning hostile.]

Don’t–Give them choices. [High-level executives are easily overwhelmed, which can generate a feeling of alienation, which can facilitate them turning hostile. Instead, present evidence of a “great opportunity” and allow them come up with a grand idea for you to facilitate. Warning: this is inviting prolonged conversations with them about their grand idea.]

Don’–Get irritated by them asking a question repeatedly. [Refer to keep your sense of humor above.]

Don’t–Tell them what they “should” do. [High-level executives are extremely sensitive to their autonomy and often automatically resist an underling or lesser “instructing” them, which can generate a feeling of alienation, which can facilitate them turning hostile to reinforce their sense of power.]

Don’t–Expect them to do what they say they are going to do. [Expectations are the root of disappointment. If you can curb your expectations, your frequency of disappointment will diminish.]

Don’t–Expect what they tell you to be accurate. [Treating what they say as accurate can only lead to actions based on fallacy and at the end of the day you will look foolish because they will “not recall” telling that “fact” to you.]

Don’t–Expect them to do what they say they will do. [See above. If this isn’t self-apparent by now, stop reading this email and get back to work.]

There were more on the list, which were equally appropriate. The only one that didn’t seem to fit was: Do–Hug them. My experience is that hugs can make them feel ill-at-ease.

By Howard Campbell
http://www.intellishit.com

According to Webster’s Dictionary: ex-pert n 1. somebody with a great deal of knowledge about, or skill, training, or experience in, a particular field or activity.

Let’s break this down a bit further, word-by-word, using Mr. Webster, again:

(1) somebody: some unspecified person

(2) great deal: a large amount

(3) knowledge: general awareness or possession of information

(4) skill: the ability to do something

(5) training: the process of teaching or learning a skill or job

(6) experience: active involvement in an activity or exposure to events or people

(7) particular: related to one person or thing out of several

(8) field: an activity or subject or interest

(9) activity: something that somebody takes part in or does

So, now we have a foundation to build upon in an attempt to discover exactly
who or what, is an expert. Here’s the simplified re-definition:

“Some unspecified person with a large amount of general awareness about, or
ability, or teaching, or learning, or active involvement, in one thing of interest or
subject that they have taken part in or does.”

Do you know anyone this might apply to? The qualifications are fairly broad and
therefore you could nominate a few people you already come in contact with almost
daily:

(1) any department or grocery store clerk or bagger

(2) the mailman or package delivery person

(3) the lawn man, housekeeper, or pool guy

(4) every service provider, i.e., the beautician, the pet groomer.

(5) every repair person

(6) every student or teacher

(7) every mother, father, or child
If we haven’t covered everyone yet, let’s throw in anyone breathing and just semi-
comatose. That’s probably why I consider myself an expert on any subject ever
written. If you don’t believe me, just ask. Any questions?

Jeffrey Hauser was a sales consultant for the Bell System Yellow Pages for
nearly 25 years. He graduated from Pratt Institute with a BFA in Advertising
and has a Master’s Degree from Monmouth University. He had his own
advertising agency in Scottsdale, Arizona and ran a consulting and design
firm, ABC Advertising. He has authored 6 books and a novel, “Pursuit of the
Phoenix,” available at amazon.com. His latest book is, “Inside the Yellow
Pages.” Currently, he is the Marketing Director for http://www.thenurseschoice.com,
a Health Information and Doctor Referral site.

My petite, hyperactive daughter is what I call our Christmas
present from God. That’s because my husband was raised Jewish,
but is Polynesian, which means he was supposed to be Catholic,
but never made it into the church due to some vaguely absurdist
Biblical reasons. It all worked out anyway, and we all celebrate
Christmas together. Thankfully!

December 20 of 1994, out popped our little brown bundle of joy,
Angela Cristina Peralta, the mommie-described “Prettiest Girl in
the World.” She’s modest enough not to think so, or so she says.
Beauty and charm rolled into one Philippina-American package,
except when she tracks in a ton of sand from the beach. We have
to hit those universal, Pacific NW-located ocean sides on a
regular basis, as that’s the only celebration of her most
obvious heritage we really can do. Except for the River Dancing.
This is because she has ancestry from all over the world.

Mine covers both Eastern and Western Europe, and my husband’s
covers Asia and Polynesia, as well as Western Europe again and
who knows what all else. So aside from being related to
Australian aborigines (we have now found that they too are
probably distant cousins), Angie’s a definite World Class
Citizen.

And thus is stuck going to her big sister’s Irish dancing
classes on a semi-regular basis, for strangely enough, her
Polynesian half-sister has that as part of her heritage, and is
the twenty-six-year-old executive director of North West Irish
Folk dancing. So every so often we see our little island
princess dancing hippity-hoppity, with both arms straight down
at her sides, resembling nothing so much as a mildly demented
pepper shaker, with a certain amount of graceful élan, when she
gets the steps exactly right.

But lately, there have been the usual homework woes. What
started out as Angie’s clear desire to please both mommie and
daddie, and to get every chore done and every homework turned in
on time, has filtered down to her doing everything at the last
possible second, and getting it turned in on “late day.” My
husband, having all that prior experience with the last three
children, of course simply laughs the above off as what he’s
already been through in a triceling. “It’s just a stage,” he
says in that aggravating but enormously pleased tone of voice he
uses when I start to turn into a vaguely screechy whine directed
at Angela’s tender pinky-brown ears. “You just have to know
him,” he says.

Reggie, being a Pinoy pidgin speaker, always uses “him” for
“her” whenever the active principle is involved, and the reverse
when someone male is passive. He then calls anything male a
“she.” This took awhile to get used to, and still raises
eyebrows in public occasionally. You just have to know “her,”
and then you understand my Pinoy hubbie. Of course, it hasn’t
rubbed off on me, and I still am my own man about it….I think.

Well, to get around to the story, after having given you the
background: one time Angela and I attended a movie about a
comic-book character named “Daredevil,” and she had a hard time
getting over the death of the main female character. She
reminded her too much of her sissie Jayne, the Irish dancing
director. Angie kept talking about how “he died, HE DIED!” and
this of course greatly interfered with her homework, too.

So although at first I fumed at both her tendency to parrot
Daddy’s sad mistake about the sexing of our English language,
and her leaving her homework until possibly third grade rolls
around, I managed to cut my whining down to a slightly
embittered wail. I told Angela, “Just get around to him (did I
forget to mention that “its” are usually “hims?”) when you feel
like it, and whenever you’re ready, we’ll hit the beach again
later. That is, simply do half of him before we visit her (the
beach), and do the other half of him when we get home.”

To make a long story short, that’s exactly what he (Angie) did.
We spent a wonderful Sunday collecting sand crabs, mussel
shells, small clams, scraps and pieces of driftwood, and heck
only knows what else that was smelly and needed lots of washing
when we wearily trekked our way home.

Angie immediately headed for the bathroom, and stuck both “his”
feet into the sink, washing both of them off and leaving me the
shoes, which are presently drying in the tub. And I know “he”
will have finished all the needed homework in time to turn “him”
in for late day, as we “pinkie swore” on it—a quite useful
method we have found to make sure we both do what we are
supposed to do, involving intertwining two of our little
pinkies, and promising solemnly forever to do what’s right—and
that my little Polynesian princess will muddle on through her
homework, and her life, somehow.

At least that’s what her daddie knows. As for myself, “he” still
has quite a lot to savvy.