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Distracted By WOOT!

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Today’s post comes from perennial sophomore Bubby Spamden of Wendell Wilkie High School.

Hey Mr. C.,

So I spent all weekend thinking about my upcoming showdown with Alicia Erickson in Mr. Boozenporn’s class. Our debate about the Maximum Wage is going to be epic! Like I said I’m pretty sure she’ll destroy me but at least I’ll have her attention for almost fifty minutes, which was all I really wanted to do in the first place, so no matter what happens, I win! Woot!

But I’m still a little scared.

I was going to do lots of research on the huge differences between the top earners and the bottom earners and all that, but once I got online I got distracted by Facebook messages from people at school who were kinda taunting me and telling me I was going to do a face plant in the debate and it was gonna be an awesome debacle and woot! woot! and all the stuff that people say when they’re spouting off. Which got me to wondering what woot! means.

So instead of looking at wage statistics I spent a couple of hours researching WOOT. I found out that there are a bunch of different stories. Some say it started out as an acronym for “We Owned (the) Other Team” or “Want One Of Those”, but thanks to over-usage WOOT doesn’t really mean much of anything anymore other than Yay!

Once I got that figured out, I was ready to start on the debate research but then my mom came in and said I had to help her clean out the garden and the flowerbeds so new stuff could grow. I told her I had homework but she never lets me skip chores, so I lost the whole afternoon to doing stuff outside.

But this won’t surprise you – while I was out there, I kept thinking about Alicia Erickson. Especially where she said my idea of setting a maximum wage was stupid because it would discourage job creators and drain away their “urge to achieve.”

Even though I was raking wet leaves and using sharp clippers to trim away dead plants, my eyes kept seeing Alicia’s lips forming those words – “urge to achieve.” Good thing I didn’t cut off any fingers! But after a couple of hours of that, I feel like I’m kind of an expert on urges.

I decided that Alicia might like my maximum wage plan more if there was something in it to let the super-rich still feel special. It would have to have some way for them to keep competing with the other super-rich people besides just piling up money.

And that’s when I remembered WOOT!

So here’s the plan: Once you get to a point where you earn ten million dollars a year, you can’t earn anymore for yourself but you become a WOOT, or an Wealthy Oligarch Opportunity Titan!

Doesn’t that sound cool? It would be an all-capitals title that you’d put at the end of your name, like this – Warren Buffett, WOOT! The exclamation point would be part of it! By law!

I put the word “Titan” in there so they’d feel like superheroes, and the word “Opportunity” so they’d get the hint – everybody who reaches WOOT! status would compete with the other WOOT!s to do good works, like creating opportunities for other people.

Exactly what or how, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far on the details yet because we left so much stuff sitting in the garden at the end of last year and it took me all afternoon to clear it out.

But I think this is a pretty good start. It’ll be a lot more impressive than a bunch of dumb old statistics. And I’m sure I’ll think up even more details to add to it while I’m debating Alicia. I just have to remember to keep my mind clear, and not to look directly into her eyes or I might forget everything that’s in my brain.

Wish me luck. WOOT!

Your pal,
Bubby

Of course I wished Bubby luck but I have to admit I’m worried. Doing some real research might have been more helpful than coming up with a new meaning for WOOT!

If you could add an impressive title to your name, what would it be?

Uncategorized

Wage War

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Today’s post comes from perennial sophomore Bubby Spamden of Wendell Wilkie High School.

Hey Mr. C.,

So I think I got myself into a kind of a tough spot yesterday.

We were talking in Mr. Boozenporn’s Social Studies class about Minnesota raising its minimum wage, on account of a lot of us are going to earning it someday (if we’re lucky), working at burger joints and discount stores when we (some of us) graduate.

Pretty much everybody was saying “it’s a good thing” and “about time” and blah, blah, blah. But all I ever want out of that class is to get Alicia Erickson to look at me, and she seemed pretty interested in the topic.

So I kind of blurted out that the minimum wage “… isn’t really the issue.”

And Mr. Boozenporn, who is the laziest teacher I’ve ever had and he really ought to be fired for wasting our class time this way, said, “What’s the real issue, Bubby?”

And so I said “It’s the huge difference between the money that little people get and what the fat cats get, which is why there ought to be a maximum wage too.”

Then it got really quiet in Mr. B’s room.

Don’t get me wrong. I like my school but a lot of the kids come from over around the lake, so the idea of a maximum wage didn’t go over too well because most of them saw it right away as a ceiling on their inheritance, which they’ve already imagined collecting because some of them (I won’t mention any names) have told me they daydream about strangling their parents in their sleep and running away with the money.

Really! Like you could get away with that!

So Mr. Boozenporn said “Bubby, tell us more.

I didn’t really have any more to say, but you know how it is. So I think I said something about “… once you get rich you can’t really spend it sensibly anymore …” and “… the super rich aren’t happy …” and “… anyone who can’t be satisfied with ten million dollars isn’t really trying …” and some other stuff I don’t remember.

So then Alicia Erickson (of all people!) speaks up and says my ideas are stupid and putting a cap on income would just drain incentives from the job creators and that our economy is built on what she said is “the urge to achieve.”

Which was kind of thrilling because Alicia was looking right at me and talking about urges.

So Mr. Boozenporn said “Alicia and Bubby will debate this on Monday. They’ll be graded on the quality of their reasoning and everyone else will be graded on respectful behavior and the clarity of your note-taking. Class dismissed.”

And then the bell rang.

Now everyone is mad at me for ruining Monday with a whole hour where they’ll have to sit quietly and take notes. But I’m mad at me because I have to debate Alicia Erickson and I’m pretty sure she’ll destroy me!

I guess I need to think some more about the stuff I said, to see if I believe any of it. Right now, my plan for Monday is just to move my mouth and make random sounds until the bell rings.

Unless you have some other ideas for me?

Your Pal,
Bubby

How do you win an argument?

Travel

A Few Limericks in the Mars Light

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Who can blame impatient fans of extraterrestrial life for so closely watching the photos sent back by NASA’s Mars Curiosity Rover? There’s got to be some kind of critter up there! It’s simply a matter of time before it wanders in front of our camera.

It’s this sort of anticipation that gave us the momentarily famous Mars-rat-(shaped rock).

And it’s the very same level of breathlessness that brings us the latest frenzy over a mysterious light in the distance on one of the Rover’s photographs.

NASA was quick to debunk the alluring spark as a momentary effect that can be easily explained by anyone who understands the physics of sunlight. But for the rest of us who know nothing about the physics of sunlight, the flash is most easily explained as a desperate attempt by alien life forms to get our attention by sending up a flare!

Just as puzzling is why this disagreement over supposed evidence of Martian light technology made me want to write limericks.

I.
On a planet that’s barren and flinty
Shone a light inexplicably glinty
But the experts said “Pooh!”
To the rumors – “Untrue!”
“It’s the lens of our camera that’s linty.”

II.
Martian motion detectors don’t glow,
unless triggered. This much we all know.
Out on Jupiter’s moons,
they’re set off by raccoons
But the wildlife on Mars is too slow.

III.
A mysterious Red Planet beacon
has the UFO translators freakin’.
It means “We’re over here.”
Or else, “Don’t come too near.”
Based on which dialect they are speakin’.

IV.
We will creep like a moth to the light
towards an alien campfire at night.
If we see them, in mobs,
roasting Earthling kabobs
we’ll retreat at a minimal height.

What kind of signal would draw you in?

History, The Baboon Congress

A Congress (or Something) of Baboons

80 Comments

I’m thinking the title of today’s post will draw many readers who are scanning the internet for the rare chance to indulge in some choice primate-based vitriol about our elected representatives.

If that’s what brought you here, welcome and apologies, for I’m going to disappoint you a bit – we don’t spend a lot of time venting about Congress at Trail Baboon. But we do tell stories and make lighthearted observations – often in the comments section of each post where a core group of visitors congregates. These are the aforementioned Baboons of the eponymous Trail.

It just turns out that a gathering of baboons anywhere in the world is called a “Congress”. Or not. There is some disagreement about this. It might be better to say “troop” or “tribe” or “flange”. Apparently an e-mail has recently made the rounds to promote a Congressional collection, but English is a living language so ultimately a group of baboons will be named whatever we decide to call them.

The Baboons in this Consortium, Collection or Clump sometimes write guest posts and I (as blog administrator) have resolved to credit those entries more clearly and completely, thus the new item in the top task bar called “The Baboon Congress”.

Take a look – you’ll see the names of some of the writers who have penned guests posts since this blog began almost four years ago. Each name should be accompanied by a click-able link that says “All posts by …” This will give you a sense of the prolific amount guest-blogging done at this site.

I’m grateful to the gentle readers who populate this place and am in the process of adding pages, bios, and the collected writings of every person who has contributed along the way, so check back with us regularly, feel free to join in the discussion, and before long you may discover that you are a baboon too!

What do you call it when you and your friends get together?

Uncategorized

Bad Day At The Office

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Today’s post comes from Bart, the bear who found a smart phone in the woods.

Yo, Bart here.

I know all the people are pretty happy about the weather finally making a turn towards actual spring, but if you think you’re glad, imagine for just a minute how nice it must be for the wild things that live around you.

Me, for instance.

Yup, we’re all smiles out here in the woods, too. Everybody’s in a good mood. I had a rabbit wave at me yesterday – just a feelin’-good, how-ya-doin’-neighbor type of wave, which is odd because I eat rabbits sometimes. And I waved back! It really does lift your spirits when the weather gets warm.

But in case you were wondering, it’s still not a good idea to be too friendly with bears. And I say this even though I’m the friendliest bear you’d ever want to meet, assuming you want to meet a bear.

We can have tempers.

I read this article online about bear awareness that had lots of good information. It really opened my eyes to the risks we pose in springtime. For example, I had no idea that some people don’t clean their BBQ grills! There could still be greasy, crusty meat chunks in there. That’s gross and really exciting at the very same time. I know where I’m going to look next time I’m on the deck!

But here’s what convinced me that they really knew what they were talking about – the story quoted Jeff Selinger, a biologist for the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. He was talking about wild animals and the need for people to be cautious when he said this:

“You don’t know what they’ve been through lately.”

Exactly!

I’m glad somebody finally gets it – not every day is the same for a bear in the woods. Yesterday, for example. I went down to the lake because there’s finally open water and I thought maybe I could find a fish. Well there wasn’t a fish, but I found this cooler that looked like it had been sitting out there all winter!

That’s really a great find, because people keep all kinds of tasty treats in their coolers, and if was left there last Fall the stuff inside might still taste pretty much OK. I tried to pull it open and the top wouldn’t come off. I shook it and could hear there were some heavy things sloshing around inside – I was imagining hot dogs or hamburgers.

I had to throw it around a lot before it finally popped open and what did I find inside? Plastic bottles full of water! Water is not in short supply right now. What a letdown!

And then when I looked across the lake I saw another bear who had broken open a different cooler, and HE was EATING something. It figures – I found the drinks cooler and he got the one with the grill food inside. Darn the luck!

I caught his eye and I let him know with facial language that I was not happy, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all. We bears aren’t too supportive of each other, and I felt miserable that he was getting all the good grub. Plus, he let me know that he didn’t respect me much.

Somehow word had got around that I had waved “hello” at a rabbit.

Your hungry, frustrated pal,
Bart

What kind of springtime wildlife activity are you seeing?

Science

Goats in the News

69 Comments

An Irishman says a ewe on his farm has given birth to a rare Goat-Sheep.

The animal is exactly what you might imagine – the product of a union between a goat and a sheep. According to the BBC article and Wikipedia, such offspring usually don’t survive.

This one, however, is thriving. He’s faster than a typical sheep, and woolier than a normal goat.

Of course when a story like this surfaces on the Internet, alarm bells go off and a skeptical reader looks for signs of a ruse. And this tale has them.

For one thing, the farmer’s name is Paddy Murphy. I’m not saying such a name is unlikely – far from it. I would argue the opposite – Paddy Murphy is a go-to Irish name that any writer from The Onion would choose.

Paddy Murphy’s would also be a logical first choice for anyone with enough cash and bad taste to open a phony Irish pub in Coon Rapids. And sure enough, the farmer owns a pub, (Murphy’s, naturally), though his is in County Kildare.

Yet I believe this story, because I love the odd duck and pull for the underdog. Which would be the Underduck – a sad-eyed and lovable but highly temperamental hairy billed beast. And the story originates with an unimpeachable source – The Irish Farmers Journal.

No one would make that up.

What sort of hybrid are you?

Uncategorized

Money Storm!

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Today’s post is a fundraising letter from Congressman Loomis Beechly, representing Minnesota’s 9th District – all the water surface area in the state.

Greetings Constituents,

Yes, the forecast is alarming.

But I want to assure you that I am fully aware that a deluge is headed this way, and I have taken every possible step to prepare for the coming storm.

The expected onslaught will yield unprecedented piles and prodigious accumulations – exactly the type of crisis I have dreamed of facing from the moment I was sworn into this office.

And now, thanks to the Supreme Court, it is coming true. The country’s richest people are finally free to dump boatloads of money on me!

The court’s ruling in the McCutcheon case means individual Americans are no longer limited in the number of politicians they can support with direct contributions. While they will still have a $2600 ceiling per candidate per election, the overall election cycle restriction of $48,600 for Federal office seekers has been removed.

So if you have ever said to me, “Really, you’re the next Congressman I’d write a check to if I hadn’t already hit the limit!”, the McCutcheon decision means that excuse is gone and now is the time to pony up.

And yes, I realize that $2,600 would buy a very nice pony indeed, but as I’ve said at hundreds of chicken dinner fundraisers over the past ten years, “Why waste that kind of cash on such an extravagant gift for your daughter when I’ll be more grateful and I’ll actually listen when you call to offer your sage advice!”

Don’t expect others to take care of this. I don’t have any illusions about this making much difference to the average residential contributor in the waterlogged 9th district. After all, most people who live on the lake have boats, and boats consume dollars faster than horses eat oats. Ordinary people would be much better off giving their money to some worthy non-profit, like your local community radio station!

But major, major, bottomless-bank-account political funders coast to coast – you’ve got the resources and you know who you are. You now have it within your reach to make a maximum offering to every member of Congress! And what hobbyist hasn’t dreamed of collecting the complete set?

Trust me, the complete set has dreamed of being collected by you!

Mega-donors, your phone is about to start ringing. Yes, there will be pleading, cajoling, and some begging. The clamoring voices of Congressmen may all begin to sound the same to you, but if, in the background, you hear the call of a loon, that will be me!

Seriously,
Congressman Loomis Beechly
Minnesota’s 9th

Ever been strong-armed?

Business

Parody Power

42 Comments

The people of the world cannot be divided into groups based on superficial impressions or simple-to-understand categories. I always try to remember that there is more to any person’s story than I can possibly know. Even a fictitious person has layers.

Still, it’s easy to skip over all that and just get mad at a guy who’s obviously feeling pretty smug about his fancy car.

Now I enjoy a good parody on April Fool’s, or any other day. It’s legal stealing to take someone else’s idea and mock it with a near copy, inserting just the right number of tweaks to get your message across.

You’re not going to get rich enough to by a Cadillac if you make your living doing parodies. Unless you’re amazingly good at it. Parody can be deadly effective when done right, but the form has weaknesses. For one, it can fall flat if your audience doesn’t know the original. And in our increasingly fractured media landscape, finding a source document that is universally recognized can be a challenge.

That’s where money comes in handy. Fortunately, Cadillac spent piles of it on the Olympics telecasts to acquaint vast numbers of people with the fellow in the above ad and the towering self-satisfaction that must be characteristic of the target buyer for the company’s newest high-end uber-chariot.

Lots of people felt chafed by that Cadillac ad, and many complained. But the best critics asked themselves one essential question – is it ripe for parody? The answer? In this case, “You bet!”.

Beautifully done. The only thing I would change would be to have that nice shiny Ford smeared with a little healthy manure. But that might have constituted “rubbing it in.”

Why do you work so hard?

The Baboon Congress

Me and “The Girls”

45 Comments

Today’s guest post comes from Renee.

I am a healthy 56 year old person. I rarely get ill. I am not on any medications. My family history is pretty devoid of chronic health problems other than cardiovascular disease, but even that hasn’t kept many of my family members living to very advanced ages. I don’t have a family history of cancer or dementia. I will admit, with some sheepishness, that I don’t have all the yearly checkups a person my age is supposed to have.

I had my last mammogram about two years ago, and the experience still leaves me giggling. Since I don’t go the doctor very often, I don’t have regular experience with cutting edge trends in patient care. I usually have my mammogram at the local hospital, where I have had the same radiology tech for 25 years. It happens in the same room with the same level of more than adequate care each time. I think Rosie, the radiology tech, has worn the same pink scrubs since I met her. We don’t talk much during the procedure, mainly small talk about our respective families and the state of the hospital administration. We sort of ignore the real business at hand, which is fine with me.

I just shut my eyes and think of England.

My most recent mammogram took place at a local clinic where I had gone for a Pap test. The doctor noticed I hadn’t had mammogram in a while, and said I could have one right away in the clinic’s new Mammography Department. I agreed, and was whisked back to the lab/x-ray area where I met the radiology tech. At least, that’s who she said she was. I wasn’t sure, since she was elegantly dressed in designer street clothes, and was perfectly coiffed, bejeweled, and made up. She looked like a highly successful Mary Kay consultant. She oozed friendly concern, doing her best to put me at ease, and led me to the mammogram room, a tastefully appointed space that looked like an upper middle-class living room that just happened to have this weird x-ray machine in it. The lighting was subdued and lovely. The furniture was lovely. The perfectly displayed magazines were lovely. The framed Impressionist reproductions and inspirational messages on the wall (Dream!; Love Like You have Never Been Hurt!) were lovely.

I am pretty modest regarding my person and its private parts. In my professional work I frequently have to educate abused children on the proper names for private body parts, and no matter how often I have to do it, I never find it easy. (I practice saying the words out loud at home when I vacuum). I find the euphemisms for those body parts even more embarrassing than the proper names. Well, the Mary Kay radiology tech really stunned me when she started talking about the parts in question as though they were people, “girls” to be exact. “Let’s get this girl up here!” “Oh, we need to move this girl over just a little so her picture can be really beautiful!” She talked non-stop about the “girls” and their beautiful pictures as though we were at a photo shoot for a fashion magazine. I am surprised she didn’t give them names. Finally, we were done, and the girls and I went home.

I suppose the whole set up was designed to help women feel more at ease during an embarrassing, sometimes painful, and possibly frightening procedure. It didn’t have that effect on me. I want my doctors to look wise and experienced. I want my radiology techs to wear scrubs and look like medical professionals. I want the walls lined with scholarly journals. I know I have little to complain about. I am healthy, and I have never faced to specter of breast cancer. It is about time for me and the girls to go for our next photo shoot. Rosie or Mary Kay? Hmm. I also understand that I am at the age for a colonoscopy.

Oh dear!

What do you expect from a visit to the clinic?

Science

Five Seconds Grace

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Students at Aston University in Birmingham, England have conducted an experiment and claim to posess data that lends credence to the famous 5-Second Rule for dropped food.

They fumbled toast, pasta, biscuits and sticky sweets, and then left the morsels on different types of flooring for up to 30 seconds.

These calculating slobs of science found that time is a significant factor in the transfer of bacteria from a floor surface to a munchie. Remarkably, the experiment found that food dropped on carpet picked up fewer contaminants than food dropped on flooring that is less plush.

Additional findings: that wet food drew more invisible unsavories than dry food, and women were more likely to pick up and eat dropped food than were men. That last one runs against the stereotype that women are less disgusting in every respect. I can only reconcile it by assuming that, rather than pick up dropped food, men are more likely to grind tidbits into the carpet with their feet before plunging their hands deeper into the chip bowl.

Although its findings are contradicted by study after study after study, this unpublished and non-peer reviewed research is good enough for me, because now I can begin to imagine living in a more forgiving world where mistakes can be undone with no penalty as long as you realize it right away.

I’m not saying I do a lot of dumb things, but most of the time while committing my major screw-up-of-the-day I pretty much know it immediately – often while in the act.

Although putting it that way might have been an error.

Never mind. Undo!

What if there was a Universal Five Second Rule (UFSR) that allowed you to instantly take back anything at all if it seemed wrong within five seconds of commission – a contract signature, an unkind word, an errant throw, a dropped match, a Facebook post or an e-mail?

The irreversibility of ill-considered choices is what makes it worthwhile to think before acting. In a world governed by the UFSR, some people would abandon discipline and take back virtually everything. And then there would be an expansionist lobby – if five seconds works, why can’t we make it fifty seconds? Or five minutes?

“A slippery slope,” as they say. Which, if you stepped onto one, is exactly the sort of thing you would want to revoke before the consequences hit.

What is the proper length for a grace period?