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Whither Wendell Willkie?

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Here’s a guest post from Willkie High School’s perennial sophomore Bubby Spamden.

Hey Mr. C.,

So we had this all school assembly because February 18th is Wendell Willkie’s birthday, and I got to give the Willke Day speech because I’ve been a sophomore, like, forever, and they’ve never asked me. Now that the older teachers are getting pretty clear signals that they’re going to get set out at the curb the next time there’s a downsizing, a couple of them pressured principal Peepers to give me a shot. I think hearing me speak to the whole school was on somebody’s bucket list. So anyway, here’s my speech:

Parents, Administrators and Fellow Students,

Today we honor Mr. Wendell Willkie, our school’s namesake.
He was a famous loser. He ran for president and lost to Franklin Delano Roosevelt in the 1940 election, just before the United States got into World War II.

So our man Willkie was the almost-President of the country that won the biggest war the world has ever seen. He lost an ocean of future textbook ink, he lost having his own presidential library, he lost a starring role in all those History Channel documentaries, and he lost having a Wilkie Monument on the National Mall.

What did he get as a consolation prize? He got our high school. That’s it. And when you think about it, that’s a pretty big burden for us to carry.

Wendell Willkie was a moderate Republican, a weird kind of creature not quite as ancient and disappeared as a Stegosaurus, but close. For some reason they couldn’t reproduce.

But coming up short is cool today. Career counselors say our failures make us great. The key is what you do AFTER you lose. Wendell Willkie recovered by taking a job with the man who beat him. That’s right – Roosevelt hired Willkie to travel around the world as his personal representative. How’s that for bouncing back? You get to have the perks of a president without the responsibility – not a bad rebound.

And he didn’t give up, at least not in his mind! Willkie still wanted to be President, and maybe King of the World, too. There’s a pretty reliable account that during a State visit to Asia, Willkie dallied with Madame Chiang Kai-shek. She reportedly told a confidant later that she thought she and Willkie could take over the planet together. She’d run Asia and he’d take the Western world.

Ruler of Earth in cahoots with a temptress from the mysterious East. Not a bad daydream for a guy from Elwood, Indiana.

One other cool thing about Willkie – he had a heart attack on a train, and died because he wouldn’t get off to seek help. The story is that he wanted to get back home to his own doctor. A true Republican hero at the end – resisting One Size Fits All health care. And I can think of just one other famous American who died of a heart attack on a train – Fats Waller.

Pretty good company for a really big loser. First in Failure! That’s our Willkie!

I thought this was a decent speech, but they stopped me when I got to the line “He was a famous loser”, turned off my microphone, sent everyone back to class and gave me extra detention for being inappropriate. In the best Willke tradition, I failed big on a really big stage. Pretty good tribute, eh?

Who would you choose as your partner to take over and rule the world?

The Baboon Congress

You Gotta Try This

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Today’s guest post is by Anna.

I am unimpressed with this year’s so-called “winter.” It has been a disappointment. While I can appreciate that some folks like the nice snow-free sidewalks and warmer temperatures, I am a Minnesota kid, and I miss my snow and ice and cold. I tried to go out ice skating one afternoon and instead of the chsss chsss chsss of skate blades on the neighborhood rink I heard chuh chuh chuh as I tried to maneuver myself across the slushy mess. Sure it was sunny, but without any glide in my step, not even the warmth on my face or the extra vitamin D was working for me.

Still, there was one day when it was real winter. One day when it had just snowed enough to do something outdoors besides walk the dog. Daughter really wanted to go sledding. I was feeling more in a “stay inside by the fire” kind of mood, since we were in the “cold after the snow” part of the snow, but was willing to put on my snow pants to appease the seven-year-old and ensure that my Minnesota native cred was still good. So, find the boots that had not yet been needed (in the basement), pull the snow pants out from the closet (yikes, these got smaller in the last 12 months), hat (goofy looking), mittens (the warm ones), out we go to find the sleds. Crunch crunch through the quiet neighborhood – with the exception of a few folks out with their dogs, we are the only ones out. And yikes, that wind is biting; a fierce blast that I was not expecting, especially given the mild weather of the season thus far (should have added the scarf). A few blocks from home I hear myself whine like a three-year-old, “are you sure you want to do this? We could go home and have cocoa…” No. We are going. There is snow to be sledded on, this is not an opportunity to be missed.

Once at the hill, the seven-year-old races to the top with her sled in hand. I find a sunny spot to try to gather some warmth and watch. Ssssshhhhhoooo, down the hill she comes and then runs back up the hill. “You gotta try this. It’s so much fun!” I am not convinced, but trudge up with the other sled. Wedging the extra sled into a nearby stand of tall weeds so it won’t blow away, I plunk myself down into the purple plastic embrace of the sled with Daughter in front of me. Sssssshhhhhhooooo, down the hill we go together, across the path, almost to the creek. And it was fun. A few more times together, a few times each on our own sleds, timing our runs so we don’t mow down the walkers (and one biker) using the path at the bottom of the hill. Laughing as we fall over or spin backwards on our descent. Even with the exertion of going up and down the hill, eventually my face gets cold enough that I convince Daughter it’s time to go home. Bump bump bump the sleds follow us home to cocoa (and marshmallows and a fire). But I was glad I tried it, ssssssshhhhhhooooo, it was so much fun.

When have you been convinced to do something that was more fun than you expected?

The Baboon Congress

Not Done Yet

115 Comments

Today’s guest post comes from tim.

my moms visit to the hospital was a good reflective time for me. she has been spending her life as the caretaker first for the students she taught while shuffling family matters then for my da when they retired up to leach lake and now she has been slow to realize that it is ok for her to be on her to take care of list too. we went a funeral for a student of hers and a classmate of mine and she felt poorly and we ended up going to urgent care, the emergency room and then checking her into the hospital where they found a tumor after deducing that her weakness and feeling poorly was due to blood loss. the doctors looked at her charts and saw that she had a do not resussitate order on her history and the doctor asked if they were going in to do the explority stuff to find where the internal bleeding had its origins and she happened to have a failure did she really want to keep the do not resussitate order in place? well…… she said that maybe they should change that. she still had some stuff to do. i thought that was a nice milestone. to realize youve still got stuff to do.

while sitting up in that god awful dressing gown
my mom found life had an attraction
she wasn’t quite done with the stuff she wrote down
her to do list still needed subtraction

she just moved back to town after living on leach
trading lakeshore for retirement stuff
she had boxes to organize and pictures to sort
shed done some but not nraly enough

she just got diagnosed with sleep apthia syndome
she just started dong the machine
just think how life could be in her freshly painted new home
with a good sleep and days in between

with brain cells and group stuff thats offer each day
the choices are endless it seems
and now she has chosen to come back and say
howdy partners life is made out of dreams

its good to be happy to just be alive
what one greater gift could there be
to count all your blessings there are at least five
on the left hand alone yip yipee

i remember being asked one how much for your sight?
how much would you sell your eyes for?
appreciate small things like having the right
to get up and walk out the door.

life throws us curve balls and flattens our tires
i hate it when whacked in the face
but theres no where that i rather be to aspire
to win out there in this rat race.

get up splash some water on that tired old smile
say helo to the friend in the glass
could be that today is the best one in a while
get up get on out there kick ass

life can be simple and life can be grand
or a conniption is yours for the giving
get out there and leave your footprints in the sand
and be glad that life is worth living

five reasons life is good please.

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Day of the Voting Dead

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Today’s guest post is by 9th District Congressman Loomis Beechly.

Greetings, Constituents!

Two days ago, I posted some thoughts here regarding proposed Constitutional Amendments and my personal feelings about Vampires. Little did I know some people would actually read what I had to say and respond!

From your comments, you seem to think that Vampires should, perhaps, be allowed to vote. This is remarkable to me, and while I can’t agree with your sentiments, I am obliged as a public servant to show some respect for your right to be totally out of your mind on this particular question. Still, I find it intimidating to consider what political candidates might do to cater to the Vampire voting bloc. It would not be beyond some of them to throw open the doors of the blood banks to win a few votes. Seriously. Mitt Romney would do it, I’m sure.

And now comes fresh news from the Pew Charitable Trusts that many states keep sloppy records and over one million dead people are still registered to vote.

These are the ordinary dead, not Vampires, but I assume if you are in favor of voting rights for soulless bloodsuckers you would also extend that privilege to the dearly departed. At least I would hope so. I know a few of them very, very well and I believe they deserve it.

Critics will say that actual dead people never show up at the polls. True, but in this they are no different from most Americans. I think the dead should stay on the rolls so that parties and candidates will alter their tactics and policies in an attempt to win the dead vote!

Why? Because it would change our politics for the better.

* The dead are immune to fashion and frenzy and they have long memories. Candidates would have to focus on lasting solutions to long term problems.

* There would be less fear mongering. The dead, by virtue of being deceased, are difficult to frighten. They don’t run from terrorists and they aren’t bothered by homosexuals or immigrants. In fact, everyone is finally equal in the land of the dead. Wouldn’t personal experience in that culture be a great addition to our voting populace?

* Conservatives should be for this one – dead people can be easily identified with or without photo ID and once set in stone, their addresses never change. Finally, a stable, predictable population to participate in our elections!

* Also, dead people have a wonderfully mature perspective on the big issues of the day, particularly health care. Many of them were receiving copious amounts of it just before they died. If they were allowed to weigh in on the matter, they might insist we spend less on prescription drugs and more on faster ambulances.

* Finally, more votes from the dead could help us re-focus our priorities on the things that matter most. I think all dead folks are environmentalists. Or to be more exact, dead folks are the environment. They’re underneath our feet. They’re mixed in with the oceans and particles of them are even floating around in the air we breathe. I think being dead would help them serve as responsible, informed voters on all the “green” issues, especially those that have to do with maintaining clean groundwater.

In fact, when you think about all the ways being dead and voting responsibly align, it’s hard to understand why we waste our time trying to get support from alive people.

Accordingly, I will introduce legislation to protect the voting rights of these expired Americans. I hope you will decide that my efforts are worthy of your support.

Sincerely,

Congressman Loomis Beechly

Help Congressman Beechly – think of a campaign slogan he can use to win dead votes.

The Baboon Congress

No Size Fits All

101 Comments

Today’s guest post comes from Clyde.

I am not the man I used to be. My doctor told me so.

Well, it was her nurse who told me that I have become a lesser man. The way she said it was, “Your height is 5 feet 10 inches.”

I said, “Really?”

She said, “I’ll check it again. You’re 5 feet 10 AND 1/8 inches.” Ah, me! Phew! That 1/8 made me feel better.

Since my height for most of my life was 5 feet 11 7/8 inches, it is not a stretch, pun intended, to say I have lost two inches in height. Because I always claimed a height of 6 feet, it is only fair that I now claim a height of 5-10. I lost most of that height in a short time, less than a year. Ah, me! I think I’ll call myself a Settler. Maybe gravity suddenly became stronger in Mankato. Maybe my load of care is getting me down. Now I really am in depression. It has to be something the Republicans did. “They’re turning me into a Newt!”

Don’t you think I would have noticed? That it would have been harder to get things down from shelves, for instance. Harder to reach light bulbs. I am a typical male: I don’t see the thing right in front of my face unless you point at it. Wait a minute, it was harder to reach light bulbs. It should now be easier to reach down to the floor, but it’s not. Ah, me! Go figure.

Another bad thing is that I am now ten more pounds overweight, even though I have lost weight. Ah me!

Then I noticed that the cuffs of my pants and pajamas are getting frayed. One could say I’m dressed in drag. I told the launderer he should have spotted it and told me, but he has lint for brains. Now I really have a problem; I cannot buy off-the-rack anymore. I have a rather odd body. Despite having once been 6 feet tall, I had a 30 inch inseam, which is the bottom end of rack-sizes for my waist. I seem to have a 29-inch inseam or closer to 28 perhaps. Ah me! I could take up sewing.

Wait! A friend just sent a picture of fourth graders in the Two Harbors of my youth. All the boys had the cuffs of their jeans turned up three to four inches. Could we bring back that style, please?

What style do you want to bring back?

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Keeping Us Safe

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Today’s guest post comes from 9th District Congressman Loomis Beechly

Greetings Constituents.

I’m a lawyer and it’s my job to write laws for a living. I know you don’t have much respect for that kind of work, but I’m a Congressman. I’m used to not getting much respect. It comes with the job.

But recently I’ve noticed a movement on the state level to add things to the State Constitution as a way of setting new law and preventing interference from the courts. I’m intrigued by this and I have to admit I rather like it because it gets around the tiresome talk-talk-talking about issues with people who aren’t smart enough to agree with me already.

Getting something into the Constitution is a great way to pre-emptively deal with things we imagine could become a problem sometime down the road if “those people” get their way. And you know who I mean. Everybody has some of “those people” who haunt their dreams.

Critics say this wave of amendments is like a child piling his toys against the closet door to keep the monsters from coming out. I get the connection, but I don’t much care for the tone – belittling such efforts as childish. Closet monsters are real. In fact, the U.S. Senate has cloak rooms where members are supposed to talk about issues and come to some kind of agreement. For a lot of people in Washington and St. Paul, coming to agreement is a very scary thing indeed, and they avoid it the same way you would steer clear of Frankenstein. Imagine a big, green, flat-headed lurcher named “Amity”, and you’ll get the idea. Very disturbing.

Personally, I have a thing about Vampires.

Vampires have been gaining ground in recent years. When I was a kid they only appeared in movies and always in their proper role – as scary bloodsucking beasts who could only be killed by a stake through the heart. But lately, they’ve been depicted as sexy, misunderstood lover boys who might be decent marriage material. Even though, as Vampires, they don’t have photo ID! They can’t even appear in pictures! Or is that werewolves? I’m not sure. But I do know that Vampires have lots of rich moviemakers on their side, and there are probably quite a few judges who are strong sympathizers as well. Think about it – they all wear black robes.

So my point is this – Vampires should be kept in their place as a threat and should not be allowed to become part of the mainstream in any way, yet there is a real chance that doors will be opened to them that would be very, very difficult to close in the future. Little girls already want to marry vampires as long as they are named Edward. And just think about vampires voting. What will candidates of the future have to do to appeal to the vampire base? Bite the head off a chipmunk? There are people running for office today who would do that with very little prompting.

That’s why I would welcome a constitutional amendment that states “Vampires are evil and are not entitled to any of the rights afforded human beings in the State of Minnesota, including marriage and voting.”

Since I am not a member of the Minnesota legislature, I can’t introduce this bill myself, but I hope someone will pick it up and run with it. People want protection from Vampires, and even though they enjoy Vampire-based art and seem to love Vampire-inspired style, I think they will see the sense in it. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to be scared. Let’s nail shut the lid on the next Dracula’s coffin before he even has a chance to climb out of it!

What else is a Constitution for?

Sincerely,
Loomis Beechly

How would you vote on the anti-Vampire amendment?

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Ask Dr. Babooner

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Dear Dr. Babooner,

I admire people with drive and ingenuity. When I saw that someone invented a gizmo to screw on to the top of a mason jar that will turn it into a travel mug, I thought, “That’s really clever.” So I ordered one online. When I showed it to my husband, he snorted and said “you can’t drink hot things out of a mason jar, it’ll burn your hand.”

He’s right, of course. But the people who came up with this idea are brilliant, anyway. So I insist on using the gizmo to drink extremely hot things out of mason jars, even though we have a cupboard full of unused travel mugs that we got as public radio membership premiums. I do it to honor the spirit of invention and also to stick a heat-blistered finger in my husband’s eye for pooh-poohing such a cool product.
Oh, the things I endure to preserve my dignity.

That got me thinking that I could market something called “The Travail Mug”. Cool, huh?

“The Travail Mug” would be this line of designer insulated mugs, each one bearing witness to a burden you have to bear in silence. You know, like one would read “Mean People Say I’m Stupid” and another would say “Nobody Gets My Brilliant Ideas” or “My Spirit Gets Crushed Every Day.”

I just made those up as random samples of the sort of travail anybody could relate to.

When I mentioned this to my husband, he said the idea was “idiotic”. “First of all, everybody’s got too many travel mugs,” he said. And then he added this – “The whole concept is a thin joke built around a play on words. Where do you think you live? What century? Most Americans don’t know what ‘travail’ means, and they don’t care. Wordplay is a game for people who think they’re smart, and Americans don’t like smartypants. So what if ‘travail’ sounds like ‘travel’? It also sounds French. This idea is guaranteed to fail. Give up now.”

Dr. Babooner, I know he’s right. But why does it bother me so much? Is the idea of selling “Travail Mugs” really so disastrous? And do you think having to live with a grouchy spouse is enough of a travail to print on the new cups? It is definitely the heaviest burden I bear.

Sincerely,
Lovable Mug

I told Lovable Mug that her husband is a bully, but he’s actually doing her a favor by raining so constantly on her parade. If her brainstorm can’t stand up to harsh criticism, it will never succeed in the marketplace of ideas because the history of innovation has been written by people who were told over and over again that their inspired concept was ridiculous. Some of them never lost faith and proved their critics wrong! And a whole bunch of others spent the rest of their lives fruitlessly pushing impractical notions that really were not very well thought out. But that’s not the point! If you don’t love your ideas, who will?

But that’s just one opinion. What do you, think, Dr. Babooner?

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It’s My Nose’s Birthday

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Today is Jimmy Durante’s birthday. He was pure personality – a guy who reached an astounding number of people though he wasn’t handsome, didn’t have a beautiful voice and may or may not have been able to act. It’s hard to tell because we saw him play only one character – Jimmy Durante.

This video isn’t “Inka Dinka Doo” or “It’s My Nose’s Birthday,” but it’s full of Durante trademarks – the hat grab, the stiff legged dance, a nose joke … who knows how he did it, but the man was a true entertainer.

Durante had a great sign-off from his radio (and later, TV) show, a saying infused with mystery until 1966 when he finally revealed the identity of the person he was speaking to when he said “Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.”

Durante said “Mrs. Calabash” was his first wife, Jeanne Olsen Durante, who died on Valentine’s Day in 1943 of a heart ailment. They had been married more than 20 years. He said it at the National Press Club, and his remarks were recorded by the NBC radio program Monitor. You can hear it at the 48 minute mark on this recording.

“Years ago, the mrs. and I (this is the first Mrs. Durante) used to drive cross country and we came across a beautiful little town, Calabash, west of Chicago. And we stopped there overnight and she loved it, Lord have mercy on her soul, really loved it. I said well, I was playing piano then, as soon as I get rich I’ll buy the town. So, gentlemen, Mrs. Calabash, that I referred to all the time on our radio shows and television shows was Mrs. Jeanne Durante … Because every time we got home I used to call her ‘Mrs. Calabash’. I don’t know, just a feeling came over me, and at the end of the program I said ‘goodnight Mrs. Calabash’ So they all wanted to know, the whole cast wanted to know ‘what was that all about?’ I said ‘nothing’. So we kept doing it. And then at the end of that seasons’ program they said ‘well let’s say it’s a horse or let’s say it’s something. Anything’. And I said ‘no’. So then I added ‘wherever you are’.”

He said this in 1966, before Google and Mapquest, so I’m sure his National Press Club audience took his word for it that there was a little town called Calabash west of Chicago. With our modern tools in hand, I can’t find one there, unless you keep going west until you hit North Carolina. The people in THAT town say Mrs. Calabash was Lucy Coleman, a local restauranteur who captivated Durante during a visit in 1940. The legend is that he called her to his table and said that he would ‘make her famous’.

Maybe it’s better to have a bit of mystery remain. And I like both stories, so … take your pick.

What’s your catchphrase?

The Baboon Congress

It Came From Lake Vostok

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Today’s guest post comes from Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty.

In my work as a PDA (Professional Downside Anticipator), I constantly ask people to stop and carefully consider the variety of bad things that could happen before they choose to take one action or another. For this I am often criticized. People call me a spoilsport, a doomsayer, a sourpuss, a Cassandra and a worrywart.

As they belittle me, I ask them to consider this: if I turn out to be right about even ONE of my dire predictions, their attitude about my warning will place them squarely in the role of that character who appears in every science-based horror film – the one who dismisses the strange object in the crater made by the meteorite, the weird gelatinous substance found near the scene, the unusual young man who has no emotions, and the ruthless millionaire’s brain kept in a jar, saying they are “… nothing to worry about. There is no danger. Return to your homes”.

That person is the first one to be eaten by the mole people.

I find myself in that position again today with news that the Russians have finally broken through to the submerged surface of Lake Vostok in Antarctica. The lake is buried under miles of ice. Whatever is in it hasn’t been free to move about the planet for 20 million years. How can this be good? The Russians say they hope to find microbes in the water that have never been encountered by humankind.

I say, “Great scott, what if they find microbes that have never been encountered by humankind?”

These are educated people. Surely they know what happened to the tribes of North America when the microbe-laden Europeans arrived. Certainly they have seen the sort of movie I described, where an ancient horror is unleashed on an unsuspecting world by careless scientific inquiry.

Robin Bell, a glaciologist from Columbia University told the Associated Press: “It’s like exploring another planet, except this one is ours.” Robin Bell is exactly the sort of name a movie character has when he or she begins with a firm belief in the scientific project, and then slowly comes to realize what a terrible scourge has been unleashed on an unsuspecting world. “Glaciologist” is precisely the type of scientific discipline that character practices – legitimate sounding and yet a little quirky. Not your typical brainiac. Robin Bell ultimately winds up as the only person who can save humanity by rappelling down the ice shaft carrying a pocket-sized hydrogen bomb that must be placed directly under the creature’s nest. Robin Bell survives, but only after scads of walk-on characters with no names (you and me) perish.

It concerns me very much that there’s already a scientist named Robin Bell in this story.

I know people will not believe me when I say this because I have a reputation as a scold, but please, I beg you – “Seal up Lake Vostok!” Take this good advice from me right now, or wait until Robin Bell is forced to say the very same thing, as a gentle rain falls on a blasted, smoldering landscape.

What have you opened that you immediately wished you could close again?

The Baboon Congress

Coming To A Pork In The Road

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Today’s guest post comes from Dan in Woodbury.

While driving to my local health club in Woodbury last Saturday morning around 7:00 AM, I saw a small SUV pulled over to the right shoulder on a side street. In addition to the couple getting out of the vehicle, I noticed a blue barrel in the middle of the street, and standing next to the barrel was a Wessex Saddleback.

OK, I didn’t know it was a Wessex Saddleback at the time. But I did recognize it as a pig! About 250 pounds worth!

I thought “Now there’s something you don’t see every day!”

I was baffled by the sight of an animal so clearly out of its element, so like anyone suddenly faced with an unexpected and incomprehensible sight, I proceeded to go about my business.

(I am now reminded a scene from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It is the monologue of a poor sperm whale, called into existence against all probability several miles above an alien planet, trying to come to terms with its existence as it falls. “Ahhh! Whoa! What’s happening? Who am I? Why am I here? What’s my purpose in life? What do I mean by ‘who am I’? Okay, okay, calm down, calm down, get a grip now…” The philosophical whales last thought was “Hello Ground!”)

I pulled a U turn and returned to the scene of the porcine puzzle to find the couple snapping pictures of the dazed pig standing in the middle of the road next its transport. They told me they had called 911, and as we waited for the authorities to arrive, a neighbor from across the street joined the three of us in collectively corralling the pig to a grassy strip of land in front of a group of townhomes. After locating some rope in my truck to use as a leash, the neighbor (I’ll call him Joe) and I lassoed the pig. Which it didn’t care for at all! Having not been raised on a farm, I now know the full meaning of “squealed like a pig”. The struggling creature managed to squirm thru the noose until the rope was firmly cinched around it waist. Thankfully the pig calmed down after I slipped the rope off the hind quarters. It was at this time Joe and I noticed the couple had driven away, leaving the two of us on pig duty.

Another 10 minutes past before a Woodbury Community Service Officer (CSO) pulled up alongside us. I believe his first words were “Is this your pig?” Joe informed the CSO that he had heard a clunk and looked up to see a small red pickup with a loud exhaust driving away. He surmised the barrel had just fallen out of the back of the pickup when he noticed the pig exit the barrel. After supplying what facts we could, Joe and I paused for the CSO to make the next move. We both could tell the young man was not prepared for this job, so after sufficient time for the CSO to take the lead, Joe hatched a plan for him.

The CSO would use his catch pole to direct the pig into the barrel, door held open by Joe, while I pushed. It took a little effort on everyone’s part, but we were able to walk the pig in and then stand the barrel upright, thus preventing the ham from escaping. After using some rope to secure the door once again, we asked the CSO to go get his truck. With three of us lifting, we were able to “load ‘er up” and secure the barrel in the back of the CSO’s pickup. Joe and I then returned to our lives, as the CSO and pig headed into whatever process suburban Woodbury has for handling stray farm animals.

It wasn’t until I was in the health club locker room that my nose detected a considerable amount of “substance” smeared up and down my left leg. Yup, I smelled like a pig farm. I would have some explaining to do when I got home.

After relaying the story to a friend, he forwarded this article from the Woodbury Patch, which did a pretty good job reporting the event. I was pleased to be credited for my work as one half of the famed public service duo “two citizens”. The Pioneer Press account, however, mysteriously shifted the event four hours into the future and erased my act of good samaritanship entirely, nullifying not only the time spent and ingenuity employed, but completely missing the repulsive sacrifice of my trouser leg.

That is why I have decided to tell my story. It is exactly this kind of slight that propels a shy person to step into the light, forcing him to become a bit of a publicity hog.

What the strangest thing you’ve found on the side of the road?