The Teaspoon Times

by John Johnson, staff writer
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Above: The severely altered, formerly sock-themed photograph in question.

DES MOINES, IA — What started out as a photograph of a long-unlaundered gym sock lying on an apartment floor has been so thoroughly altered by Josh Marshall, 25, of Des Moines, that it is no longer recognizable as a photograph of a sock. Using the popular Adobe Photoshop software, Marshall spent hours Friday night adding several other, unrelated objects into the picture, eventually opting to remove the soiled sock altogether.

“I was just messing around with my digital camera one night, and I happened to snap a photo of one of my old, dirty socks lying on the kitchen floor next to a rather large crumb,” Marshall said while describing his licentious photography spree. “To make a long story short, when I uploaded the photo to my PC and looked at it, I thought, what kind of a boring-ass picture is this? So I decided to change it around a bit.”

After firing up Photoshop, Marshall got right to work. “The crumb was the first thing to go,” he said. “ It was just plain unsightly. I’m not even sure what kind of crumb it was. A cookie crumb, maybe, or a Pepperoni and Cheese Hot Pocket. But really, that’s not important. Anyways, I thought the picture would be much more exciting if I Photoshopped myself into it. You know? Like, me, standing there next to the sock,” Marshall declared proudly.

“Then I just got carried away,“ he admitted. ”I Photoshopped in a few cars and some trees, after which I thought, why stop there? I might as well go ahead and throw in the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. But then the sock looked so out of place on the streets of Paris that I just went ahead and blew the sock away.”

“If you look closely, you can tell that’s me crossing the street on the Champs-Elysees.” Grinning roguishly, he went on: “I’m gonna show this picture to [childhood friend] Kelly [Meyers] to trick her into thinking I was in Paris.”

Upon hearing of Marshall’s exploits, Meyers said, “Josh means well, but he’s got too much time on his hands. In fact, I’ll bet he’s planning to show the picture to all his friends to try and convince us he was in Paris. It’s just like that one time when he stuck his head in his fish tank, took a picture, and tried to tell us he went scuba diving. Pathetic. But this kind of thing is vintage Josh Marshall.”

- Reported by The Teaspoon Times. © 2008

Ask a specialist…about coat hangers
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In our Ask A Specialist column, readers from all over write in to ask our featured advice columnist pressing questions about a very specialized field. Whether they hope to resolve a dilemma or find a way out of their quandaries and quagmires, they get their answers here. Today we are proud to feature Ian Nelson, a Las Vegas, Nevada, resident specializing in coat hangers.

About our specialist: Ian Nelson relaxing with his wife, Edna, and puffing on a cigar in their home made entirely out of coat hangers.

Dear Ian,

The other day I was walking along and someone came up to me and offered to sell me a “bushel of coat hangers” for $10. Is this a good deal?

-Sam Paulson
Elk Grove, IL

Dear Sam,

There are a lot of shady types out there offering what they call “great deals” on coat hangers. Sometimes coat hangers may be bought for cheap on the black market, but one must be wary–especially when it comes to bushels. In the past, bushels have been packed in strict accordance with the standards set forth by the Coat Hanger Bushel Packing Association (CHBPA), of which I am a lifetime member. This work was done by bushel-packing experts, and is a task not to be attempted by the faint of heart. Unless you know the person selling the bushel, and have examined his or her credentials, it is quite possible that you will end up with a bushel of rather second-rate coat hangers, which in some cases, won’t even hang.

Dear Ian,

I only have one coat hanger, but I own several hundred articles of clothing. Approximately how many garments can be hung on one coat hanger before it breaks?

-Joanna Willard
Cranford, NJ

Dear Joanna,

I will admit that back in my college days, I frequently found myself more than one coat hanger short. In my fraternity house, my frat brothers would constantly be pilfering my coat hangers, and at one point, I think I had 2/3 of all my shirts on one hanger. Of course, I only owned 3 shirts, but it still made the situation a little hairy at times, especially when I was in a hurry and had to rummage through my closet to find a good shirt to wear.

Dear Ian,

A few years ago, just for grins, I stuck a feather in my hat and called it macaroni. Can this be done with a coat hanger?

-Peter Yee
Dallas, TX

Dear Peter,

It depends on what kind of a hat you wear. For example, a beret might not be strong enough to support an entire coat hanger. But a ballcap or top hat would probably work. Consider also, the material the coat hanger is made of. A wire hanger would probably produce the best results, whereas a wooden hanger might cause people to stare.

Dear Ian,

My husband was hanging up some clothes the other day and when I asked him what he was doing, he replied, “oh, just hanging around.” Should I put up with this type of humor?

-Madeline Summer
Cody, WY

Dear Madeline,

Let it go this once, but never again.

© 2008 The Teaspoon Times

by Teaspoon
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Today, we are going to talk about things that could potentially be hazardous to your health. Almost everyone knows about the health dangers of smoking, drinking, drugs, and telling your kids it’s time for bed. But not too long ago, I was skiing, and halfway down the slope I saw a big sign that said, ‘INVERTED AERIALS SUBSTANTIALLY INCREASE THE RISK OF SERIOUS INJURY AND ARE NOT RECOMMENDED.’ I saw this just in the nick of time, too, because I was about to attempt an inverted aerial myself. By this, of course, I mean I was about to do no such thing.

The key word here is “inverted.” I would argue that just about anything “inverted” substantially increases the risk of injury. I can only remember one time I have ever been inverted, and that was when I was seven years old, and I had the hiccups–I stood on my head while I drank a glass of water. “Drank,” here, means “poured directly into my nose.” You might be wondering if this technique works. Oh yes. But not without a few minor side effects, such as total loss of short and long term memory, rapid facial hair growth (I had a full beard four minutes later, I’ll never forget that), an unexplainable urge to use the word “willywisp” as often as possible in casual conversation, not to mention that nowadays I’m just a little bit…weird.

As for that sign I saw, I’d say they need more of those sorts of warnings on the slopes. For the people who can’t seem to line up enough brain cells to know what could be dangerous, they need signs bearing simple warnings, such as ‘SKIING OFF A CLIFF INCREASES THE RISK OF INJURY,’ or ‘WE DO NOT RECOMMEND LIGHTING YOURSELF ON FIRE.’ Although sometimes lighting myself on fire sounds quite appealing when I’m riding up on the chairlift and I’m so cold that all molecular motion in my body has ceased and my scarf is wrapped so tightly around my face I can’t even breathe and yelling for help is useless because my tongue is frozen to the inside of my mouth and “help me” sounds more like “hoink a flea” but it doesn’t matter anymore because I’m at the top of the mountain where all I can do is lean forward a bit and fall out of my chair, hitting the ground with a frozen thud. This is how a typical day on the slopes begins.

So after thawing out in the mountaintop restaurant by having a steaming, rich and creamy cup of hot cocoa poured all over me (WARNING: THIS MAY NOT BE THE IDEAL WAY TO THAW OUT), it’s time to ski.

I am not a good skier, I just like to go fast. In fact, there probably needs to be a warning sign about me. (I figure if I’m not careful, one day I might just fly off the mountainside and land in the parking lot, thereby eliminating the formality of actually skiing my way down). Anyway, there I am — not a very good skier and a danger to everyone around me — blazing down the hill at a hundred miles an hour, glancing back every so often at whomever I’m skiing with, laughing, and thinking, “so long, suckers!”

Until I hit a mogul. Up into the air I go, completely helpless and suddenly not smiling anymore. But gravity is efficient, and wastes no time in splattering me all over the mountainside. The friends I was just laughing at, kind as they are, ski over to me, having retrieved my skis, poles, hat, and various body parts. I’m left to wonder: where was the warning sign for that bump?

And since there’s something about uncontrollably flying off moguls that works up an appetite, lunch is always a welcome part of the day. Fortunately, at a ski resort, midday dining options abound. However, one warning sign I’d still like to see posted outside all of these restaurants is: ‘EATING HERE SUBSTANTIALLY INCREASES YOUR RISK OF FILING FOR CHAPTER 7 BANKRUPTCY.’ After spending the equivalent of four car payments on lunch, I vowed to bring a sandwich next time.

To summarize: skiing is a risk, and involves large amounts of chance and luck. One statistical certainty, however, remains. How’s this for a warning sign: ‘PREPARE TO BE MUGGED AT THE TICKET WINDOW’? Because isn’t that essentially what happens? “Okay, that’ll be thirty bucks for the lift ticket,” says the cashier. Then, whipping out a bag and a gun: “and, uh…toss an extra fifty into the sack here. Come on, hurry up…” And we, the American consumer, insouciantly fling our money into the bag and go on our merry way, completely unfazed by what just took place, even happy about it. The thought alone makes me want to go do some inverted aerials.

Timothy Pike is a sartorial essayist making his home on a small, remote island just off the coast of a smaller, remote island.

© 2008 The Teaspoon Times

by John Johnson, staff writer
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Above: Julianne Cearly chops broccoli very aggressively on her kitchen counter in an effort to cope with her recent rejection.

DULUTH, MN — Julianne Cearly, President and sole employee of her newly self-founded greeting card company, Clearly Cearly Cards, received a rejection letter yesterday from Julianne Cearly, the president of the company, in response to several card ideas she had submitted two weeks earlier.

“To tell you the truth, this is a little awkward,” Cearly said. “And extremely disappointing, because I really wanted to use my own ideas for my card company. But apparently these high and mighty CEO types can’t be bothered with ideas from the little people.”

Sources close to Cearly are not sure whether this move was simply an inappropriate use of her newfound power as head of her own organization, or an indication of other psychological problems, such as low self-esteem or even split personality disorder.

“People reject their own ideas all the time, either consciously or subconsciously,” said nationally renowned psychologist Jan Nillson. “But actually going to the trouble of sending yourself a letter of rejection? That’s just weird. I’m sorry. But it is.”

The ideas submitted by Cearly to herself included a greeting card whose front read, “To the love of my life, who loves to take naps,” and when opened, read, “Rest in peace, my love.” Another card was blank on the outside, and when opened, read, “You’re so hard to THANK that I just drew a BLANK.”

“This really puts me in a pickle,” said Cearly. “I’m not sure if I should start soliciting ideas from outside sources, or try submitting my ideas again. My original vision was to have as many greeting card ideas as possible come from within the company. But I guess that’s not going to happen now, is it?” Looking up and shaking a fist toward the ceiling, she went on: “Is it now, Cearly? Is it?”

Cearly, the company’s only shareholder, anticipates voting Cearly off the board of directors “in a landslide” next month.

“I’ll get you, my pretty,” Cearly said of Cearly. “And your little dog, too.”

-Reported by The Teaspoon Times. © 2008

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For Sale:Fully functional computer. 1 byte hard drive, capable of performing 3 calculations/week, very fuel efficient. Strange guy included. Best offer.

© 2008 The Teaspoon Times

Ask a specialist…about doors
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In our Ask A Specialist column, readers from all over write in to ask our featured advice columnist pressing questions about a very specialized field. Whether they hope to resolve a dilemma or find a way out of their quandaries and quagmires, they get their answers here. Today we are proud to feature Jennifer Kennedy, a South Beach, Florida, resident specializing in doors.

About our specialist: When not thinking or writing about doors, Jennifer Kennedy likes to ride around the pasture on her horse, Door.

Dear Jennifer,

I have a total crush on this guy, Seth, and I was at a party at his house last weekend. At one point, I walked out onto the patio to get a drink. I thought I had left the sliding door open, but when I tried to walk back into the living room, I ran — smack! –into the glass door. I saw stars and staggered back, spilling half of my drink. Seth saw it all, and I think he was trying hard not to laugh. Now I’m worried that he thinks I’m a freak. Should I pursue this guy any further?

-Slammed and Confused
Peoria, AZ

Dear Slammed,

Walking straight into a plate glass door doesn’t automatically make you a freak. However, it appears that you have a textbook case of impact-induced door anxiety. Don’t worry…IIDA doesn’t last forever (less than 40 years, in most cases). In the meantime, if you and Seth end up together, he’ll just have to swallow hard and accept the fact that you’re the kind of person who could, quite literally, walk into a door at any moment.

Dear Jennifer,

My family has a kitchen table that was made out of an old hospital room door. We all gather ‘round it every night for dinner. Do you think that’s creepy?

-Kevin Sanford
Salem, OR

Dear Kevin,

Yes.

Dear Jennifer,

On any given day at work, I walk through a lot of doors. There’s a door to get into the building, a door to the elevator, a door to our office suite, and a door to my office. When I go to meetings, I walk through doors. When I get a cup of coffee, I walk through a door. When I have to pee, I walk through the bathroom door only to walk through the stall door. I have to walk through a door to do everything but pick my nose. So at the end of the day, I am so flipping sick of doors, I can hardly stand up. Is there anything I can do to reduce my daily door usage?

-Sandra Wright
Milpitas, CA

Dear Sandra,

I sympathize with your plight, yet I cannot fully identify with your feelings of despair and hopelessness over doors. Being a door specialist, you see, I never get sick of doors. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for you, doors are a part of everyday life, and if you find yourself unable to cope with them, keep in mind that the doors in your life can always be unscrewed from their hinges.

© 2008 The Teaspoon Times

by John Johnson, staff writer
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Above: A driver slows down to make his way through an extremely unproductive construction zone near Louisville, Kentucky on Thursday.

LOUISVILLE, KY — For over a week, a state construction crew has been tirelessly constructing absolutely nothing along a half-mile stretch of Glendale Road, near Fern Creek park. Although the project looks quite official, with real-life tractors and bulldozers — even a man holding a “SLOW” sign — mind-boggingly little has been accomplished since the crew began on February 29.

Vincent Ortega, who lives in Fern Creek, drives past the construction zone nearly every day on his way to work. “It’s stupid,” he said. “All I see is dirt being spread around for no reason, and a tractor driving back and forth. Geez, I hope not too many of my tax dollars are going into this. They claim to be putting in some sort of pipeline, but so far, I’ve seen no pipe.”

Officials of the state transportation department could not be reached for comment, but Louisville City Commissioner Ted Salinger told The Teaspoon Times that every effort is being made to improve the short stretch of road. “They’re definitely putting in a pipeline,” he said. “Or are they repaving? Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Either way, they’re a remarkable group of folks, and they’ve made an incredible amount of progress. We in Louisville take great pride in our construction crews.”

Someone not taking great pride in her daily commute is resident Kathy Samuelson, who drops her son off for soccer practice every afternoon in the park next to the construction zone. “There’s dirt,” she said. “I mean, a lot of dirt. Where it’s coming from, I’ll never know, because they’re not even digging any holes. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing over there, but I wish they’d just stop.” Echoing the worries of many of her fellow soccer moms, a misty-eyed Samuelson went on: “I just long for the days when I can send little Billy off to practice without worrying about him getting flattened by a bulldozer.”

$30 million have been allocated for major construction projects in the Louisville area over the next five years. Projects slated for later this year include paving portions of the Ohio River, spot-welding most of the city’s manhole covers shut, and painting all the trees in the metro area blue.

-Reported by The Teaspoon Times. © 2008

by Teaspoon
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A blank page has always held some sort of mystical attraction for me. I always have to stare at it for a few minutes, admiring its purity, innocence, and the fresh start it represents. An hour later, I’m staring at the same blank page, cursing and pulling the hair out of my head because I still can’t think of a thing to write. That’s just one of the great paradoxes of my life.

In fact, my life has never made a whole lot of sense. For example, at the tender age of five, for reasons I still don’t fully comprehend, I was only four years old. But there are a couple things in my life that do make sense: the power of words, and the power of humor. Also, the power of ice cream sandwiches, but we’ll save that one for another column.

My fascination with writing dates all the way back to 13 B.C. (Before College). In kindergarten, I owned and operated a small company called Thunder Books. The objective of Thunder Books was to produce, publish, and sell a variety of books by a variety of authors (namely me), about a variety of subjects (namely whatever I wanted to write about). My inventory was pretty easy to control, as it consisted of about six books. One book was titled The Day Sunday Got Stuck, and depicted the horror of a certain Sunday repeating itself over and over. Another was called A Monkey Story, and involved monkeys. It also involved frogs and a tea party, although now I can’t remember how I worked that in.

The big perk about being the only employee of Thunder Books was that whenever I was peddling my wares at my elementary school or a church flea market and a customer got pissed off at me and demanded to speak to the manager, I could say, “I am the manager.” I have not had the opportunity to say that to anybody since, except for that one time in eighth grade when Zorg and his buddies pulled their spaceship into my backyard and demanded to be taken to my leader, and I replied, “I am the leader.” I still think that may have been a dream, though.

But I digress. The point of all this is that “Zorg” is just a name I made up, and on behalf of Earth, I would like to apologize to the countless generations of outer space aliens who, because of insensitive stereotypes, have been named “Zorg.”

Just after the Zorg incident, my writing career really began to take off. I knew there were many great years ahead, many writing competitions to enter. Whenever I won a writing contest, I felt great pride in having accomplished something wonderful. By the same token, whenever I lost a writing contest, I usually hired a hit man to go after to judges. But when all was said and done, I could always come home to the two-headed purple sheep I tended to in my yard. That’s possibly another dream.

This I know is real: one time, I won a writing contest sponsored by a Denver area newspaper, and I was invited to go to the Broadmoor hotel in Colorado Springs for an award ceremony. I was a VIP (“very important person”) at this VPH (”very prestigious hotel”). They’re so prestigious because they charge a LOM (”lot of money”) for their R (”rooms”). This particular award ceremony involved a.) breakfast, and b.) standing up in front of everybody and reading the story I’d written. Now, I am all in favor of (a.), but as for (b.), I’d sooner lock myself in a meat freezer for three weeks with no food or water than speak in front of a room full of people. However, the pressure was lessened a bit when I started thinking that since there were only five contest winners, maybe each winner would bring their parents and/or a friend to the ceremony and there wouldn’t be much of a crowd. But no–something had gone horribly wrong, and within minutes there were at least six hundred people in the room. They all stared at me expectantly, like I was about to explain the Theory of Relativity. Now, I had only brought my parents (that’s two people), but where all those other people had come from, I will never know. I could only surmise that each of the other winners had invited not only their parents, but also their entire immediate and extended families, all of Denmark, and various branches of the Japanese military.

I would go into intricate detail about the Theory of Relativity, but I don’t want to bog you down with scientific formulas and complex equations. Suffice it to say that because I wrote this column at the speed of light, you’re now actually younger than you were when you started reading it. If the Theory of Relativity seems complicated, it’s not. It all became clear to me one day after eating an entire box of ice cream sandwiches. Either they were brought here from outer space by someone named Zorg, or it was another one of my dreams. Whichever.

Timothy Pike is a frugivorous essayist currently residing on Mars.

© 2008 The Teaspoon Times

by John Johnson, staff writer
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Above: Harold Stokes pictured here relaxing in the living room of his Atwater home, where he was found by police yesterday.

ATWATER, CA — After an exhaustive three-day manhunt, Harold Stokes, 63, an invisible Atwater man who had been reported missing by his daughter, was found yesterday, apparently in the throes of watching television in his own living room.

“Nobody answered when we knocked on his door,” said Don McFarland, one of the officers involved in the search. “So we peeked into his living room window. We didn’t see anybody in there, but suddenly the TV started changing channels all by itself. Then a few minutes later, when we saw a bag of potato chips float from the kitchen to the living room, we knew we had our man.”

Police chief Linda Poole admitted the search was difficult. “We’ve gotten calls about invisible people before,” she said. “But this particular case was unusual because it seems he was home the whole time. Boy, it sure is hard work keeping track of the invisible.”

Stokes’ 36-year-old daughter, Sheila Branch, who lives in Dallas, reported him missing on Monday. She became worried after not hearing from him for nearly a week, and thought he might have absent-mindedly wandered too far from home and gotten lost, as she said he has done on several occasions.

“I don’t see my dad too often,” said Branch. “Actually, I never see him. But he usually calls every couple days to ask how I’m doing. When I didn’t hear from him all week, I tried calling him several times but couldn’t reach him. That’s when I started to worry.”

Stokes told police he was not aware he had been reported missing. “I haven’t heard the phone ring all week, but the TV’s been turned up so loud that I–well, didleyhickens, there’s the culprit,” he said, tugging on the phone cord, only to reveal it had come loose from the jack. “One week’s worth of no phone calls, right here.”

Stokes became invisible in 1998 during a medical research study gone bad. Scientists in charge of the study, who were testing a new pain killing medication called “Invisi-Pain,” allegedly failed to mention the side effects of the drug, which included invisibility. Stokes sued the following year, but the case was summarily thrown out of court when the judge proclaimed that he and Stokes “just don’t see eye to eye” on the issue.

- Reported by The Teaspoon Times. © 2008

Ask a specialist…about chewing gum
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In our Ask A Specialist column, readers from all over write in to ask our featured advice columnist pressing questions about a very specialized field. Whether they hope to resolve a dilemma or find a way out of their quandaries and quagmires, they get their answers here. Today we are proud to feature Glen Johanssen, a Modesto, California, resident specializing in chewing gum.

About our specialist: Glen Johanssen, gum specialist, is also an avid pumpkin grower.

Dear Glen,

I love my husband, Evan, but not when he chews gum. He chomps, he slobbers, and he always spits in my face when he talks. Wrigley’s, Bubbalicious, Hubba Bubba–it’s all the same. I’ve tried telling him, “chew softly, my love,” and, “say it…don’t spray it,” as well as, “quit slobbering, for the love of God.” Divorce is my next step. What can I do?

-“Emily J. Higgins”
Albany, NY

Dear “Emily J. Higgins,”

Loud gum chewing and slobbering is something that annoys us all–my best friend used to do it. Fortunately for us, the odious habit of gum slobbering is just a phase, and this abhorrent behavior usually passes quickly. If not, most definitely file for divorce.

Dear Glen,

My boyfriend says that gum originated in China during the Ming Dynasty. I think that’s a load of crap. I say it was invented right here in Texas in the seventies. Can you settle this once and for all?

-Darla Hill
Arlington, TX

Dear Darla,

Your boyfriend is close, except that instead of China, gum originated in what is now Germany, and instead of during the Ming Dynasty, it was about sixty-eight thousand years earlier when a Neanderthal man (whom we in the gum field have nicknamed “Jimmy”), stepped in a puddle of tree sap. Wanting to give something special to his mate, “Annabel,” Jimmy collected a handful of the sap, mixed in some dirt (for texture),wadded it up around a flower petal (for flavor), stuck a hair in it (we still don’t know why), and gave it to Annabel. Although Annabel’s jaw was permanently sealed shut when she chewed it, it was still a thoughtful gift, and the discovery paved the way for many improvements in the production process over the years. Today, many flavors of gum are sold the world over, even in Texas.

Dear Glen,

Hi. You know that quote, “If gum be the fruit of love, play on?” Well, what exactly did Shakespeare mean by that? And could you elaborate on the metaphorical meaning and symbolic intricacies of that phrase?

-Jessica R.
Holyoke, OH

Dear Jessica,

I believe it’s “music,” not “gum.”

© 2008 The Teaspoon Times