I saw this ad campaign designed to show a chocolate Easter Bunny committing suicide because he couldn’t compete with a certain candy line or dessert or something.
So it got me to thinking – what other ways could the venerable springtime treat do himself in?
Maybe by:
Pushing over a Harley outside a biker bar.
Hopping off the Bunny Trail.
Table saw.
Wearing a Red Sox jersey at Yankee Stadium.
Driving off a cliff – Thelma & Louise style.
Food processor.
The tired old razor blade and pills, glass of Merlot nearby. Lots of candles.
Flame thrower – melt the ears first, of course.
Hopping in front of an oncoming subway car.
Move in with a stoner.
Become a bodyguard for Gansta Rapper.
Well, crucifixion is a bit seasonal for him…
Climbing over the fence into the lion’s exhibit at the zoo.
Tying himself to the front of a NY cab.
Tying himself to a wrecking ball.
Tying himself to a lightning rod during a thunderstorm.
Hopping into a candy store with explosives strapped around his body.
Sunbathing, no sunscreen.
Become the drummer for Spinal Tap.
Go hunting with Dick Cheney.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
Deck The Halls With Boughs of Turkey
Deck The Halls With Boughs of Turkey –
Setting a Festive Mood
Now that the holiday season is bearing down upon us, thoughts of spending time with friends and loved ones no doubt warms many hearts. Many people will find that this is the perfect time to throw a party. According to many frequent hosts, the key to throwing a successful holiday party is to “set the proper mood.” How better to let your guests know just what kind of party to expect than with a festive party name?
Thanksgiving:
Yes, That Is a Drumstick in My Pocket, and I AM Happy to See You
Whatever Floats Your Gravy Boat
Let’s Find More Indigenous People to Infect, Overrun, and Humiliate!
DYFS Investigates the “Special Family Stuffing”
Get The Hell Out – The Malls Open in 11 Hours!
Snapping Dad’s Hamstring Wishbone in the Annual Backyard Football Gala
Dysenturkey
Christmas:
How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and How the Man Kept Him Down
el-Hazziz, the REALLY Other Reindeer
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas; Make the Yuletide OH ALL RIGHT ALREADY! My Marriage is a Sham and I Love Showtunes!
Claus-trophobic
O Stoli Night
Last Tree in the Lot
Line Up Here For Your Candy Caning!
Somebody Get Rudolph to the Vet! It Ain’t His Nose That’s Glowing Now!”
What’s a Christmas Party Without Stocking Stuffers? Elves, Bring in Your Yule Logs!
“I’ve Never SEEN So Much Mistletoe!”
The E! True North Pole Story:
Why Mrs. Claus Won’t Go “Down the Chimney” Anymore
New Year’s Eve:
Resolve This, Mr. Glass Half Full!
Screw the Auld Acquaintances, They’re The Same Ones That Gave Fruitcake For Christmas!
Didn’t I Get Rid of You People at Thanksgiving?
Setting a Festive Mood
Now that the holiday season is bearing down upon us, thoughts of spending time with friends and loved ones no doubt warms many hearts. Many people will find that this is the perfect time to throw a party. According to many frequent hosts, the key to throwing a successful holiday party is to “set the proper mood.” How better to let your guests know just what kind of party to expect than with a festive party name?
Thanksgiving:
Yes, That Is a Drumstick in My Pocket, and I AM Happy to See You
Whatever Floats Your Gravy Boat
Let’s Find More Indigenous People to Infect, Overrun, and Humiliate!
DYFS Investigates the “Special Family Stuffing”
Get The Hell Out – The Malls Open in 11 Hours!
Snapping Dad’s Hamstring Wishbone in the Annual Backyard Football Gala
Dysenturkey
Christmas:
How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and How the Man Kept Him Down
el-Hazziz, the REALLY Other Reindeer
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas; Make the Yuletide OH ALL RIGHT ALREADY! My Marriage is a Sham and I Love Showtunes!
Claus-trophobic
O Stoli Night
Last Tree in the Lot
Line Up Here For Your Candy Caning!
Somebody Get Rudolph to the Vet! It Ain’t His Nose That’s Glowing Now!”
What’s a Christmas Party Without Stocking Stuffers? Elves, Bring in Your Yule Logs!
“I’ve Never SEEN So Much Mistletoe!”
The E! True North Pole Story:
Why Mrs. Claus Won’t Go “Down the Chimney” Anymore
New Year’s Eve:
Resolve This, Mr. Glass Half Full!
Screw the Auld Acquaintances, They’re The Same Ones That Gave Fruitcake For Christmas!
Didn’t I Get Rid of You People at Thanksgiving?
Friday, April 6, 2007
For Parts, NASA Boldly Goes…on eBay
The country’s space program uses some rather unusual parts in critical areas of its space shuttle program. One of these parts is an Intel 8086 chip, which was featured in IBM’s first PCs, back in 1981. This is only one of the nearly-obsolete parts that NASA relies upon for its aging fleet of shuttles. Their source for some of these dusty relics? None other than that online favorite: eBay.
According to feedback from one online seller, retrogeek – who gives “4 stars – positive feedback, decent credit payments” to the space giant - NASA (bidding as “wastespace2001”) has posted a list of other “critical” parts it is seeking through the auction site. Some other vital “missing links” in the U.S. space race include:
· SEAT BUN: DELUXE (PONY) INTERIOR FOR FORD MUSTANG - Any 1965-67 model, 8-cyl Boss 302 model preferred. One front bucket seat only. Right hand or left hand. Only if “totally mint.”
· 8-Track of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax”.
· AC power cord for Norelco sheep shearers, part #196-08-44.
· Jarts. Preferably yellow, with no visible dirt or blood marks.
· Simplicity 5945 Men’s Pants Suit Pattern, c. 1973, Chest 34"-52", waist 28" to 50", length 28"-36", with step-by-step instructions included.
· A real Mach V, Death Star, or “Thunderbirds” Zero-X.
· A signed Barbara Bain poster.
· 200,000,000 pull-tabs from aluminum soda cans.
· “Plausible schematic” for Data’s positronic net from Star Trek: The Next Generation. If unavailable, any available VHS tape of any episodes of “Get Smart” with Hymie in them.
According to feedback from one online seller, retrogeek – who gives “4 stars – positive feedback, decent credit payments” to the space giant - NASA (bidding as “wastespace2001”) has posted a list of other “critical” parts it is seeking through the auction site. Some other vital “missing links” in the U.S. space race include:
· SEAT BUN: DELUXE (PONY) INTERIOR FOR FORD MUSTANG - Any 1965-67 model, 8-cyl Boss 302 model preferred. One front bucket seat only. Right hand or left hand. Only if “totally mint.”
· 8-Track of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax”.
· AC power cord for Norelco sheep shearers, part #196-08-44.
· Jarts. Preferably yellow, with no visible dirt or blood marks.
· Simplicity 5945 Men’s Pants Suit Pattern, c. 1973, Chest 34"-52", waist 28" to 50", length 28"-36", with step-by-step instructions included.
· A real Mach V, Death Star, or “Thunderbirds” Zero-X.
· A signed Barbara Bain poster.
· 200,000,000 pull-tabs from aluminum soda cans.
· “Plausible schematic” for Data’s positronic net from Star Trek: The Next Generation. If unavailable, any available VHS tape of any episodes of “Get Smart” with Hymie in them.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Cinematography and Chilling Out? That’s Scouting
Both the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts are trying to find ways to remain relevant in today’s world where Animal Husbandry and Beekeeping are locked away in our dusty agrarian national woodshed. These changes are manifesting themselves in new updated badges in such modernist fare as Adventure Sports and Aromatherapy.
However, some hard-liners maintain this iScout movement is just letting the terrorists win. This ultra-conservative underground splinter group has leaked word of the proposed modern scouting awards that are under consideration – leaked mainly by being forgetful 14-year-old fundamentalist radicals who left the new manuals on their school bus.
Below are some of the prototypes.
1. Body adornment. Scouts will be required to learn the history of human “art of the self,” from plate lips and extending neck rings to nipple piercing and henna tattoos. Proof of decorative refinements must be shown in at least 3 personal body beautification techniques, all from accredited BSA/GSA tattoo parlors or piercing salons.
2. Histrionic Sports. Requirements for this badge include developing short and long term personal marketing plans for optimum contract-year exposure, alignment with the proper corporate brands, media doublespeak and “undetermined injury” disclosure. Demonstration of the right “posse” is necessary. The scout must also identify a list of local charities for donation of game-used equipment and occasional photo-ops, or may instead opt to establish one in the scout’s own name.
3. Latteography. Using sales territories, distribution channels, marketing coverage data, and compasses, scouts will map existing Starbucks locations and areas for grande development. Field trips will include possible Jamboree in Seattle or Colombia.
4. Homeland First Citizenship. The badge is compulsory for full Eagle Scout recognition. Scrutinizing FBI files and INS records will be two key requirements for this medal. Building upon their Snitch Award and “Path of Stalker” skills, scouts will also keep a detailed journal of their family’s and neighbors’ daily routines and associations. Remember – everyone loves a tattletale!
5. Scoutster. Today’s Virtual Scout must show appropriate use of emoticons, password maintenance and flash animation. A minimum of 50 MySpace friends must be maintained and page must be kept properly groomed. Must pass Online Splg Tst. YouTube submissions must have no fewer than three (3) pop culture references from the 1980s to be considered campworthy.
6. Pop Iconization. Candidates for this badge must demonstrate knowledge of Rap, Hip-Hop, Trip-Hop, House, and and Bop Pop. In-depth biographies of American Idol contestants increase point total and lifespan of award. Scouts are encouraged to work with a “buddy” to develop properly sync’d dance moves, yo. Proper ab development mandatory, public singing is optional. Additional levels of award are achieved with each 30 day rehab sleepover attended.
7. Cellulareering. This badge will cover a mastery of handheld technology such as Smartphones, Blackberries, and Pocket PCs, along with such traditional interface tools as the keyboard, mouse, and joystick. Scouts must demonstrate the ability to send simple text messages such as “SOS – we’re 3.5 kilometers from Starbucks 1455 and they’re out of Venti cups – LOL.” Prerequisite for this award is the “Order of the GPS” pin.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Never listless
I have a tendency towards taking ideas towards their limits. I say "towards" because I never really think things are ever finished, perhaps it just runs out of gas. That's why when my friend asked for "a couple of suggestions" for a boy's name, I gave her an even 1,000 (with "Venus Flytrap" the most viable). Once, there was an acronym that an account team used - MEL - and I was asked if I knew what it stood for. By the third page of things like "Mezzanine Encircles Loge" and "Mom! Ewww, Limas!", we still had no idea what it actually stood for. But it was fun pondering.
Brainstorming these lists of things isn't hard - it's the stopping that's the challenge. Lists are easy. Here's a couple of examples from my other blog.
http://screaminseaman.blogspot.com/
Brainstorming these lists of things isn't hard - it's the stopping that's the challenge. Lists are easy. Here's a couple of examples from my other blog.
http://screaminseaman.blogspot.com/
Freaks of NY
Freaks. I’ve been inundated with them for the past few days. Maybe they came out of hiding when the seasons changed, like some sort of harbinger of upheaval. They stay dormant in some sort of pod-condo, plotting their assault upon normal. It’s as if reality is something that they just watch, not participate in; almost like the rest of us are on their own version of cable – they just choose a different channel for their own view.
I first noticed it yesterday, as I watched my bus approach the bus stop. Apparently, the driver felt as though the best method of propulsion for his vehicle was continental drift. It got better once we were actually on the bus, which was the next day.
As I left the bus, I followed a man who decided he was actually a drum machine. Every once in a while, he’d let out a ba-ba-da-ba, or something. Not quite scat – no, he was no Friend of Ella. Nope. Drums – with no headphones, iPod, or Bluetooth in sight. Freak. When he noticed me looking at him, he gave me a look that said, roughly, “This is perfectly acceptable public behavior. My actions are the result of years of grooming at top-flight finishing schools, genetic engineering, and strict – nearly anal in scope – personal behavior modification techniques. It is clearly YOU, sir, who has displayed the public mannerisms of an ill-trained camel. I take issue with your entire existence. Bu-dum crash!”
If you think that you can avoid scenes like this by forgoing public transportation, that is, by walking, you can’t be from around here. The Freak King title may have to go to the guy with the chair around his neck. OK, so it wasn’t a Queen Anne or a Barcalounger – it was only a funky folding chair, but it was around his neck. Here was an otherwise normal guy walking down Sixth Avenue in Midtown, sporting a four-legged necktie. Maybe he was in an eternal search for his separated-at-birth twin, the one with the same dimples, same laugh, same color eyes, but with a table around his neck. Maybe they had a falling out – one was an avant-garde Ikea fan, one preferred more conservative personal décor. Like I said, the one that I saw seemed pretty normal. Standard business suit, wing tips, briefcase. Chair around his neck.
The latest entry to this freaky circus was a religious experience. I say this due to its very nature – it was part Passion Play, part Bowery Boys. And I nearly walked right by it.
As I walked down 55th Street, I passed a group of five men who were in the midst of a discussion. Hardly freaky initially, until you notice Christ among them. He came complete with a crucifixion-sized cross (with a small wheel at the bottom for easier dragging along the paved Path of Sorrows that is modern Manhattan) and three possible disciples. The other man wore what can be gently described as street attire. I only heard one phrase as I hurried by, uttered by the modern-day leper. He said to this pseudo-Lord, as if discussing a business deal, “But, what I’ve always wanted to ask you…”
There was nowhere reasonable for me to stop within earshot to complete the eavesdropping. Reasonable. Huh. As if a homeless man – speaking to a resurrected Christ and his disciples on the streets of 2006 Manhattan – would even notice if I had stopped where I was, lit my hair on fire and began to lick the building next to them while bouncing on one foot.
In any event, this scene left me thinking down several paths. Were these ancient figures part of a street play, performance art, or demonstration? Was this “homeless man” just their sloppy pal? Had I misinterpreted his inquiry as merely a question to a friend, someone that he had recognized as an actor playing Jesus? Had I actually seen, and blown by, Himself?
Nah. Perhaps our leper friend thought that he’d finally gotten his chance of a lifetime. And maybe he did.
A few days later, walking down 54th Street (strange neighborhood), I saw – from a distance – a woman carrying what appeared to be a pole with two other poles sticking out of it. Was this some sort of metallic cross? Was I on some sort of a continuous quasi-religious journey, in which my dream state only transcended into my conscious mind as I walked these strange streets...
Oh, wait! She’s carrying a rack from a clothing store. But, I thought, wouldn’t that be a great metaphor for a bizarre off-off-off-off Broadway Passion play? The new Christ figure: An assistant manager of a retail chain store, a woman who would mark-down 30% for your sins. The evil District Manager from Corporate could attach her to the rack with those plastic price-tag things. Part-timers could anoint her in their finest new merchandise that they had just retrieved from the stockroom. She could teach the poor not to pay retail. She could have the Last Lunch Break. Maybe she’d rise again, three days after the Black Friday sale, to judge the stylish and the poorly accessorized.
I love New York.
I first noticed it yesterday, as I watched my bus approach the bus stop. Apparently, the driver felt as though the best method of propulsion for his vehicle was continental drift. It got better once we were actually on the bus, which was the next day.
As I left the bus, I followed a man who decided he was actually a drum machine. Every once in a while, he’d let out a ba-ba-da-ba, or something. Not quite scat – no, he was no Friend of Ella. Nope. Drums – with no headphones, iPod, or Bluetooth in sight. Freak. When he noticed me looking at him, he gave me a look that said, roughly, “This is perfectly acceptable public behavior. My actions are the result of years of grooming at top-flight finishing schools, genetic engineering, and strict – nearly anal in scope – personal behavior modification techniques. It is clearly YOU, sir, who has displayed the public mannerisms of an ill-trained camel. I take issue with your entire existence. Bu-dum crash!”
If you think that you can avoid scenes like this by forgoing public transportation, that is, by walking, you can’t be from around here. The Freak King title may have to go to the guy with the chair around his neck. OK, so it wasn’t a Queen Anne or a Barcalounger – it was only a funky folding chair, but it was around his neck. Here was an otherwise normal guy walking down Sixth Avenue in Midtown, sporting a four-legged necktie. Maybe he was in an eternal search for his separated-at-birth twin, the one with the same dimples, same laugh, same color eyes, but with a table around his neck. Maybe they had a falling out – one was an avant-garde Ikea fan, one preferred more conservative personal décor. Like I said, the one that I saw seemed pretty normal. Standard business suit, wing tips, briefcase. Chair around his neck.
The latest entry to this freaky circus was a religious experience. I say this due to its very nature – it was part Passion Play, part Bowery Boys. And I nearly walked right by it.
As I walked down 55th Street, I passed a group of five men who were in the midst of a discussion. Hardly freaky initially, until you notice Christ among them. He came complete with a crucifixion-sized cross (with a small wheel at the bottom for easier dragging along the paved Path of Sorrows that is modern Manhattan) and three possible disciples. The other man wore what can be gently described as street attire. I only heard one phrase as I hurried by, uttered by the modern-day leper. He said to this pseudo-Lord, as if discussing a business deal, “But, what I’ve always wanted to ask you…”
There was nowhere reasonable for me to stop within earshot to complete the eavesdropping. Reasonable. Huh. As if a homeless man – speaking to a resurrected Christ and his disciples on the streets of 2006 Manhattan – would even notice if I had stopped where I was, lit my hair on fire and began to lick the building next to them while bouncing on one foot.
In any event, this scene left me thinking down several paths. Were these ancient figures part of a street play, performance art, or demonstration? Was this “homeless man” just their sloppy pal? Had I misinterpreted his inquiry as merely a question to a friend, someone that he had recognized as an actor playing Jesus? Had I actually seen, and blown by, Himself?
Nah. Perhaps our leper friend thought that he’d finally gotten his chance of a lifetime. And maybe he did.
A few days later, walking down 54th Street (strange neighborhood), I saw – from a distance – a woman carrying what appeared to be a pole with two other poles sticking out of it. Was this some sort of metallic cross? Was I on some sort of a continuous quasi-religious journey, in which my dream state only transcended into my conscious mind as I walked these strange streets...
Oh, wait! She’s carrying a rack from a clothing store. But, I thought, wouldn’t that be a great metaphor for a bizarre off-off-off-off Broadway Passion play? The new Christ figure: An assistant manager of a retail chain store, a woman who would mark-down 30% for your sins. The evil District Manager from Corporate could attach her to the rack with those plastic price-tag things. Part-timers could anoint her in their finest new merchandise that they had just retrieved from the stockroom. She could teach the poor not to pay retail. She could have the Last Lunch Break. Maybe she’d rise again, three days after the Black Friday sale, to judge the stylish and the poorly accessorized.
I love New York.
The Honeymoon
The Honeymoon is the Best Prize
When my soon-to-be bride Jen and I were researching honeymoon destinations, we neglected to get three key pieces of information: 1) Does the location offer secluded romantic areas? 2) Will we find the accommodations to our liking? and 3) Will a persistent man named Greg harangue us about timeshares?
We met Greg while shopping in St. Martin’s capital, Marigot (derived from the French, “Mar”, meaning “town of” and “Igot”, meaning “mostly closed restaurants”). Although our pasty-white WASPy skin had absorbed the Caribbean sun for about a week, we still sported savagely hued hides that mirrored healthy tooth enamel, thanks to my wife’s SPF 8000 sunscreen. We might’ve stuck out less had we actually set our clothes on fire.
Crafty Greg was no rookie. He used the timeworn method of building American trust by wearing a Yankees cap. So when this stranger handed me a free scratch-off lottery ticket, I knew that he had only my Best Interests at heart.
Still moved by the relationship formed by the cap, and his puppy-peeing excitement level, I accepted his gift eagerly and scratched away. Lo and behold – I was sure that this was as much of a surprise to him as it was to me – I had won the “best prize.”
My wife was well down the street, reading an imprisoned menu while our fortunes were being forever altered. “Look, honey,” I said as she returned. “I won the best prize!”
“What’s the best prize?” she asked skeptically. “Zee best prize,” Greg repeated. The male-bonding cap was not working for Jen, so she needed a bit more info. As Greg’s command of English was less than conversational, we had some difficulty determining what bounty awaited us and how we were to acquire it. I had visions of a Caribbean game show; she had visions of ditching this guy and doing more shopping.
Through the miracle of a handy brochure, we read that the mystery prize would either be a $500 check, a Sony video camera, or a free vacation. So, we could get something out of this after all.
The catch was that we had to listen to a half-hour presentation about timeshares. A giddy, somewhat desperate Greg reassured us in suddenly manageable English, “don’t buy anything, just wait for zee best prize.” After some fair and equal “family discussion” time, during which I promised more shopping, we decided to do the little guy a favor and go along.
Once we agreed, Greg’s already amped-up energy level went through the roof, as if he were photosynthesizing caffeine directly from sunlight. Although he offered to drive us to our destination, we politely demurred, choosing instead to stay alive in our own car.
Once at the resort, under his breath Greg reminded us not to buy anything, just get zee Best Prize, and have zee very best time. And, just like that, Greg was out of our lives.
We were passed off to someone much more sinister than pitiable Greg – a polo shirt clad American named Chuck, who told us he was our Property Consultant for the Sapphire Beach Club Resort. He was thrilled to tell us how lucky we were, that the timeshares in idyllic St. Martin were so exclusive, so valuable to the timeshare owning community, that every week in a St. Martin timeshare was considered a peak week! The most valuable timeshare to trade! Can you imagine? If you buy a week in a timeshare in beautiful and exclusive St. Martin, you would actually never have to go there again!
Also, with “Peak Week” ownership came a couple of perks: free rides in the timeshare golf cart, Greg comes to your house and cleans your gutters, and first dibs at the timeshare community spouse-swap. See, I don’t really remember much. The best prize has to be soon, right?
Before we had to Decide Anything, Chuck took us on a tour. It was a very nice hotel-ish room, equipped with its very own color TV set and brand new toaster oven. We were even told that there were fully stocked vending machines on every other floor! And we could do our own laundry! All for the low, low price of… “Oh wait! I need to show you the pool!”
He should have stopped at the toaster oven. No “best prize” was worth an afternoon of this on my honeymoon. The rancid stench was a mental smelling salt. Marinating in the marginally chlorinated waters of the pool were people who had been prescreened by the same meticulous process that I had been – they had been willing to talk to a random stranger offering them a free lottery ticket, or maybe just a lollipop. I’m not sure. But here they were, participating in some sort of water aerobics program that more closely resembled bovine water ballet.
Once we returned to Chuck’s desk, he left us alone with a large book of worldwide RCI properties. Many resembled places heroin addicts would dismiss as “depressing.”
My sharp marketing professional wife and I exchanged knowing glances. “So,” she asked, “what do you think? We should totally do this. It’s got everything! We wouldn’t have to plan anything else - it’s all done for us!”
Now, the wife that I had come in with was a woman whose single-minded goal in honeymoon planning was to avoid going to an all-inclusive resort. We had already taken several vacations together. She loves to plan them. Meticulously. Each of our previous trips had been a thoroughly researched, take the back roads, discover the culture adventure-fest. Now here she was, considering taking every vacation we’d ever have again in places that would make Branson, Missouri look like Nepal.
This was a lonely feeling. I missed my new bride. Here was this stranger, about three steps away from signing up, putting on purple Nikes and waiting for an RCI, Inc. comet to whisk her off to some magical timeshare somewhere. I had to think fast.
Instinct took over. I appealed to her emotional side. “What, are you nuts?” I asked.
She was only thinking about a good place for family-friendly vacations, she told me. Less than an hour ago, I was a newlywed on my honeymoon.
Now I was a father with three kids on my annual vacation to Superior Shores #1793 in Two Harbors, Minnesota or some other family-friendly resort. How did I get here?
Fortunately, it took me only a couple of minutes to talk her down off the resort’s edge. All I had to do was ask her what she thought of the pool.
We regretfully told Chuck that we’d have to pass this time, but we were really interested in our prize.
And that best prize was...?
Mysteriously enough, we had until December 15th, 2002 to experience the joys of Coconut Bay Resort #2626 in sunny Florida. I put my money in scratch-off lottery tickets instead. That $2.00 was the best prize ever.
When my soon-to-be bride Jen and I were researching honeymoon destinations, we neglected to get three key pieces of information: 1) Does the location offer secluded romantic areas? 2) Will we find the accommodations to our liking? and 3) Will a persistent man named Greg harangue us about timeshares?
We met Greg while shopping in St. Martin’s capital, Marigot (derived from the French, “Mar”, meaning “town of” and “Igot”, meaning “mostly closed restaurants”). Although our pasty-white WASPy skin had absorbed the Caribbean sun for about a week, we still sported savagely hued hides that mirrored healthy tooth enamel, thanks to my wife’s SPF 8000 sunscreen. We might’ve stuck out less had we actually set our clothes on fire.
Crafty Greg was no rookie. He used the timeworn method of building American trust by wearing a Yankees cap. So when this stranger handed me a free scratch-off lottery ticket, I knew that he had only my Best Interests at heart.
Still moved by the relationship formed by the cap, and his puppy-peeing excitement level, I accepted his gift eagerly and scratched away. Lo and behold – I was sure that this was as much of a surprise to him as it was to me – I had won the “best prize.”
My wife was well down the street, reading an imprisoned menu while our fortunes were being forever altered. “Look, honey,” I said as she returned. “I won the best prize!”
“What’s the best prize?” she asked skeptically. “Zee best prize,” Greg repeated. The male-bonding cap was not working for Jen, so she needed a bit more info. As Greg’s command of English was less than conversational, we had some difficulty determining what bounty awaited us and how we were to acquire it. I had visions of a Caribbean game show; she had visions of ditching this guy and doing more shopping.
Through the miracle of a handy brochure, we read that the mystery prize would either be a $500 check, a Sony video camera, or a free vacation. So, we could get something out of this after all.
The catch was that we had to listen to a half-hour presentation about timeshares. A giddy, somewhat desperate Greg reassured us in suddenly manageable English, “don’t buy anything, just wait for zee best prize.” After some fair and equal “family discussion” time, during which I promised more shopping, we decided to do the little guy a favor and go along.
Once we agreed, Greg’s already amped-up energy level went through the roof, as if he were photosynthesizing caffeine directly from sunlight. Although he offered to drive us to our destination, we politely demurred, choosing instead to stay alive in our own car.
Once at the resort, under his breath Greg reminded us not to buy anything, just get zee Best Prize, and have zee very best time. And, just like that, Greg was out of our lives.
We were passed off to someone much more sinister than pitiable Greg – a polo shirt clad American named Chuck, who told us he was our Property Consultant for the Sapphire Beach Club Resort. He was thrilled to tell us how lucky we were, that the timeshares in idyllic St. Martin were so exclusive, so valuable to the timeshare owning community, that every week in a St. Martin timeshare was considered a peak week! The most valuable timeshare to trade! Can you imagine? If you buy a week in a timeshare in beautiful and exclusive St. Martin, you would actually never have to go there again!
Also, with “Peak Week” ownership came a couple of perks: free rides in the timeshare golf cart, Greg comes to your house and cleans your gutters, and first dibs at the timeshare community spouse-swap. See, I don’t really remember much. The best prize has to be soon, right?
Before we had to Decide Anything, Chuck took us on a tour. It was a very nice hotel-ish room, equipped with its very own color TV set and brand new toaster oven. We were even told that there were fully stocked vending machines on every other floor! And we could do our own laundry! All for the low, low price of… “Oh wait! I need to show you the pool!”
He should have stopped at the toaster oven. No “best prize” was worth an afternoon of this on my honeymoon. The rancid stench was a mental smelling salt. Marinating in the marginally chlorinated waters of the pool were people who had been prescreened by the same meticulous process that I had been – they had been willing to talk to a random stranger offering them a free lottery ticket, or maybe just a lollipop. I’m not sure. But here they were, participating in some sort of water aerobics program that more closely resembled bovine water ballet.
Once we returned to Chuck’s desk, he left us alone with a large book of worldwide RCI properties. Many resembled places heroin addicts would dismiss as “depressing.”
My sharp marketing professional wife and I exchanged knowing glances. “So,” she asked, “what do you think? We should totally do this. It’s got everything! We wouldn’t have to plan anything else - it’s all done for us!”
Now, the wife that I had come in with was a woman whose single-minded goal in honeymoon planning was to avoid going to an all-inclusive resort. We had already taken several vacations together. She loves to plan them. Meticulously. Each of our previous trips had been a thoroughly researched, take the back roads, discover the culture adventure-fest. Now here she was, considering taking every vacation we’d ever have again in places that would make Branson, Missouri look like Nepal.
This was a lonely feeling. I missed my new bride. Here was this stranger, about three steps away from signing up, putting on purple Nikes and waiting for an RCI, Inc. comet to whisk her off to some magical timeshare somewhere. I had to think fast.
Instinct took over. I appealed to her emotional side. “What, are you nuts?” I asked.
She was only thinking about a good place for family-friendly vacations, she told me. Less than an hour ago, I was a newlywed on my honeymoon.
Now I was a father with three kids on my annual vacation to Superior Shores #1793 in Two Harbors, Minnesota or some other family-friendly resort. How did I get here?
Fortunately, it took me only a couple of minutes to talk her down off the resort’s edge. All I had to do was ask her what she thought of the pool.
We regretfully told Chuck that we’d have to pass this time, but we were really interested in our prize.
And that best prize was...?
Mysteriously enough, we had until December 15th, 2002 to experience the joys of Coconut Bay Resort #2626 in sunny Florida. I put my money in scratch-off lottery tickets instead. That $2.00 was the best prize ever.
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