Firm or Soft?



I don't want anyone to think I'm picking on our good friends in North Korea, but, uh, why the pillow?  The old boy's got a lot more issues than a crick in his neck at this point, and let's face it, he ain't gonna be complaining about it.

No Need for a Halloween Costume This Year

 I don't know why my mind works like this, and it's really not fair to Matthew Moy, shown above, an actor in the CBS sitcom "Two Broke Girls," but if you want to tell me at least a couple of leaves are not identical in his family tree and the one belonging to Kim Jong-il's son, new leader Kim Jong-un, shown below, I will be forced to call you a liar.  Matthew looks like someone who would enjoy a good joke.  Kim looks like his interpreter just told him the joke was about him.

Audubon is Not Going to be Happy

I kind of had a Clark Griswald-Christmas Vacation moment when we went shopping for the tree this year.  They had a nice big one there for a decent price.  The wife starts right in with the parrot routine ("It's too big.  It's too big."), but of course the boys were all for it.  We get it home and get it set up and it clears the vaulted ceiling by a good two inches, earning the wife a look a disdain from the husband and the classic zinger, "Told you!"  I did not have an answer when she asked if she should decorate the top half or the bottom half since neither we nor Wal-Mart had enough ornaments to decorate it.  She can be a party-killer that way.  It looks great.  If you come to our house, you're kind of drawn to it right away, but the trail of tree sap from the front door really doesn't leave you much of a choice.  And it was kind of bear to run a sprinkler line into the living room so it wouldn't die, but all in all, I like it.

Can Times Be Any Tougher?

I'm at my softball game this week and one of the guys on the team brought his little girl to the game.  She's cute as a button, probably 4-5 years old and she spends the game playing in the dirt just outside the dugout.  About halfway through the game, I get up to go out in the field and notice she's playing with a cup.  If only this were a Dixie cup or a Solo cup, I would not be writing right now.  It was her father's protective cup.  For those seeking further clarity, let's just say it's the safe for the family jewels.  I didn't know whether to call HRS or Toys for Tots.  I'd like to think it was clean, but it's not really something you run through the permanent-press cycle.  Pity the Santa who has this little girl on his lap when she whispers in his ear, "All I really want this year is a jockstrap."  Isn't this why we have "Happy Meals"?

Treat Others...

     So I'm watching this pro football game last Sunday between the San Diego Chargers and the Denver Broncos.  It's late in the game, the score is tied and San Diego is about to try to kick a field goal to win the game, they've just got to get a little bit closer. 

     Of all the proprietors of the "Y" chromosome, who amongst us has, at one time or another, not found himself in a situation where we had to go to the bathroom really, really bad and a facility for our faculties was not forthcoming?  Some of the world's truly great improvisational thinking has emerged from just such scenarios, not that what I'm about to tell you should necessarily be classified as such. 

     Just as San Diego is driving the football, the TV screen shows a shot of the San Diego kicker kneeling on the sidelines behind a box, with his back to the camera.  A sideline staff member is holding up a towel while he reflects back on his job interview to try and recall this part of the job description, surely questioning his pay grade at this particular moment. 

     I yell at the TV, "Get the camera off of him!" knowing what I know, by virtue of my "Y" chromosome, exactly what the guy is doing.  The cameraman, whom I'm willing to bet was indeed a man and not a woman, should have his man card shredded for selling out a compadre caught in a predicament of which we have all, as they say, been there, done that.  I would also recommend further sanctions including his being made to pee with the ladies and wait in the accompanying line and a two-year ban on all urinal privledges.  When it comes to these situations, all men, and Chasity Bono, have to stick together. 

How Long Have You Had the Problem?

So I write a column about McDonald's screwing up my fish sandwich order.  I didn't expect it to catch the eye of the folks down at the Pulitzer, but it had a few chuckles sprinkled in with the adverbs and nouns.  In it, I mentioned that I had planned to write that week about the "Barbie" doll and the people who are bent out of shape about her shape being totally unrealistic, but then the McDonald's thing happened and I succumbed to my venting outlet, Life is Heald.  I check the e-mail account and one "Misti Burns" writes me that not only was it the worst column she's ever read, but that she would've rather read about me "molesting Barbie."  Classy girl, this Misti Burns.  I never asked her if that was her real name or just what she says when the gynecologist asks the reason for her visit today. 

Moments When You Think You've Raised Them Right

Keegan Hurt His Knee Today

　

Two eggs who once shared a womb,

A life that follows sharing a room.

Brothers who fight like household species,

Stopping just short of flinging their feces.

Life and death immaterial to see who wins,

Singular victory the spoils in a battle of twins.

Venom and vinegar spew forth untapped

Fueling mindless battles in which they are trapped.

Seemingly intent on destroying heart and soul,

During war waged for a cereal bowl.

And then Keegan hurt his knee today,

One day after Riley was cleared to play.

And so the joy of Riley’s return,

Is cremated and left alone in an urn.

Bitterness goes wanting, nor is it sought,

His brother is hurt, unable to walk.

Unnoticed, a father watches with stress,

Then sees who is helping who, get dressed.

Seeing Riley place a sock on his brother’s foot,

Love and war, in perspective, is neatly put.

Turn That Frown Upside...Oh, Forget It

     This woman was arrested for prostitution.  I'll assume somone has already contacted DOT maintenance for the burned out bulb in that street light.  Do you think the john clawed his own eyes out before or after?  It takes 43 muscles to frown, but to do what this lady is doing also requires four-wheel drive, a chain and the anchor from the Queen Mary.  If the Grimace was a woman, this is her.  They went through seventeen vice detectives before they found one that could keep a straight face while propositioning her.  The guy they found to pull it off had LASIK surgery the day after he arrested this woman and sued his superiors for making him perform his job in an unsafe work environment.  They settled out of court immediately.  The day this woman's mug shot was posted online, twenty-three monastaries had to stop taking applicants.  Women like this are why men have opposable thumbs.

A Taste is Safe Enough

Pepto-Bismol is a wonderful product.  I took it as a kid, I still take it today.  Literally, I just took it today, but a childproof cap?  Seriously?  You could mix Pepto-Bismol with the nectar of the Gods, and it would still taste like somebody melted down a crayon, stirred it up with piece of chalk and then washed their socks in it.  And the new cherry formula?  Yeah, nice try.  And yet, the childproof cap.  In the history of mankind, has anyone ever caught their precocious  little child off in a corner doing shots of Pepto?  You could tell Charles Manson it was liquid acid, excuse me, new cherry formula liquid acid, and he still wouldn't be able to choke down a second helping of this stuff.  Dear Pepto, you make a great product.  Childproof cap?  Sooooo not necessary.

My Ass Cannot Win

Many times in my life, many more than I can remember, I have been called either a "dumbass" or a "smartass." I don't recall a single instance in which the specific salutation was issued fondly or as a term of endearment.   I make no argument that any of the labels were misapplied at the time, but I would like to point out that logic, or at the very least, semantics, would seem to dictate that one of these be complimentary in nature.  If you disdainfully call me a "dumbass," aren't you hoping I'd be a "smartass"?  And if my being a "smartass" offends you so, shouldn't my being a "dumbass" come as some type of relief to you?  My ass is confused.  Should it drop out or apply to grad school?  If you are perhaps feeling guilty because you have previously classified my ass as either "dumb" or "smart," rest easy, for my ass assures me that all if forgiven with a simple kiss.

It's Saturday? Must Be Time to Take a Bath

After much consideration and deep thought, the Healds have decided not to enter either the rowing or kayaking events in the upcoming Olympics and will instead focus their efforts on walking and chewing gum simultaneously.

This Must Be Our Stop

This is the sign of a quality river guide...the whole Heald family going through the rinse cycle while he sits high and dry.  A zoom lens would probably show a grin beneath that helmet.  Those are Riley's feet attempting to walk on air.  Mrs. Heald is completely submerged and Riley's twin brother Keegan is taking soil samples from the bottom of the river. Those are my feet just touching the raft and that's Tyler saving his paddle, but not much else, in the back.  Believe it or not, this was the best rafting trip we've ever been on.  I know it doesn't look like it here, but it was.

Going to the chapel...

(In my column this week, I wrote about renewing our vows for our 25th wedding anniversary in Las Vegas.)  I wore the green shirt in honor of the green that gave its life so that the wife's finger could only go so far up her nose.  This picture was taken right before the wife was knocked unconscious by my triple x melon.  Not my fault, as the photographer said to put our heads together.  I said, "That might not be a good idea."  Fortunately, the limo driver had some smelling salts, as people have been known to pass out at The Little White Wedding Chapel.  From nerves, I'm sure, and not the swimming pool of booze that preceded their arrival.

The Devil Went Down to Georgia...

...to beome a chigger.  Chiggers are nasty insects.  If Rasputin or Judas were an insect, they would both be chiggers.  We were just up in Georgia for a vacation.  They have chiggers in Georgia.  Now I have them in my crotch.  I am not alone.

     Chiggers don't fight fair.  I mean, we have mosquitoes down here, but they're slow and you can see them.  I don't know what a chigger looks like.  They don't even have the decency to be big enough to see them.  When a mosquito bites you, that generally is last call for the mosquito because even the most feeble amongst us has the accuracy of a sniper when it comes to slapping a mosquito that just tried to make off with a quart of our finest sangria.  A chigger bites you, but it starts to burn and itch the next day and stops when you have scratched down to your bone marrow or amputated the body part with a steak knife. 

     I'm not done.   Chiggers like thinner, delicate skin.  Do I have to tell you where most of us keep our supply of thinner, delicate skin?  I don't have to tell the chiggers.  Three of us got bit on our bell towers.  This is not an item to which one can aggressively attack with a fingernail.  It's a lose/lose situation.  Jock itch is a toothless gnat compared to a chigger bite.  The wife was not immune.  That's all I can say about that.  She is looking over my shoulder with a gun.  The safety is off. 

     There are no remedies for chigger itches.  Old wives tales do not do anything other than spike fingernail polish sales and make mountain people look at you funny.  When you are staying in the same neck of the woods that "Deliverance" was filmed in, this is not a good thing. 

     "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" was a great hit for the Charlie Daniels Band.  I just wish he would have told us the real reason.

My Fill of Phil

     I write for my own enjoyment and if I occasionally make others laugh, that is a great bonus.  But then there are people like "Phil," who wrote me at LIFEisHEALD@yahoo.com with the complaint you'll see below.  Everyone serves a purpose in life, whether they know it or not.  When you think you are having a bad day, and you're feeling down, I want you to think of Phil.  Then, when you realize you are not Phil, you will feel better.  It's impossible not to.  I waited quite a while to write Phil back because I sometimes get a bit caustic if I write back too quickly.  I've instituted a 24 hour rule to those I find inciting.  I was so fond of my response, I thought I'd share it with you.  I may even put it it a column, but my psychologist keeps telling me I have to ignore these people.  Then I go and think of something funny to say, and I just feel awful if I don't share.  What can I say?  I'm a giver.

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Phil's e-mail to me...

Sir: I read your recent contribution about your son's ineptitude as a golfer and other things. In it I was shocked--shocked!--to read your use of a pronoun in the nominative case as the object of a verb ("The two quail followed . . . I").  Of much lesser consequence, you might have used the proper name for the bird, which is  Bobwhite or Common Bobwhite."Quail" is large family of birds of which Peterson says there are 165 members worldwide, of which the Bobwhite is the only one in Florida. So you're not wrong, but not specific.  It's as if you wrote, "My grandmother drove her General Motors SUV to the liquor store." Better would be, "My grandmother drove her Cadillac Escalade to the liquor store." Worse would be "My grandmother drove I to the liquor store."

No charge.

Phil

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Now, you have to know that, in the heading, Phil's full name was listed, which I'm not sharing, except to say that his full first name was "Phillips," with a "s" on the end.  This is relative to my reply, which was....

Phil,

Philly, Philly, Philly, where do we begin?  I'd like to suggest you get a life, but based on the content of your e-mail, I don't think you've ever had one, so I doubt you'd know where to look. 

First of all, you must have quite a cardio workout schedule, because if you were shocked, to the point that you felt "shocked" needed italics, and I'm assuming you were yelling at me with that little exclamation point you tucked on the end there, then that little ticker of yours must get worked up at the drop of a hat.  Let me give you a little insight.  First of all, I had the paper put "humor" by my byline just for folks like you who are wound way too tight.  Second, the column was not written for some bird-watching cult nor was it a grammar test for people such as yourself.  As such, I went with the term that the greatest number of people would be familiar with, that being "quail."  It is not capitalized, I knew full well there are different types of quail, again, so not the point.  Everyone I know always hated grammar studies, perhaps you're the exception, though I'd hardly take that as a compliment.  The column suffers not one bit the way I used the word "quail."  You seem to be the only one suffering such afflictions.  Judging by what you wrote and how you interpreted the column, I doubt you got very much out of the column, other than heart palpitations, and I would recommend that you not read any further efforts by myself.  I don't want the blood of your open heart surgery on my hands.  I was curious, though, with the multiple references to the liquor store, if perhaps you had been drinking when you wrote me.

I close with a concern of my own.  I see your full first name is "Phillips."  Are you sure someone didn't make a mistake there?  I mean after all, you're just one "Phillip," and with the "s" on the end, it seems as if someone wrongly used the plural form of the singular "Phillip" on your birth certificate.  Wait for it....wait....I'm shocked.  Might explain your issues with grammar, though.  Oh, look at that, we're even.  No charge.

Kevin (just one)

At Least He Signaled

     The wife and I are driving down a six-lane divided highway when I notice all the cars up in front of me are slowing and moving to the side.  Of course, my first thought is some type of emergency vehicle is about to drive over the top of me, but upon looking in the rearview mirror, no such scenario approaches.  As I get closer, there in the middle lane, on our side of the road, is a minivan, driving AT us.  While those of us who have been forced to share our side of the road sang a chorus of "WTF?" the van slowed, and eventually stopped.  Had he been a salmon, his efforts to swim upstream would've been commendable, and there was no shortage of bears chewing him a new one.  Alas, he was not a salmon.  Then, as if to tell the world he had paid attention during Driver's Ed, he put on his turn signal, and that made it all better.  And yet another reason is added to the list justifying the three-day waiting period to purchase a gun.

Does This Rice Taste Funny to You?

     Last Sunday, the wife and I went out for breakfast to this real popular place.  It was jam-packed as usual, with parking hard to find.  Right in front is this pick-up truck straddling two parking spaces.  No, it wasn't some classic pick-up truck, it was just a pick-up truck.  On the bumper was a sticker that read "PROUD MEMBER OF THE VIETNAM CHOPPER PILOTS ASSOCIATION," or something to that effect.  If he flew the chopper the way he drives his truck, there's probably more than one rice paddy with a rusty Huey helicopter tainting the water.  No wonder we could't win that war.  (I took a picture with my wife's phone, but in my haste to avoid detection by the impending arrival of the chopper pilot, I failed to save it correctly.  It would've been funnier with the picture, but I had to hurry.  For all I knew, the dude might have showered in Agent Orange one too many times, if you get my drift.  I'll try harder next time.)

All Hands on Board, But Watch Your Step

In this week's column, I mention a bout with food poisoning I had as a kid.  In an effort to help those whose imagination may need a kick-start, the image shown here is basically what I looked like for my three days in porcelain purgatory. 

And Now You Know Why He Was a Bottle-Baby



This week's column is about my final days in the counter-intelligence field.  This picture is the visual support file for my field report.  If you didn't read the column, why the hell not?  Go to Naplesnews.com and search "Life is Heald," read the column, come back here and you will get significantly more out of this picture.



Hats Off! No, Seriously, Take Those Hats Off

In my column this week, I review the royal wedding after watching Katie Couric's special on CBS.  After describing Prince Andrew's two daughters' hats as a cat eating grapes on a slide and an award one might give to the company's top toilet seat salesman, I felt obligated to provide visual evidence.  Was I right?

Pretty Sure It Was a One-Shot Deal

     I was sitting in church on Easter Sunday trying to listen to the music when this woman behind me continued to carry on a conversation like she was in a bar trying to talk over the music.  I let it go for a bit and then I turned around and told her, "You know, Jesus came back from the dead.  If you don't shut up, I don't think you'll have that kind of luck."  So, I don't get "Christian of the Month," I still felt better, and honestly, isn't that what's important here?

And You Thought I Was Kidding

    If you didn't read my column from April 6th, 2011, you don't know what this is, but for those that did, here's photographic evidence that the wife and I have seen the inside of Uncle Jed's limo.  I believe the thing sticking up off of the trunk is actually a gun rack of some sort, you just never know when Jethro is bringing rabbit home for dinner.  It had so many running lights that a small Cessna attempted to land on the roof while we sat at a red light.

Yeah, That's the Demographic They're Looking For

     I'm channel surfing on the radio the other day and I stop on a local rock station.  The DJ asks "How many people watched 'American Idol' last night?" before she sarcastically answers "Not me, because I have a life.  I was watching pirated hockey and drinking beer."  This is not a referendum on "American Idol," but, while it's not exactly rock-oriented, it does include all types of music and this year one of the judges is rock icon Stephen Tyler from the group Aerosmith.  Give or take a few million, the audience of "Idol" is around twenty million.  If that many people are watching pirated hockey, somebody better ring up Captain Barbosa.  I'm guessing the advertisers of this radio station, whoever they may be, would rather have the "Idol worshipers" over the pirates.  So, that's why disc jockeys don't make any money.  If some dude is stealing hockey games in south Florida, I'm thinking he's not the demographic everybody is after.  I'm just saying.

Maybe They're Just Too Good

     I read in the paper that a woman was arrested after assaulting her roommate for eating her Girl Scout cookies without permission.  Seems the victim had accessed the treasured "Thin Mints" without written consent and was left running for her life after being confronted during the middle of the night.  All I can say is she should thank God the cookies weren't Tagalongs, or her roomie surely would've popped a cap in her ass.  Maybe those cookies are just too good.

Can You Hear Me Now?

     Blue Tooth is the worst thing that ever happened to crazy people.  It used to be when enough people saw a crazy person walking around talking to themselves, eventually somebody would call the white jacket folks and help was on the way.  Now, everybody just assumes they have Blue Tooth and ignores them.  I ask you, how will the crazy folks get help now?  That's why I have a blog, to get this stuff out there.  I'm just a humanitarian, what can I say?

I Still Got It

     My softball team won the lower division Church League Championship last night in thrilling fashion by a score of 10-9.  Attendance figures were not available at press time, but if we count the homeless guy pillaging the dumpsters and the t-ball team practicing on an adjacent field, we're approaching double figures. Clearly, there are not many conquests left for an athlete of my stature.  I've got one spot left in my trophy case, so if anyone knows of a kickball league that gives out hardware, give them my number.  In the meantime, I'll be kicking ass and taking names in the shuffleboard rookie league.

Large Pepperoni for Fidelity!

     I watch the sitcom "Two and Half Men," a fact of which I am growing less and less proud of these days, but there is a recurring role of "Gordon," the pizza delivery guy.  He's 40 years old, and it is usually a part of the joke that he's still delivering pizza at his age, not exactly have scaled the career mountain, if you know what I mean.  Now there is a Fidelity Investment commercial (the people with the green line their client follows) that stars none other than J.D. Walsh, or as he's more famously known, Gordon, The Pizza Delivery Guy.  It just seems like there is some humor in there somewhere.  Perhaps casting should have done a little more homework, or perhaps Fidelity aims to help all comers, but I have a feeling that if I delivered a pizza to the local Fidelity office, then sat down and pulled out a wad of ones and said "I've had a pretty good day with tips, what say we get one of those green lines started for me?" I don't think the advisors are climbing over the counter to get to get to me.  The pizza, maybe.  Me?  Not so much.

More LIke an "Art Stalker" Than an "Art Lover"



     This is a painting by Picasso that just sold for over $40,000,000.00.  Now, c'mon, folks, I know this dude worked some magic with a brush, but how many of you painted something very similar with your "paint by numbers" kit when you weren't nothing but a little, tiny thing?  I'm sure my dad has several of mine still up in the attic and I'll let the lot of them go for 500K right now.  This is a painting of Picasso's girlfriend while she napped in a chair.  Lifelike as it is, I'm figuring she had a major crick in her neck when she woke up.  Forty million dollars!  I mean, if you have to own something of Picasso's, I guess I get it, but surely you could pick up a pair of his old boxers for under a million.

The People Have Spoken

     They were on me over at the paper to shorten up my column, but I was resistant to cave into the Man.  Only when a friend, later confirmed by another friend (yes, I have two now), both told me the same thing, did I reconsider.  Both these gentlemen read my column in their private "library" in order to concentrate and enjoy the reading.  Only when both confided that the length of my column was keeping them in there after business hours, did I feel compelled to act.  I make no promises, and the high school English teacher who once dubbed me "Captain Word Salad" may no longer have grounds for such a label, but I shall henceforth try my darndest to limit the literature, for it benefits no man to occupy the porcelain in a state of inactivity.  Plus, it starts to smell.

How Much For the Floor Model?

     I bought a new gas grill the other day.  They wanted $40 to assemble it.  I asked the salesman how long it took to assemble it and he said "about an hour."  Hmmmm, I thought, $40 an hour, I think I'll take that job.  By the time I finished, I had earned $1.72 an hour for the whole job.  I thought about filing a complaint against myself since I hadn't  paid myself minimium wage, but I got sidetracked by a trip to the emergency room which was necessary when, while assembling the grill, I mixed up my own Bloody Mary that was three parts A-positive and one part Phillips-head screwdriver.  It was like "Tool Time" meets "Psycho."  That night, I couldn't decide whether to cook hamburgers or just turn the gas on high and close the lid on my head.

Twin Brothers, Different Mothers

         I never forget a face.  Sometimes I might forget where I know it from, but I always remember a face.  This, in turn, makes for some confusing moments when I'm just sure I know somebody from some place, but then I just can't place it.  I might not be the first to have this problem with the two people shown here, but I remember when I first had that "I know you" feeling while watching the Democratic National Convention.  Seeing as how one has no real purpose other than to serve as a prop for his boss and get a few laughs and the other is a puppet for ventriloquist Jeff Dunham, you might not make the family connection right away.  That's why I'm here to help. 



Joe Biden
Vice-President of the United States

"Walter"
Should be President of the United States



Clean Up, Aisle Three, Zombie Juice

     Why do old women bring their old husbands to the grocery store?  They might as well drag a three-foot log behind their shopping cart that says "PLEASE DON'T TRIP OVER ME."  The old dudes are like floating traffic islands in the middle of the aisle.  Imagine, if in the movie "Night of the Living Dead," the zombies won and there were no more humans left for them to eat.  Eventually, the zombies would wind up at the grocery store.  Guess what?  The zombies won.  I saw one geriatric gentleman standing there squeezing his fruit, which wouldn't have been that bad except he was nowhere near the produce section...or fruit.

Congrats, and Pass the Parmesan

     The 15th annual "Fat and Beautiful" beauty pageant recently concluded in Israel.  The minimum weight requirement is 80kg or 176 pounds.  The winner received a one-year modelling contract, cosmetic products, and a trip abroad.  Things turned ugly when last year's winner crowned the new queen, but not before taking a sizable bite out of the coveted stuffed crust tiara.

OK, Now Your Life Sucks

     I read in the paper today where a homeless woman was arrested for stabbing her homeless husband.  This goes right to the top of my "When Things Are Going Bad, I Just Think of..." file.  I mean seriously, it was damn near freezing the other night, you're homeless and that's not quite bad enough for you, so you up and stab somebody, the hubby no less.  I'm sure they had a fire going, if ever somebody needed to crank up the music and belt out a few lines of "Kumbaya," it was these folks.  You have to give them credit, through all this, they remain married, proving some things are still sacred.  Apparently not the gall bladder she tried to carve out of his side, but then most people don't put anything in their wedding vows specifically prohibiting organ removal with a rusty blade and a fifth of vodka, even by the one you love the most.

What Happens When Woodpeckers Can't Sleep?

     This is the problem with the crystal meth labs being out in the woods.  The wildlife was there first and they're going to want to know what's going on.  Pretty soon, they get to nosing around and getting into things they shouldn't and before you know it, we have woodpeckers gone wild.  I offer this photographic exhibit as evidence of which I speak.  The woodpeckers in this part of the country were perfectly content to be "one-holers" as the locals call them, and then drugs came to town.  Now, they have woodpecker condominiums going up everywhere, no doubt financed by drug money, and the speculators are all over the place.                                    

(I took this picture hiking through

Stepen Foster State Park in White

Springs, Florida (12/30/10) on our

annual holiday camping trip, just

in case anybody thought I made

that up in "Life is Heald/Trading

Sony and Nintendo for Lewis

and Clark".  (1/5/11)) 

Who Said it was Broken?

     There are unconfirmed reports coming in from across the country of people dying while in the drink aisle at their local grocery store.  Reports are sketchy at this point, but all the victims seemed to have died from dehydration while trying to figure out which of the formulas of Gatorade they should buy and when they should drink it.  The "X-Factor" in all the deaths is reported to be Fruit Punch + Berry.

At Least They're Warm

     On a cold night, I always find myself rotating in the same two-foot wide rut in my bed in order to make use of the body heat I have worked so hard to capture in that spot.  Unwise wandering from the anatomically-heated rut inevitably comes with a cold wake-up call from those parts of the sheets left to fend for themselves.  This always reminds me of the hot dogs in the convenience stores that spend their lives rotating in similar warmth on the cooking carousel of death.  But hey, at least they're warm.