Electronic Voice Phenomena (EVP) is the name given to recordings of anomalous sounds that credulous ghost-hunters often interpret as paranormal speech; the vocal imprints of departed souls whose otherworldly communications require a little more nuance than just clanking chains and moaning in drafty corridors. Exactly how the disembodied spirit of a seventeenth century monk could manipulate magnetic tape or digital files is unknown, yet belief in EVP has been prevalent for many years. Even I, when an impressionable teenager, convinced that the family home was haunted by the restless spirit of a domestic maid, once attempted to capture an EVP with my tape recorder.
Relaxing in my bedroom, perusing a dog-eared copy of Herman Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, I would often hear the wretched woman's shade floating through the walls from room to room, wailing that her chores were never done. I tried to catch a glimpse of her on several occasions, but she had already vanished by the time I got to whichever room her voice seemed to emanate from, and only my mother would be standing there.
"Did you see the ghost?" I would demand breathlessly, but mother would simply reply with a pained expression. Apparently only I was the only family member gifted with the aural equivalent of second sight. Consequently I decided to try the EVP approach to prove that I wasn't crazy.
In the event, my EVP session turned out to be an disappointing experiment, only producing a sort of muffled drone bearing an uncanny resemblance to the sound of my father suggesting that I should mow the lawn. Very eerie and disturbing, but since it was obviously nothing I just ignored it.
Most examples of purported EVP are, of course, merely errant radio transmissions or tricks of the ear, so-called "auditory pareidolia," a fancy term for hearing something that isn't really there; and all those futile paranormal-investigator TV shows have finally established beyond all doubt that ghosts absolutely do not exist, never mind borrow someone's microphone when in the mood talk. Yet recently my teenage interest in EVP has came back to, well, it has come back to haunt me.
Settling in my office each workday morning, I began discovering that my telephone was recording messages left late the previous evening, even over the weekend and on public holidays. These were inappropriate calling times when any normal person would not be at work to pick up the phone. At first, having dismissed the appealing notion that they might actually be warnings from the spirit world, urging me to quit my obsolete and unprofitable occupation and turn my undervalued talents to the more lucrative and sustainable enterprise of chimney-sweeping instead, I naturally concluded that the messages must be from either robot-spammers or wrong-numbers (they couldn't possibly come from clients or vendors, so what else could they be?). And so I simply deleted them immediately without listening to the contents. After all, nobody wants to start their day listening to a tedious string of hang-ups, dial-tones and synthetic "Hellos!" But several consecutive mornings of being greeted by a persistently blinking phone eventually peaked my curiosity and on Thursday I decided to let the recordings play.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I heard the voice of a real, live person; albeit the voice of a real, live person who sounded either half asleep or drugged: "Er, yeah, do you have any jobs available there?" this drowsy voice enquired. "And who do I send my resume to?"
In fact, I was so surprised at hearing a real, live voice (even one that was so obviously exhibiting signs of diminished responsibility) that it took me ten or fifteen minutes to remember to press delete and move on. But the next message was only the same voice sullenly demanding the same information; and so was the next one; and the one after that; until by the fourth message the voice had woken up slightly and seemed quite resentful, accusing me of being unprofessional for not returning its calls.
Although this voice wasn't ghostly per se, I decided it was a bona-fide example of Electronic Voice Phenomena since it and I obviously existed in separate realms of reality. I inhabit a reasonable approximation of the normal everyday world, whereas the source of the EVP apparently dwells in the twilight lands of the Forever Smoking Purple Bong. Yet some sort of cosmic crosstalk had enabled the voice to depart its own half-baked dimension and manifest itself in mine.
Of course, the advantage of only experiencing audible phenomena is being spared any accompanying ocular terror. A fully visible, slouching, sullen materialization of the voice's spine-chilling owner in his grease-stained hoodie, skinny jeans and grubby flip-flops would probably send any witness into fits of uncontrollable shaking and frothing at the mouth. And so my hope is that, having expended whatever feeble reserves of energy it possesses on leaving telephonic EVPs, the voice can never now summon the strength to appear in person. I hate dealing with the general public, especially the general public who harbor the weird delusion that jobs exist for the asking.
My Bucket List
Compiling a bucket list, that morbid agenda of stuff to do before you die, is, like death itself, a rather self-defeating experience. Whatever the desired activity listed, whether it be a travel destination or an extreme sporting pursuit, chances are that you will modify its details over time as new horizons and the desirable objects they reveal are encountered. For instance, when I was in my profoundly pretentious twenties, at the very top of my bucket list was the cherished dream of making a pilgrimage to the annual Noizestadt Festival, to hear cult composer Ludwig Maniak's Schitzmuzik performed in its natural habitat, an über-intellectual event I'd read much about in various artsy magazines. Then I actually heard several minutes of Schitzmuzik and traveling to Noizestadt was suddenly toppled from its lofty perch by a profound wish to avoid Noizenstadt and its atonal festival at all costs (an ambition so far fulfilled, except for a brief scare when I got lost in the Austrian Alps six years ago).
Since those days of misguided youth, I have attempted to keep the contents of my bucket list less defined and more symbolic; so symbolic, in fact, that my bucket list these days is actually just a list of different buckets with symbolic value; buckets that I consider to be somewhat emblematic of the riches life has to offer. There is the champagne bucket, naturally, because we should always be celebrating something. The small domestic tub for turning upside-down and wearing on our heads for playing Game of Thrones with a toilet brush as a sword when we should really be doing the household chores. The red fire bucket for running around with while screaming "Fire!" just because we're bored at work. The elegant clay urn that adds a romantic, classical Italianate touch to otherwise neglected gardens. The antique silver pail for attending Halloween parties or Zodiac theme evenings dressed as Aquarius the water-bearer. The mysterious copper cauldron that we only use to brew outlandish and experimental soups and broths from weird, witchy recipes. And finally the seaside-souvenir sandcastle bucket, obviously, for erecting a temporary perimeter of coastal defenses around the area of the beach we're sitting on.
Although the order of precedence might change from season to season, this bucket list of must-have buckets can surely be carved in stone. So far I have succeeded in only obtaining six of them. One still eludes me. Can you guess which one it is? ... Yes, that's right. It's the small domestic tub. I'm damned if I'm going spend $4.98 retail on something that costs less than fifty cents to manufacture, even if it is made of stain-resistant durable rubber and features an easy-grip molded handle. But anyway, I don't believe I will yearn for any other types of buckets until the day I finally kick the big metaphorical bucket: a day I hope is far off in the very distant future.
Since those days of misguided youth, I have attempted to keep the contents of my bucket list less defined and more symbolic; so symbolic, in fact, that my bucket list these days is actually just a list of different buckets with symbolic value; buckets that I consider to be somewhat emblematic of the riches life has to offer. There is the champagne bucket, naturally, because we should always be celebrating something. The small domestic tub for turning upside-down and wearing on our heads for playing Game of Thrones with a toilet brush as a sword when we should really be doing the household chores. The red fire bucket for running around with while screaming "Fire!" just because we're bored at work. The elegant clay urn that adds a romantic, classical Italianate touch to otherwise neglected gardens. The antique silver pail for attending Halloween parties or Zodiac theme evenings dressed as Aquarius the water-bearer. The mysterious copper cauldron that we only use to brew outlandish and experimental soups and broths from weird, witchy recipes. And finally the seaside-souvenir sandcastle bucket, obviously, for erecting a temporary perimeter of coastal defenses around the area of the beach we're sitting on.
Although the order of precedence might change from season to season, this bucket list of must-have buckets can surely be carved in stone. So far I have succeeded in only obtaining six of them. One still eludes me. Can you guess which one it is? ... Yes, that's right. It's the small domestic tub. I'm damned if I'm going spend $4.98 retail on something that costs less than fifty cents to manufacture, even if it is made of stain-resistant durable rubber and features an easy-grip molded handle. But anyway, I don't believe I will yearn for any other types of buckets until the day I finally kick the big metaphorical bucket: a day I hope is far off in the very distant future.
Huis Clos
I'm in the IKEA mega store, pushing a laden shopping cart through a maze
of shelving stacked high with must-have-but-don't-really-need products,
desperately seeking the checkout area. It's such a labyrinth in here.
Any minute now an assistant Minotaur in a yellow staff shirt might
emerge from behind a rack of modular bookcases to demand if he can help
me find anything.
"I've been lost for hours." I'd say. "Please can you point me towards the exit?"
The Minotaur would throw his bull's head back and roar with laughter. "There is no exit," he'd reply. "That's just some ancient myth. Nobody believes in the exits anymore." Then he'd direct me to a display of Scandinavian couches with washable cushions.
Perhaps I should have left a trail of little wooden pegs behind me, so I could have retraced my steps back to the entrance. I'm sure I've already been past these Vuillard Parisian theme toilet seat covers at least three times in the last hour. They're unsurprisingly on sale. Maybe someone in the Food Court might know where the checkout is? I can ask at the meatball counter ...
"Next ... sauce or no sauce?"
"I don't want anything. I'm just looking for the checkout?"
"Cashiers are where the soda cooler is at."
"But I'm not buying any food. I just want to pay for this stuff I got from the actual store. Can you tell me where the regular checkout is?"
"It's downstairs somewhere, near the parking lot where you came in."
"Yeah I know, but I can't actually seem to find my way back there."
"Well you can go to the elevators by the bathrooms which are where the closet organizing section is and you can ask somebody there which floor the checkout is at. Okay... Next ... sauce or no sauce?"
I trudge off in search of the elevators, slaloming my way through a thicket of shoe racks and hanging sweater boxes, eventually finding them at the end of a corridor where exhausted families slump against the wall like refugees from Plywoodland. These are my people. Soon transportation will arrive and we can begin the next stage of our migration to the Exits.
Bing! "Register number 338 is now available. Please proceed to register number 338. This register is located on Level 9 and can be accessed via the Red Zone walkway followed by the Green Zone escalators. A customer care professional will greet you on Level 9 and escort you through the checkout tunnel to register number 338. All coupons and rebates must be handed in to the appropriate service concierge at this time. If you have coupons and rebates please proceed to the service concierge desk at the Red Zone walkway embarkation point before proceeding to register number 338. Register number 338 is now available. Please proceed to ...." Bing! "Register number 476 is now available. Please proceed to register number 476. This register is located on Level 12b via the shuttle buses leaving from the Blue Zone mezzanine. A customer care professional will greet you at the transfer portal and conduct you to the Orange Zone zip-line. You're on your own after that I'm afraid. Register number 476 is now available. Please proceed to register number 476. All other registers are currently occupied serving other customers. Please stand by for the next available register."
And that's just the 10 items or less line. When I make it to the front I'm assigned Register number 893, housed in the Purple Annex, apparently just a short monorail trip from the main building. This is it, I tell myself as the train pulls out, the final chapter of my IKEA odyssey. At last the long search for a checkout counter is over and I should be home with just enough time to self-assemble my stuff before bed.
"Did you find everything you were looking for today?" cashier number 893 asks when I arrive.
"Well, the stuff I wanted was no problem," I reply with as much arch-eyebrow as I can muster. "But I had a little trouble finding you."
He looks at me blankly, his barcode scanner bleeping expectantly. "And what is the stuff you want to buy today?"
At which point I realize that I've left my shopping basket at the meatball counter when I asked for directions.
"I've been lost for hours." I'd say. "Please can you point me towards the exit?"
The Minotaur would throw his bull's head back and roar with laughter. "There is no exit," he'd reply. "That's just some ancient myth. Nobody believes in the exits anymore." Then he'd direct me to a display of Scandinavian couches with washable cushions.
Perhaps I should have left a trail of little wooden pegs behind me, so I could have retraced my steps back to the entrance. I'm sure I've already been past these Vuillard Parisian theme toilet seat covers at least three times in the last hour. They're unsurprisingly on sale. Maybe someone in the Food Court might know where the checkout is? I can ask at the meatball counter ...
"Next ... sauce or no sauce?"
"I don't want anything. I'm just looking for the checkout?"
"Cashiers are where the soda cooler is at."
"But I'm not buying any food. I just want to pay for this stuff I got from the actual store. Can you tell me where the regular checkout is?"
"It's downstairs somewhere, near the parking lot where you came in."
"Yeah I know, but I can't actually seem to find my way back there."
"Well you can go to the elevators by the bathrooms which are where the closet organizing section is and you can ask somebody there which floor the checkout is at. Okay... Next ... sauce or no sauce?"
I trudge off in search of the elevators, slaloming my way through a thicket of shoe racks and hanging sweater boxes, eventually finding them at the end of a corridor where exhausted families slump against the wall like refugees from Plywoodland. These are my people. Soon transportation will arrive and we can begin the next stage of our migration to the Exits.
Bing! "Register number 338 is now available. Please proceed to register number 338. This register is located on Level 9 and can be accessed via the Red Zone walkway followed by the Green Zone escalators. A customer care professional will greet you on Level 9 and escort you through the checkout tunnel to register number 338. All coupons and rebates must be handed in to the appropriate service concierge at this time. If you have coupons and rebates please proceed to the service concierge desk at the Red Zone walkway embarkation point before proceeding to register number 338. Register number 338 is now available. Please proceed to ...." Bing! "Register number 476 is now available. Please proceed to register number 476. This register is located on Level 12b via the shuttle buses leaving from the Blue Zone mezzanine. A customer care professional will greet you at the transfer portal and conduct you to the Orange Zone zip-line. You're on your own after that I'm afraid. Register number 476 is now available. Please proceed to register number 476. All other registers are currently occupied serving other customers. Please stand by for the next available register."
And that's just the 10 items or less line. When I make it to the front I'm assigned Register number 893, housed in the Purple Annex, apparently just a short monorail trip from the main building. This is it, I tell myself as the train pulls out, the final chapter of my IKEA odyssey. At last the long search for a checkout counter is over and I should be home with just enough time to self-assemble my stuff before bed.
"Did you find everything you were looking for today?" cashier number 893 asks when I arrive.
"Well, the stuff I wanted was no problem," I reply with as much arch-eyebrow as I can muster. "But I had a little trouble finding you."
He looks at me blankly, his barcode scanner bleeping expectantly. "And what is the stuff you want to buy today?"
At which point I realize that I've left my shopping basket at the meatball counter when I asked for directions.
In Dreams Begin Irresponsibilities
Perhaps it's the lack of rich food eaten before retiring to bed, but I no longer appear in my own dreams. Apparently I have been left on sleep's cutting-room floor, so to speak. Consequently there are no sudden materializations of my dream self at high school in the middle of a trigonometry exam that I know nothing about; no nudist wanderings in and out of the office cubicles of contemporary colleagues; no recurring sensations of endlessly falling into a bottomless black void; not even the next morning's vague recollections of my teeth dropping out one by one while misspelling the word "Kafkaesque" at a subterranean, Grand Guignol spelling bee.
Alas, my dreams are mostly confined to weary appraisals of curious images by a sort of disassociated, long-suffering universal eye. It's certainly not my eye. It doesn't get distracted enough to be my eye. Subjects under scrutiny can include anything from an overstuffed armchair to an erupting volcano, and are usually influenced by minutiae encountered during the day. One wonders why my mind requires subconscious REM processing of such dull vignettes? Obviously it views me as an observer of inessential details rather than the romantic protagonist of an action-packed nightmare. Which is fine by me since I have no desire to wake up in a cold sweat each morning, gripping the sides of the mattress and fighting my bedsheets with my feet.
In fact, I fail to see how any sane person can be interested in these disjointed, nonsensical narratives dredged up from the deepest recesses of dormant minds. The ridiculous "work" of Sigmund Freud and his rabid acolytes proves my point beyond dispute. Freud believed that dreams are a form of wish fulfillment. This theory is clearly absurd, since I never dream that all his tedious books are mercifully transformed back into the trees from which their pages were wrought; a transformation I devoutly wish to be fulfilled. So, auf wiedersehen Sigmund. Don't let the symbolic door hit your Id, Ego and Super-ego on the way out.
According to the dream dictionary I consulted, to dream of saltpeter indicates sorrow and heartache. But how many meaning-seeking dreamers can distinguish saltpeter from regular salt? It's an important distinction because, according to the same book, to dream of regular salt suggests abundance and excitability, which is a rather different takeaway in the morning if you'd been actively amorous before falling asleep.
If you ask me, dreams mean nothing beyond the crude interpretations that curious and often prurient imaginations can associate with whatever objects feature prominently in them. So it seems fair to say that, in common with all forms of critique, dreams reveal more about the interpreter than the actual dreamer. I dream about static images of overstuffed armchairs and erupting volcanoes ... the ball is in your court.
Alas, my dreams are mostly confined to weary appraisals of curious images by a sort of disassociated, long-suffering universal eye. It's certainly not my eye. It doesn't get distracted enough to be my eye. Subjects under scrutiny can include anything from an overstuffed armchair to an erupting volcano, and are usually influenced by minutiae encountered during the day. One wonders why my mind requires subconscious REM processing of such dull vignettes? Obviously it views me as an observer of inessential details rather than the romantic protagonist of an action-packed nightmare. Which is fine by me since I have no desire to wake up in a cold sweat each morning, gripping the sides of the mattress and fighting my bedsheets with my feet.
In fact, I fail to see how any sane person can be interested in these disjointed, nonsensical narratives dredged up from the deepest recesses of dormant minds. The ridiculous "work" of Sigmund Freud and his rabid acolytes proves my point beyond dispute. Freud believed that dreams are a form of wish fulfillment. This theory is clearly absurd, since I never dream that all his tedious books are mercifully transformed back into the trees from which their pages were wrought; a transformation I devoutly wish to be fulfilled. So, auf wiedersehen Sigmund. Don't let the symbolic door hit your Id, Ego and Super-ego on the way out.
According to the dream dictionary I consulted, to dream of saltpeter indicates sorrow and heartache. But how many meaning-seeking dreamers can distinguish saltpeter from regular salt? It's an important distinction because, according to the same book, to dream of regular salt suggests abundance and excitability, which is a rather different takeaway in the morning if you'd been actively amorous before falling asleep.
If you ask me, dreams mean nothing beyond the crude interpretations that curious and often prurient imaginations can associate with whatever objects feature prominently in them. So it seems fair to say that, in common with all forms of critique, dreams reveal more about the interpreter than the actual dreamer. I dream about static images of overstuffed armchairs and erupting volcanoes ... the ball is in your court.
The Unacceptable Face of Summer
Despite erring, hopefully, on the side of quality fabrics and a decent fit, I'm not particularly partial to either trendy or traditional clothes. Both schools of tailoring are capable of producing stylish and functional results, if you ask me. Except, that is, when it comes to men's swimming trunks and other seaside fashions designed for turning lethargy into an extreme sport. In other words: resort wear. the unacceptable face of summer.
"I am a human; nothing human is alien to me" wrote the affable Roman playwright Terence, who obviously never set foot in a store selling resort wear. Such an experience would surely shake his faith in benign homogeneity. Voluminous board shorts, plastic flip flops, marijuana themed t-shirts, over-sized sunglasses, neon thongs, colored beads, novelty Rasta wigs and unidentifiable objects woven from hemp. Need I go on? These are clothes for bovine oafs who consider being hungover, high and comatose to be a reasonable way of life. I'm not saying vacationers should sunbathe on the beach in evening gowns, or wade in the breakers wearing tuxedos with the pant legs rolled-up, but surely there is a certain level of decorum to expected. Whatever happened to the good old days of light-colored linen jackets, Panama hats, rope-soled shoes and elegant Bermuda shorts? You can call me uptight, an old fuddy-duddy, even possibly embarrassed about revealing my surgical scars to the arch eyes of all and sundry on the sands of Bournemouth, San Tropez and the New Jersey shore, but I think I have the cultural prestige of classical antiquity on my side.
Terence most likely dressed in a uniform of simple leather sandals and a pale tunic tied at the waist. Highly appropriate for a Roman summer spent wandering around the Forum. There were no Keith Haring flamingos decorating the material he wore; no stoner slogans printed across the chest. Nor were the soles of his sandals bolstered by three inches of lizard green, inflatable rubber tread. Finding himself in a modern resort-wear store, he'd probably assume he'd stumbled into the lair of interplanetary surfer bums; or, considering the XXXL sizes on display, he might even think he'd happened upon an ogre's monstrous wardrobe. Either way, he would certainly never associate the merchandise with anything of civilized origin. "Cheap barbarian garbage" is undoubtedly the phrase that sprung to our playwright's mind when confronted with these vulgar and outlandish goods.
Yet any alternative beach attire is almost impossible find these days. If you're not comfortable with baggy, waterproof knickerbockers hanging halfway off your backside then you might as well just not bother heading to the boardwalk at all. Consequently I have to wear my wet-suit, snorkel and flippers whenever I go to the beach. People often look twice at my harpoon but I've grown used to their stares by now. Sometimes my wet-suit isn't dry after the previous days swim, so I'm forced to climb into my deep sea diving outfit with the lead boots and brass helmet. I don't mind telling you that it can get a little hot in there, even under the shade of a beach umbrella. But still, at least I don't look like a lazy slob in ill-fitting and idiotic resort wear.
"I am a human; nothing human is alien to me" wrote the affable Roman playwright Terence, who obviously never set foot in a store selling resort wear. Such an experience would surely shake his faith in benign homogeneity. Voluminous board shorts, plastic flip flops, marijuana themed t-shirts, over-sized sunglasses, neon thongs, colored beads, novelty Rasta wigs and unidentifiable objects woven from hemp. Need I go on? These are clothes for bovine oafs who consider being hungover, high and comatose to be a reasonable way of life. I'm not saying vacationers should sunbathe on the beach in evening gowns, or wade in the breakers wearing tuxedos with the pant legs rolled-up, but surely there is a certain level of decorum to expected. Whatever happened to the good old days of light-colored linen jackets, Panama hats, rope-soled shoes and elegant Bermuda shorts? You can call me uptight, an old fuddy-duddy, even possibly embarrassed about revealing my surgical scars to the arch eyes of all and sundry on the sands of Bournemouth, San Tropez and the New Jersey shore, but I think I have the cultural prestige of classical antiquity on my side.
Terence most likely dressed in a uniform of simple leather sandals and a pale tunic tied at the waist. Highly appropriate for a Roman summer spent wandering around the Forum. There were no Keith Haring flamingos decorating the material he wore; no stoner slogans printed across the chest. Nor were the soles of his sandals bolstered by three inches of lizard green, inflatable rubber tread. Finding himself in a modern resort-wear store, he'd probably assume he'd stumbled into the lair of interplanetary surfer bums; or, considering the XXXL sizes on display, he might even think he'd happened upon an ogre's monstrous wardrobe. Either way, he would certainly never associate the merchandise with anything of civilized origin. "Cheap barbarian garbage" is undoubtedly the phrase that sprung to our playwright's mind when confronted with these vulgar and outlandish goods.
Yet any alternative beach attire is almost impossible find these days. If you're not comfortable with baggy, waterproof knickerbockers hanging halfway off your backside then you might as well just not bother heading to the boardwalk at all. Consequently I have to wear my wet-suit, snorkel and flippers whenever I go to the beach. People often look twice at my harpoon but I've grown used to their stares by now. Sometimes my wet-suit isn't dry after the previous days swim, so I'm forced to climb into my deep sea diving outfit with the lead boots and brass helmet. I don't mind telling you that it can get a little hot in there, even under the shade of a beach umbrella. But still, at least I don't look like a lazy slob in ill-fitting and idiotic resort wear.
The Dining Experience
Hello and welcome to Steak Schtick where meat is fun. My name is Atahualpa and I'll be your server this evening. Have either of you been to a Steak Schtick before? Obviously not because today is our Grand Opening isn't it, ha ha, and so I hope you brought your ninety-percent off coupon with you. I will be getting you started with a drink order in just a few moments but first let me tell you a little about our menu. The menu is divided into three sections: the Tonto section, the Lone Ranger section, and the Heigh-Ho Silver section. I think you'll agree that it's so much more fun than just calling the sections Appetizer, Entree and Dessert like other boring restaurants do. And we want your meal at at Steak Schtick to be fun from beginning to end, and there's no more fun way to begin a meal than with a refreshing cocktail.
But before you decide on drinks let me just tell you about those mouthwatering individual menu sections in case that impacts your drink order. But before I do that I just want to thank you on behalf of everyone at Steak Schtick for coming in tonight by giving you another ninety-percent off coupon, good for dinner at any Steak Schtick or participating Chicken Chuckle.
Now let's hear about those menu sections which will only take a few seconds and then I'll get your cocktail order.
The Tonto section contains all of our small steak plate offerings, ideal for sharing as long as you order a lot of them. Unfortunately we are already out of the steak tips, the steak ends and the steak middles, but please feel free to order from the remaining Tonto dishes such as the steak flanks. I love the left flank of the steak and the right flank is also a favorite of mine. We recommend a minimum of two steak flanks per person if you're going to be ordering them.
Now the Lone Ranger section. These are our biggest, juiciest steaks and you won't want to share with anyone. I do have to tell you that we are out of the ribeye, the sirloin, the filet mignon, the strip, the porterhouse and the tenderloin. But we do have the Chinese Kobe beef burger and our delicious rump cut of finest steak ass. You will need to order the Chinese Kobe beef burger ASAP if you want that.
And finally the Heigh-Ho Silver section. Here you will find a selection of gourmet desserts for when you're preparing to ride off into the sunset. I definitely recommend the lemon custard pie since it's the only thing we've got left.
As always we have no specials at Steak Schtick because everything we make is special every day. Do you need a minute to decide? Probably not since you can only have the flank and the rump steak and the custard pie. Now I don't want to rush you but as I mentioned earlier this is our Grand Opening and we do have people already waiting for your table. Oh, did you want a drink? You should have said. Unfortunately we don't have a liquor license just yet but someone will be over with complimentary tap water very shortly.
But before you decide on drinks let me just tell you about those mouthwatering individual menu sections in case that impacts your drink order. But before I do that I just want to thank you on behalf of everyone at Steak Schtick for coming in tonight by giving you another ninety-percent off coupon, good for dinner at any Steak Schtick or participating Chicken Chuckle.
Now let's hear about those menu sections which will only take a few seconds and then I'll get your cocktail order.
The Tonto section contains all of our small steak plate offerings, ideal for sharing as long as you order a lot of them. Unfortunately we are already out of the steak tips, the steak ends and the steak middles, but please feel free to order from the remaining Tonto dishes such as the steak flanks. I love the left flank of the steak and the right flank is also a favorite of mine. We recommend a minimum of two steak flanks per person if you're going to be ordering them.
Now the Lone Ranger section. These are our biggest, juiciest steaks and you won't want to share with anyone. I do have to tell you that we are out of the ribeye, the sirloin, the filet mignon, the strip, the porterhouse and the tenderloin. But we do have the Chinese Kobe beef burger and our delicious rump cut of finest steak ass. You will need to order the Chinese Kobe beef burger ASAP if you want that.
And finally the Heigh-Ho Silver section. Here you will find a selection of gourmet desserts for when you're preparing to ride off into the sunset. I definitely recommend the lemon custard pie since it's the only thing we've got left.
As always we have no specials at Steak Schtick because everything we make is special every day. Do you need a minute to decide? Probably not since you can only have the flank and the rump steak and the custard pie. Now I don't want to rush you but as I mentioned earlier this is our Grand Opening and we do have people already waiting for your table. Oh, did you want a drink? You should have said. Unfortunately we don't have a liquor license just yet but someone will be over with complimentary tap water very shortly.
Per Ardua Ad Astra
Per ardua ad astra - "through adversity to the stars" - is the motto of the Royal Air Force; and since many of us struggle with ever skyrocketing medical costs, it is undoubtedly within such heavenly spheres that the resolution to our healthcare conflicts can also be found. I'm talking about the advanced biological research of scientists from other planets. In other words: little green doctors with antennae sticking out of their heads.
Almost all alien abduction stories contain an description, however hazily recalled, of some sort of mysterious medical examination being conducted on the human captive. Such extraterrestrial operations usually occur without the victim's consent: the humanoid is abruptly beamed aboard ship and poked and prodded like a prize-winning pig, just for the entertainment of snooty Martian medicos. Abductee accounts make the experience sound like a Grey's Anatomy and Battlestar Galactica TV crossover event. But perhaps it doesn't have to be that way. Perhaps it could be an entirely new show called Spock MD.
It seems to me that developing a meaningful dialogue with these scalpel-toting E.T.s might very well supply a workable solution to our healthcare problems. A mutually beneficial bargain could be struck that caters to both the alien's interests and our desperate needs. Uninsured Earthling patients would volunteer to enter an alien ship to have their genitals evaluated for twenty minutes, possibly even get an alien implant or two inserted into their rectums, and in return the alien surgeons would perform a free gastric bypass or any other procedure the patient required. More critical patients could perhaps be transported by saucer-shaped space ambulance to the alien's home planets for advanced treatment, provided that they submit to even more invasive alien probing, naturally. I'm sure it would be relatively easy to get the Hippocratic Oath translated into Grokkian or Chthulu or whatever bizarre telepathic language the alien's speak, so it's a win-win situation all around as far as I can see.
Clearly this approach to our country's healthcare's problems is far superior to Obama's everyone must kiss-it-better plan, or whatever hopeless plan the Republicans are thinking of reanimating with huge shots of privately donated cortizone. Obviously it's completely dependent on the existence of UFOs, but I believe that this is a minor detail in an otherwise extremely practical and affordable solution; a solution that neither of our major political parties has the courage or imagination to embrace.
Almost all alien abduction stories contain an description, however hazily recalled, of some sort of mysterious medical examination being conducted on the human captive. Such extraterrestrial operations usually occur without the victim's consent: the humanoid is abruptly beamed aboard ship and poked and prodded like a prize-winning pig, just for the entertainment of snooty Martian medicos. Abductee accounts make the experience sound like a Grey's Anatomy and Battlestar Galactica TV crossover event. But perhaps it doesn't have to be that way. Perhaps it could be an entirely new show called Spock MD.
It seems to me that developing a meaningful dialogue with these scalpel-toting E.T.s might very well supply a workable solution to our healthcare problems. A mutually beneficial bargain could be struck that caters to both the alien's interests and our desperate needs. Uninsured Earthling patients would volunteer to enter an alien ship to have their genitals evaluated for twenty minutes, possibly even get an alien implant or two inserted into their rectums, and in return the alien surgeons would perform a free gastric bypass or any other procedure the patient required. More critical patients could perhaps be transported by saucer-shaped space ambulance to the alien's home planets for advanced treatment, provided that they submit to even more invasive alien probing, naturally. I'm sure it would be relatively easy to get the Hippocratic Oath translated into Grokkian or Chthulu or whatever bizarre telepathic language the alien's speak, so it's a win-win situation all around as far as I can see.
Clearly this approach to our country's healthcare's problems is far superior to Obama's everyone must kiss-it-better plan, or whatever hopeless plan the Republicans are thinking of reanimating with huge shots of privately donated cortizone. Obviously it's completely dependent on the existence of UFOs, but I believe that this is a minor detail in an otherwise extremely practical and affordable solution; a solution that neither of our major political parties has the courage or imagination to embrace.
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