lunch conversation

Do people who eat Veggie Burgers have to worry about contracting Mad Bean Disease?

Fluoride Reprieve

The City of Greensboro has run out of fluoride and the uninformed in the community are worried about dental health. Those of us in the know couldn't be happier.

When the government started adding fluoride to our drinking water, a respected scientist (I can't remember his name) discovered that this substance was actually developed by the KGB for use in mind control experiments. Fluoride, when administered over a long period of time, makes our brains more susceptible to brainwashing. This allows the government to broadcast their messages of obedience while sapping us of our free will.

Today, for the first time in many years, I was able to remove my foil helmet without hearing the voices. All of a sudden I can't understand why we didn't elect Ross Perot as President? And what the hell are we doing in Iraq? And forget about Global Warming, doesn't anybody realize that the govenment is actually selling huge chunks of our polar ice cap to aliens from an overheated planet?

Let's get moving, people, before they discover a replacement for fluoride. And whatever you do, don't brush your teeth!

Bumper Sticker Counterpoint

A bumper sticker I spotted on the way to work said, "I'd Rather Be Skydiving." Now, I don't want to start something here, but let's face it: skydiving is for pansies.

You want thrills? You want that unbeatable rush of adrenaline? Climb up on my roof this weekend and clean out my gutters. That's right. No parachute, no safety harness, just man against gravity. One false step and you're face down in a holly bush.

I tell you what, if it wasn't such a messy business, I'd charge admission.

Good Advice

Blogging For Dummies - Chapter 3: Offer Your Readers An Occassional Break From The Tedium Of Your Mindless Drivel!

Incident at Brown Bark

Just a few months ago, there was a change in the landscape here in sleepy little Brown Bark Park. For those unfamiliar with this part of Greensboro, Brown Bark is a large open field bordered by four neighborhood streets with a creek running down the middle. It is nearly a mile around and offers some of the best winter sledding in town.

I always think it's best to leave well enough alone, but construction crews set up shop and proceeded to pound, scrape and dig with every piece of heavy equipment in their arsenal. Nearly everything heavier than 5 tons and painted yellow came traipsing across our quiet little field to attack the creek. Their ultimate goal, I found out, was to fashion a new, more natural sort of waterway.

I was told by an officious acquaintance that the whole boondoggle was actually a wetland mitigation and restoration project. Sounds expensive, doesn't it? I learned that the project was designed to improve our water supply. As a good citizen, how can you argue with that?

The path of this creek, as natural as it appeared to my uneducated eye, was formed by the results of careless construction practices in past decades. Streams were molested and bullied by coldhearted developers until they no longer travelled a natural course. This creek was meant to meander through the landscape, twisting and turning and filtering our water along the way. Ideally, the sand, rocks and plants all do the job of removing harmful debris and chemicals from the water.

That all sounds great, but in the final analysis, I think it’s nothing more than one of those deals where the federal government won’t give the states any money to combat same-sex marriages unless they fix their streams. So the states strong-arm the municipalities and we get what everyone in the world is hoping for; restored and mitigated creeks.

When four months of dust finally settled there was an amiable little creek with some added boulders, twists and turns; it was really quite nice. Once the equipment cleared out, some type of mesh and seed material was laid out all along the banks of the creek. After a few weeks we had a tall stand of wildflowers and grass, all part of the restoration project and that all-important filtration process.

And so the story of tax money spent on a questionable venture has a happy ending. The creek looks a little nicer and now we have some pretty yellow flowers. But this isn’t Hollywood or even one of those popular “reality” series; Municipal Park Make-over with your host, Ty Pennington. No, things don’t always work out so well here in the real world.

Doing my best to stave off inevitable obesity, I sometimes walk my dog along the well-lit sidewalks surrounding the park. This puts me in close proximity to the results of the stream restoration. You see, in some places, the tall yellow flowers and grass grow just a few feet from the edge of the sidewalk. Maybe, as my therapist likes to point out, I’m a little paranoid, but sometimes I picture wild animals laying in wait for a night when I might be a little overtired and unable to fend off a sneak attack.

One evening, I’m walking my dog along a particular stretch near the overgrown flora and I notice two young possums emerge from the jungle and then cross the road. My dog came upon them suddenly and they scurried under a small bush next to someone’s mailbox. Well, I have to say, possums are hateful and fearsome creatures with very sharp teeth, but, just like nearly every other animal on God’s green Earth, they still manage to have cute young’uns.

I was lost in this thought when I suddenly found myself face down on the sidewalk. Now, I’m not graceful by any measure, but neither am I notoriously clumsy. It seems I tripped over what turned out to be the mother possum running out from the cover of the grass. She was, understandably, concerned about her offspring wandering away and was chasing behind, as mothers will do.

Of course, I didn’t figure all this out right away. I was dazed and concerned about the gathering pool of blood on the sidewalk. No, it took me a minute to piece this one together. Shortly after coming to the conclusion that sidewalks are not very forgiving, I noticed that my dog was in an agitated state. So, too, was a rather upset mother possum.

As I was lying on the ground inches from the ensuing melee and considering my strategic vantage point, I had one of those rare moments of clarity. Staring at the overgrown vegetation, I thought, “wouldn’t it have been cheaper to just add another filtration device to the water treatment plant?”

It’s been a few days since my ordeal and I’m getting used to the idea of a restored and mitigated stream in Brown Bark Park. The doctor says he may have to take my leg, but I only have four more rounds of rabies shots. Quite a few folks have visited me here in the hospital; everyone offering their condolences on my circumstances and, of course, the dog. Some of my more considerate friends bring in tall yellow flowers to brighten my mood.


David Theall is now limited to cruising the sidewalks of Brown Bark Park in his Rascal motorized mobility chair.


© 2005 David Theall

Just a nice picture

a whole lot of shakin'

Ladies with tremors shouldn't wear dangly earings.

I'm no military hawk, but this is a cool pic from DoD website

F/A-18 Hornet creates a shock wave as it breaks the sound barrier. The shock wave is visible as a large cloud of condensation formed by the cooling of the air. A smaller shock wave can be seen forming on top of the canopy.

Comment Spammers

It appears that it takes less than 10 minutes for these scumbags to strike.

into every life....

A little rain in Greensboro last night; and that's a good thing. It's too late for the plot of dirt that I used to call my front yard. Even the weeds have abandoned my little corner of real estate.

Summer started off with plenty of rain - no need for sprinklers. When it all dried up, I refrained from watering because I was trying to be a good citizen. My neighbors might say that I was just ready to be done with mowing season, but that's just a rumor.

I'm afraid to aerate this season for fear of jarring my fillings loose. Those aerators aren't meant to bounce across petrified dirt. Looks like another year without an award-winning lawn.

It's a fine line between being a good citizen and a neighborhood annoyance. As a small favor, let me ask that you ignore the petition that's going around seeking my eviction.

a man without a country update

Yesterday my blog was added to NCblog. Thanks Mark.

Mystery Solved

Have you ever wondered why so many little old ladies like to drive around town with those poodle dogs in their laps? It's bothered me for years, so the other day, in the Harris Teeter parking lot, I spotted one of these ladies and I asked her about it.

Her name was Edna and she had just finished parking her Buick on the sidewalk at the front of the store. A crumpled shopping cart was lodged under the left front wheel and her windshield wipers were going on a sunny day.

This is what she told me: Nobody likes to give up their independence and Edna's hope is that once she is no longer able to drive, Fifi will take the wheel and carry her around town to the grocery store, the doctor's office and the beauty salon.

Now, Fifi had a hacking cough, a raging case of the mange and no opposable thumbs, but I wish her all the best in learning to drive. She can't be any worse than Edna.

A man without a country

I just started this site a few days ago and with advice from a friend (thanks, Ed), I registered at Greensboro101 as well as NCBlogs. It's been several days and I still don't see my blog listed at either site.

The results from my site counter are pathetic. With the exception of my own visits, checking to see if my blog is still up, I only have one visitor a day. (Hi, Mom).

Well, at least it's free. And the opportunity to vent a little will probably reduce the murder rate in Greensboro this year.

The Quasimodo Effect

I’m afraid we’re raising a generation of hunchback children. This phenomenon is not the result of a medical epidemic and it has nothing to do with the fluoridated drinking water conspiracy. No, it’s simply a result of overzealous textbook authors and too much homework.

My 15-year-old daughter started her second year of high school recently and she is changing into a pack mule with each passing day. Every morning she hoists her backpack, bending under the weight of it, and plods off to her classes. Once there, her teachers assign homework unmercifully as they fret about the results of statewide standardized testing.

Believe it or not, Kate’s backpack weighs in at nearly 50 pounds. That is, when I put it on the bathroom scale and add my foot for purposes of exaggeration. Truthfully, it totals between 25 and 30 pounds if you include her lunch box and she isn’t really a big eater. As a worrisome parent and marginal scholar, I believe that backpacks are for camping and no child should carry more than an armful of books.

Maybe I shouldn’t complain. If Kate fares poorly in academics, she will at least be qualified as a sherpa guide; able to carry twice her body weight in supplies and equipment as she scales Everest. For a career in a warmer climate, she could always work as a mule smuggling cocaine across the Mexican border. I guess it’s good for her to have a trade in case she doesn’t make it into college.

We should take a lesson from Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451; books are bad. Filled with wild ideas that inspire free thought, modern art and other dangerous activities, books corrupt the minds of our young people. Not only that, but the damn things are heavy.

Back in the late ‘70s when I was in high school, this problem did not exist. It was definitely not an issue for me. I only brought home the occasional textbook to fool my parents into thinking I was doing homework. I also used to refill the vodka bottle with water, but that’s a different column.

Thanks to the passage of time and the miracle of shock therapy, none of my teachers from high school remember me. Through the years my grades and conduct inspired several educators to make drastic career changes. Otherwise, they would tell you that I should have carried more books home. If my uncle had not been in charge of scoring the SAT, I would have never made it into college.

During my high school career, anyone with a backpack was a nerd, but these days you have to have a rolling backpack to qualify for that. Soon rolling backpacks will be the norm and to achieve parity the nerds will have to push wheelbarrows full of books.

As teenagers we used to confide in each other about dermatologists and acne medicine, now my daughter’s peers share the names of their chiropractors. I realize that Disney did a lot to improve his image, but do we really want the Hunchback of Notre Dame to be a role model for our kids?

Ray Bradbury taught us that 451 is the temperature at which books burn, but there must be another solution. Some of the textbooks now come with companion CDs so the kids can leave their books at school and access the text with a computer. I like that idea, but if it doesn’t catch on, maybe now is the time to add weight training to the Head Start programs.

As for my little girl, her mother and I have hired someone to help her succeed in school. Instead of a tutor, Kate now sees a personal trainer twice a week and she’s bulking up on steroids. Students of the world unite and cast off the oppressive yoke of your education. Anyone got a match?


Recently accepted into chiropractic school, David Theall can be reached at dtheall@triad.rr.com

© David Theall 2005

Room For Fun

Is there any room in a house more useless than the living room? Like many homeowners we never use our living room. Since most of our family and friends are social cripples, we don’t do much entertaining and the room sits idle. Of course, as far as Uncle Sam is concerned, that room is a fully functional and completely deductible home office.

You will often find that newer houses don’t even have living rooms, but our house was built in the seventies so we have a fairly sizeable chunk of real estate that serves no purpose whatsoever. Sporting lime green shag carpet, it’s about 300 square feet of totally wasted space. Aside from using the carpet to teach my children the basics of static electricity, I rarely set foot in there.

My wife, Julie, actually cherishes our living room. For her, it is a great place to store the antiques she has inherited from her family. I say “store” because most of the furniture is too fragile to use in any conventional sense. She places delicate vases and filigree picture frames on end tables with spindly legs. The sofa and chairs are decorated with needlepoint pillows, but strictly off limits for actual sitting. As in any nurturing household, our children are threatened with the pain of torture to stay out of the living room and away from the antiques.

Dissatisfied with the unused space, I recently took it upon myself to convert our living room into something we can actually use. This plan was made possible by the fact that Julie was on an extended business trip and it’s much easier to make home improvement decisions when she isn’t around.

I briefly entertained the idea of creating a playroom for the kids, but that kind of thing only encourages them to spend time in the house. It’s not that I want my children to experience the benefits of healthy outdoor activities, it’s just easier to enjoy my leisure time if they are outside or over at the neighbor’s.

After much soul searching and several trips to the home improvement store, I decided to create the ultimate den complete with a wet bar and tournament-sized pool table. My vision overwhelmed common sense as I picked out which wall would be home to the new 42 inch plasma TV. Once completed, I could host weekly poker games with my beer guzzling, cigar chomping buddies. Yes indeed, time to put my plan into action.

I have never been involved in a household project where the work or the results were any match for the fun I have going to the home improvement store beforehand. My kids even call it Daddy’s toy store. You see, if I can find an excuse to buy a new power tool, then I’m satisfied with the project before it even begins. The only reason to actually do any of the work is so you can brag to your buddies about how much easier it is with your new table saw.

That’s why all these home improvement stores are doing so well while at the same time homeowners are more dissatisfied with their houses than at any other time in recent history. Census figures show that there are 350 million unfinished home improvement projects plaguing the wives of do-it-yourselfers across America.

It’s no surprise that stock analyst Harvey Bullspittle recently rated the home improvement sector as a strong buy. Stock in these companies has been climbing for years. Harvey’s wife doesn't care about all that. She just wants him to finish her kitchen so she doesn’t have to wash dishes in the bathtub anymore.

As for my living room conversion; I won’t go into the messy details of the work accomplished. There was a great deal of sawing and sanding, hammering and cursing, a typical project at my house. I’m sad to report that the job ground to a premature halt when my wife got home from her trip.

She was dead set against the change so I was banished from our bedroom and told not to come back until she had her living room restored to it’s former grandeur. Presently the space serves as a makeshift bedroom complete with sleeping bag and an old blanket I wrestled from the dog. Even after all that, I have to admit that as I drift off to sleep staring at the ceiling, I’m thinking about installing a skylight.


David Theall is the proud owner of thirteen unfinished home improvement projects and can be reached at dtheall@triad.rr.com.


This column originally appeared in the Greensboro News & Record on January 4, 2005.

© 2005 David Theall

Minivan Blues

In the world of automobile design where the shape of a Ferrari evokes the curves of a sexy supermodel, surely the ubiquitous minivan is the equivalent of a pregnant mother. Bulbous and awkward, the minivan waddles around town delivering offspring to pre-school, soccer practice and dance recitals. With decidedly feminine names like Odyssey and Sienna minivans appeal mostly to women with children. The auto industry is well aware that vehicles are gender specific and it’s no accident that sports cars have masculine names like Boxster, Corvette and Testerossa.

As a man forced to drive a minivan on occassion, I find that it is virtually impossible to retain any semblance of macho manliness while behind the wheel. Sure, you can pull up to Home Depot and load the thing up with all types of heavy-duty, rugged he-man tools and building materials, but it won’t help your image one bit. It’s still a minivan and even the guy with a shopping cart full of pansies is laughing at you because he’s loading those plants into the bed of a pickup truck.

Despite the futility of my situation, when forced to drive our minivan I try to find little ways to compensate for my vehicular shortcoming. For instance, I usually call it a truck instead of a minivan. “C’mon kids. It’s time to go; let’s get in the truck.” Of course, they just look at me with piteous contempt and say, “It’s a minivan, Dad. Get over it.”

In an effort to improve our minivan’s image I tried to make a few simple modifications. With a large roll of duct tape and with the manufacturer’s instructions conveniently crumpled up in the trash, I fastened chrome plated air horns to the roof. The duct tape also came in handy when installing the plastic hood scoops. Bright orange flame decals were self adhesive, so no problem there. Finally, I added mud flaps like the ones you see on semi trucks with the shiny silhouette of a curvaceous woman in a supine position. If that doesn’t say “macho” I don’t know what does.

Stepping back and surveying the results, I started to feel a small sense of accomplishment. It lasted right up until the very moment my wife stepped into the garage. She stubbornly insisted that I remove my modifications while threatening me with actions that would make me feel even less of a man. On this issue she really doesn’t understand my point of view. It’s very much like the up/down toilet seat debate. There can be no understanding between the sexes.

Left with no alternative, I finally decided that if I couldn’t disguise the vehicle, I would disguise the driver. An inexpensive halloween mask seemed to do the trick nicely. Although quite a few people snickered as I ran my errands, I was certain that nobody recognized me. I cruised around town, carting the kids here and there with my male dignity fully intact.

This solution seemed to be working fine until the day I pulled into line at the drive through window of my bank. Nervous as people are these days, my masked visage was interpreted as a prelude to armed robbery and the authorities were summoned. I tried to explain my situation to the responding officer, but just like my wife, she refused to see my side of things.

So here I am in the poky awaiting trial for attempted bank robbery. It’s not too bad because the rest of the guys on the cell block hold me in pretty high regard. Robbing banks is right up there on the masculine hierarchy of pending crimes. It may not be honorable, but if they ever ask me about the getaway car, I’m going to lie.


David Theall no longer drives, but enjoys riding on the prison bus and wearing an orange jumpsuit. David can be reached at dtheall@triad.rr.com.


This column originally appeared in the Greensboro News & Record on August 3, 2004.


© 2004 David Theall

About The Author

In 1983, David graduated from the Grady School of Journalism at the University of Georgia. As a student he was also seen skulking around the English Department clutching tattered copies of Vonnegut novels. When asked to comment, one administrator pointed out, “You try to keep your standards high, but every once in a while one of ‘em slips through the cracks.”

While in college David co-authored a comic strip for the daily campus newspaper, The Red & Black. “Comfortable Ignorance” won Best Feature Award from the Georgia Press Association which just goes to show that even a college student of limited means can be successful at bribery as long as he selects the right brand of scotch.

David is little more than a poor excuse for a father even though considered childlike by those who know him best. Although rare, his most meaningful interaction with the children usually involves fighting for control of the family’s PlayStation.

With the exception of several forgettable stints as an advertising lackey, the years following college have been a long, fruitless march of career misfires and utter failures. After a disastrous turn in the greeting card business (who would have guessed that there wasn’t really an untapped market for comical sympathy cards) David turned to day trading in the get-rich-quick ‘90s. Armed with day-old stock quotes from discarded newspapers, a rotary-dial phone and no business savvy whatsoever, David quickly lost his shirt, a pair of argyle socks and his left shoe.

Unsuitable for a career in the real world, David has turned his sights to writing. “My doctor recently insisted that I stop banging my head against the wall so I started writing this column instead. It seems to offer the same type of stimulation, but with slightly less brain damage,” notes the author sporting a crooked grin and a drool-stained t-shirt. A licensed psychiatrist has recently certified that David presents the ideal personality to pursue the masochistic endeavor of writing a humor column.

© 2005 David Theall