Confessions of a thief.

 

I was a petty thief, but I am trying not to be anymore. 

Which is good, because apparently I suck at stealing things unless I'm not trying to. Then I am the Napoleon of Crime. 

When I was a boy, my mom would let me wander the aisles of the supermarket while she was shopping. (Yes, kids, it was a different world then.) On some occasions I pocketed a roll of Rolos, my favorite candy. No one ever caught me at it. I probably thought I was pretty clever.  

As I look back, I think even then they had security cameras, and they probably saw me. But they probably figured it was worth a little candy to keep my mother shopping there. We were regulars; she even had her favorite cashier. If they'd busted me, Mom would have been embarrassed (furious, but also embarrassed) and we would have gone to some other supermarket. And now I figure the managers knew that. 

Later in life I got caught stealing a comic book. One of -- but far from the most -- humiliating moments of my life. It was clear that I was no master criminal. And a stupid comic book, full of heroes that fought crime! Ironic and embarrassing. I genuinely wanted to walk out into traffic when they let me go. The manager had gotten my name and phone number and I figured he'd call my parents (can you believe I coughed up the real number?) but he never did. I confessed to my folks anyway. 

I did not grow up in the most morally upright household. My dad's advice following the comic book incident was not: Don't steal. It was: Never steal anything small. The penalty is the same for small and large thefts at felony size, so if you're going to steal, make it worthwhile. My father was a taciturn man, not given to advising -- the only other piece of advice I remember him telling me is "Don't weaken. It's a great life if you don't weaken."

Alas, I continued to steal small. While I was in college I stole books (I really am a dork) from a publishing distributor for whom I worked on Sundays. He had to have figured it out. He would call me on Fridays to check my availability. One Friday he didn't call. He never called again. I really didn't seem to care at the time.

After that, there was less thievery. I took the Xerox subsidy at work later on, and stole postage to mail out manuscripts, but I eventually I stopped taking things that were not mine. Over time I seemed to have had the slowest, stupidest, most reluctant, most half-assed, but eventually effective spiritual awakening possible, and thank God I lived long enough for it. So I didn't steal anything anymore.  

Then I stole a skid of toilet paper. 

Just a couple of weeks ago.

It was a total accident. I was on the self-checkout line at Home Depot, with several things in a cart, including a 24-roll package of Charmin ($25 on sale). I was sure I had scanned everything with the scanning gun, but when I got home and looked at the receipt, I discovered that I had walked out the door without paying for the TP.

I had pulled that heist right in front of an employee who was watching me scan. Master thief!

It bothered me. My wife thought it was funny. A friend me mine called it "No big shit!" (hyuk hyuk). But I don't want to steal anything anymore. 

So, on Friday I went back for another $25 skid -- not like it will go stale -- and charged myself for two. The ledger is corrected, the inventory proper. Order and balance are restored.

Maybe no one noticed, no one cared. But I care. Because if I steal, I am a man who steals, but if I refuse to let myself steal I am not. Not anymore. I much prefer that.

Anyway, I have a lot of TP around, so if you stop by I can slip you a couple of rolls. Be my guest. 

Don't worry; it's paid for. 

Miscellaneous science stuff.

It's our Tuesday random science feature! Of course, we don't do a regular science feature on Tuesday or any other day. That just shows how random it is! Probably determined by Brownian motion or something. Anyway, here's stuff. 

1) The Can

Today's first item is about the age-old question: Do women really take longer in the can than men? How much longer? And we find that a groundbreaking study back in 1988, woefully ignored by the so-called Nobel Prize committee, answered this question: 

The study, conducted in cooperation with the Washington state Department of Transportation, concluded that the standard 50-50 ratio between men's and women's public toilet facilities is unfair.

[Researcher Ahn] Tran established that it takes men an average of 45 seconds to use a public facility, compared to an average of 79 seconds for women. The study thus recommends a new standard involving a 60-40 ratio of women's to men's toilet facilities.

So there it is! Of course, we know it's just a wee (ha!) tiny part of the real problem women face. If the whole difference was 34 seconds, it wouldn't account for the tremendous lines for women's rooms that exist in places like theaters where no line at all is seen for men's rooms. There is more to it.

If we acknowledge that when a lot of these venues were built, equal space was allotted for men's and women's rooms, that still meant a big plumbing gap -- you can fit a lot more urinals onto a wall than toilet stalls. But even then, we're barely getting into the nitty-gritty. 

When men go to the public can, they go alone, and unless they're up to something shady, they get out as fast as possible. That's why we so often forget to zip up. We're running. Women, on the other hand, still treat the sacred grounds of the ladies' loo as a place to gather, to chat, to fix hair and makeup, to criticize their dates, and so on. Those gals aren't getting out of there in 79 seconds. And even if they're not actively taking up a stall, the sheer number of bodies in the room at intermission means the line is going to have to wait until someone leaves to advance. 

If we really want to give women what they want, their restroom facilities should be planned and built first, and everything else added as secondary -- the restaurant, theater, stadium, whatever it is. Everything is just an addendum to the toilet. 

The Justice Bader Goldberg Memorial Bathroom and Stadium. Is that so much to ask?

2) Animal Testing?

My wife bought some pet wipes for the dog, because sometimes he gets dirty paws (but not dirty enough all over to have to bathe), or he needs his ears cleaned out, or he just needs to have a little stink wiped off him. Toddler wipes work okay, but dogs usually can use something stronger -- and sometimes need to. 

But this was one of the screwier things I've seen of late on packaging: 

Look, I get that your heart is in the right place. You love animals and we love our pets. But seriously -- if you didn't test these pet wipes on animals, you know what that makes my dog? Your test subject. 

I think just this one time you could test a product -- a product meant for animals -- on an animal before you release it to the public. What do you think you're doing, manufacturing COVID vaccines?

📡📈🔭📱🔬

That's all the science we have today! Join us when we randomly do something like this again, if ever!

Jiggle the handle!

The flush toilet may be the most confounding appliance in the home, at least for non-plumbers. You think, How hard can it be? It's got no electronics, no gears. It's a fixture, not an appliance. And then you have to put in a new gasket or lever or chain, and you try to calibrate the proper length of the chain and height of the float and give in the handle, and pretty soon you're ready to throw the toilet out the window and start doing your #1s out the window as well.  

My dad was not a plumber, but he was extremely handy. And yet even he was reduced to advising us to jiggle the handle to stop the water running when the damn flapper would not close for whatever reason. He got sick of trying to get it to behave.

Toilets are touchy things. A lot of us are confused by fluids anyway. They seem to defy expectations. There's no reason why a siphon ought to work -- but once you start it going, though, the water draws the water behind it in what seems like perpetual motion. Of course, there is a reason why it works, but that involves like knowledge of gravity and air pressure and hydrostatic pressure and capillary action and surface tension, and now your head hurts. All you wanted to do was steal some gas from your neighbor's car and you gotta think about science and math? 

Yes, you do! What, for example, is a ripple? You've seen them in ponds, lakes, potholes -- maybe even a drop in the toilet bowl has created a lovely ripple. But can you describe it mathematically? Well, some very serious thinkers have been working on the ripple situation for some time. It's harder than you'd think. 

Let's face it -- water is weird. Most things shrink when they freeze -- water expands. You can't compress water; there's just no room between the molecules. If water was not so strange, life as we know it would be impossible. Without capillary action, there'd be no plants, no trees, no us. And until we meet the Rock Men of Planet Srumptk, we're looking at our basis of life as the only thing possible in the universe. So thanks, water! 

And don't forget to jiggle that handle. You wouldn't want to waste water!

TP thoughts.

It's hard to believe that it's been just over three years since we were ready to play Street Fighter IRL over toilet paper. Harder for me to believe so much time has passed, in a way, because I'm doing the same dumb stuff, working in the same dumb place (home), as three years ago. The main changes have been my age and the new dog.

I'm glad TP isn't such a tissue issue these days. I've never trusted hinder-minding methods preferred by those in other nations, except maybe the six-thousand-dollar Japanese wonder toilets, but I'd have to sell a lot more books before I'd entertain the idea of getting one of those. As I noted on the Great Lileks's comments when the topic came up, for six grand I want to be able to ride it down the highway like a GTO. Can you imagine sitting at the light, revving the toilet, making challenging glares at the other guys, smiles and nods at the ladies?

Burnin' rubber? Well, burnin' something, I guess.

I'll stick to good ol' toilet paper, thanks. It's interesting to note that the inventor of toilet paper, Joseph Gayetty, probably thought he would hit it big in 1857 when indoor plumbing started to take off. But he sold the product in sheets, which was indiscreet, as indeed was the whole business model, if you will. At a time when the nation's streets were covered in horse manure, no one wanted to discuss the necessary mode of removing human manure. 

Besides, you could just use the old catalogs and newspapers. 

That changed with the Scott brothers of Philadelphia in 1879. They had the genius idea to put the TP on a roll. That helped it be available but not obtrusive. Their advertising of those early years also appealed to the more refined sensibilities of the purchasers. 

1910 advertisement

Nowadays, Scott could advertise itself as cheap-ass toilet paper for your cheap ass. I mean, it's not the 220-grit butt-sander paper that a lot of company restrooms use, but it's been a bargain brand as long as I can remember. Yet they've always been tasteful, celebrating the economy of Scott tissue and, lately, the fact that they don't put a cardboard tube in the middle anymore. Saving the environment, one roll at a time.

Other advertisers are far from discreet today. Cottonelle has raised some eyebrows with its distasteful ads that make the Charmin bears -- who apparently do indeed defecate in the woods -- look like 1880s French perfume ads. It's probably the worst ad I've ever seen.

What the hell is Kimberly-Clark thinking? Why would a company want to make people think of something that repellant when they think of its brand? I know it's considered better to be shocking than ignored, but is it better to be hated? 

Oh, well. The era gets dumber, so the ads must get coarser. The more PhDs we have, the less we know. Our social leaders want us to eat bugs, walk everywhere, and use appliances that can't clean anything, so it's all of a piece. 

Better tell the horses that we may need them to start pulling wagons again. 

A little something for Mom.

Yes, my friends, it is Birthing Persons Day once again, also known to our betters in society as Persons with a Cervix Who Have Employed It in Perpetuating the Species Day. Because the whole world is run by stupid people who are also crazy. 

Nevertheless, you may be at a loss as to what to get that special Birthing Person in your life, be it a female-identifying parent or guardian or a female-identifying spouse. Well, worry no more, because our friends at Lalafanc know just what she wants. 

Actually it's Lalafancy; the dropout white Y is invisible.

The Cleaning Brush Kit for bathrooms is the miracle of Communist Chinese manufacture you might hope -- a scrub brush on a pole. What says "I love you" more than a gift that also says, "Birthing person, I do not want you to have to scrub the tile on your hands and knees ever again! Here, use this!" 

And look at the helpful instructions:

That's literally the extent of it, but it's OK. There's a three-piece pole to put together, and if you can't do that you probably shouldn't be loose around cleaning supplies anyway. 

I HAVE THE POWERRRRR

All right, the truth is, my wife got this for me. One of her favorite influencers online recommended the thing, so here it is. As longtime readers know, the one condition my wife had in our marriage was that I would never ask her to clean the bathroom. She just can't bear the job. I think she had the priest slip something into the vows about it. 

My review of the tool? It's a lot easier on your back than scrubbing the tub by hand. It is not as effective as my favorite method, which is Formula 409 coupled with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, but it does the job well enough. Certainly good for a quick weekly clean. If you have houseguests coming, though, you'll probably want to use some old-fashioned elbow grease, the kind you just can't get when the scrubbing surface is at the end of a lightweight three-foot pole. 

I hope the Lalalfancy people don't get upset that I didn't go bananas over this thing. After all, as they like to say:

Eternal pursuit! Aw, don't be so hard on yourselves, Lalafancy. You're sure to catch up to my satisfaction eventually.

And yet, for that special cervical someone on your list, the Cleaning Brush Kit probably would not in reality be a great gift idea. So let me recommend instead: Slice! 

Another item bought by my wife, Slice is really a clever little tool. It's got a tiny ceramic blade on the pointy end that is perfect for cutting open those frustrating plastic packages or shearing impenetrable packing tape, but is incapable of cutting human flesh. It's also magnetic, so you can stick it on the fridge until you need it. 

I love this thing. Totally works as advertised. Lousy steak knife, sure, but not meant to be. It's Slice! 

That's all for today -- go be nice to the mothers out there! And no, Samuel L. Jackson does not count. 

Dog countdown.

Sometimes it would be nice to have mild superpowers when dealing with dogs. Nothing major, like being able to speak with them or magically ball up the shed fur and roll it in the neighbor's yard. No, maybe like being able to see a glow on the ground ahead where something of interest to the dog lies, so you can slow down for him, or pull him out of the way before his nose gets it. It might save some unpleasant encounters. On windy days like we've had this weekend, it would be a safety feature -- my dog's nosedar gets screwed up when it's blustery, and he'll sometimes reverse direction so suddenly it can twist me like a corkscrew. Wait! I missed something! Damn it, kid, don't break formation! If we went past the target, we'll bomb it on the way back! 

But the best imaginary superpower would be to see how many steps are left before the dog has to 💩.

Under normal healthy conditions -- that is, the dog has not been sick or stuck inside a long time -- dogs always have to walk around a lot before they do the deed. People think they're looking for the perfect spot, le bon endroit, just as Flaubert always sought the precise word, le mot juste. But I am convinced they need to take enough steps to get the missile loaded and ready to fire. It would be helpful to have an idea how many steps are left, especially when time is short or the weather is lousy. It would help me to have patience, knowing when the ordeal would end.

This would be great to know for ourselves sometimes, actually. As WebMD notes, "Exercise helps constipation by lowering the time it takes food to move through the large intestine." You could just check your number before you hit the treadmill. You wouldn't need Metamucil anymore, and thank heaven you'd never need to even consider something like this:

Yes, it's real. I had no idea they had 
competitions.

But alas, my number-viewing superpower is just a pipes dream. I'll just have to be patient with little Izzy as I await his hitting the magic number of a morning. It's usually not too onerous -- he's what we used to call a regular guy. 

That rings a bell.

I think I mentioned before that we have a mission to get baby Izzy the pooch to stop biting when he has to go out and start alerting us by other means. Tralfaz would whine; Nipper would walk to the front door and back, which was very civilized. Izzy just can't seem to understand that biting is unpleasant, and also nonspecific -- he bites because he's hungry, bored, or overtired, so he needs more tools in that toolbox. As the lone dog now, Izzy can't just piggyback on another dog's trip out -- he has to signal his own. 

So, we're back to the bells. 

Potty Bells from Caldwell's Pet Supply are an inexpensive way to get the dog to alert his owners. Simply train the dog to nudge them when he wants out -- the jingle bells on a tough nylon leash hang right on the doorknob -- and give him high praise for signaling properly. Everybody wins.

So far, Izzy has shown little interest in learning. Like a Vogon guard who would rather just go on shouting, he'd rather go on biting. 

Actually I blame myself. It takes patience and time to train the dog on such a weird action, and I have precious little patience or time. Yet I'm the guy who usually takes Izzy out, so it's up to me to train him. 

Yesterday I had a lot of work to push through, but was awakened in the night by the sharp pain of an ingrown toenail. I'd been to the pootie doc the week before and he sliced that sucker off, but I don't think he did a thorough job, because I woke up feeling like a had a knitting needle shot through the end of the toe. (The doc is out for the Jewish holidays and not available now until the 19th, btw.) I couldn't walk Izzy -- and since the remains of Hurricane Ian were making the day a rainy mess anyway, I didn't want us to be outside. So it was a lousy day for training anything.

Well, thanks for letting me get that off my chest. These problems are pretty minor, and I'm hoping a good foot soak before bed will help this stupid toe so we can get back in the training groove tomorrow. This dog has got to stop thinking it's okay to chomp people. Even Nipper had stopped doing that at this age, and I called him Nipper because of all the chomping! 

Bay-B-Bol.

My wife likes murder shows on TV, because apparently women do, but also other real-life crisis programs. She was watching one the other night that related the story of a woman who had gone into labor, been sent home by the hospital because she was far from ready to give birth, and then had the baby while sitting on the toilet. The newborn landed right in the bowl. The adventure followed the 911 call and its aftermath (spoiler: mom and baby were fine).

She did get a strange
baby brush, however.

Naturally, I have some thoughts on this.

1) What a way to meet life for the first time. Your initial experience of the world is landing in the toilet. The same can be said for poop. It sounds like the start of a Johnny Cash song that would have been too sad even for him. 

2) The temptation to name the baby something like Kohler, or Moen, or American Standardia may have been strong. 

3) The umbilical cord got tangled in the toilet seat, which is a second good argument right there to use those U-shaped seats. (The first good argument is for alcoholics who are sick of getting hit in the back of the neck.)

4) The baby girl reportedly had a two-year-old sibling. We all know what that means. Mom may swear the older child not to tell anyone about Moen's unorthodox birth, but all it will take is for the younger kid to annoy the older kid once, and it will be all over school. By the three-o'clock whistle they'll all be calling her Scrubbing Bubble. 

5) Mom's probably got a case for a lawsuit against the hospital. 

6) The baby will be one kid who can't be threatened with a swirly. "Ha! Been there, done that."

So there are my thoughts, and I'm sure you have some as well. Enlighten us in the comments, and be flushed with satisfaction. 

Game of throne.

New toilet for the master bathroom arrived yesterday. If you heard something, that was the parade I threw in its honor. We're flushed with joy.

As is typical for the homeowner, what started as a small issue turned into a pricey fix that took weeks to resolve. There were a lot of ifs along the way that would have prevented this from getting out of hand and thus out of pocket:

🚽 If I had installed this toilet properly two decades ago, it might not have started to leak.

🚽 If I had bothered to change the gasket when I was changing out the screws that held the tank to the bowl, that might have stopped the leak for real. 

🚽 If I had just bought a cheap can at Home Depot instead of asking my wife which throne she desired, I might have been able to bring it home myself and not have to pay delivery. 

🚽 If she had picked something that wasn't big and heavy and had super-flush technology (we'll get to that), we would have saved a hundred bucks. 

🚽 If I had not exposed myself as an incompetent plumber, I could have installed it myself. 

🚽 If she had not noticed the damp spot on the ceiling below the toilet, all this could have been ignored until we moved or died. 

But, if ifs were horses, beggars would ride. 

It's all resolved now, however. The new throne has arrived and was installed by two very polite young chaps. The new one is elongated and chair-height, which is nice, and has Kohler's Revolution 360 super-flushing technology. The queen of England in her Windsor-era WC could only wish for a throne this delightful. 

I'd like to go up and play with the new installation some more, but I've already flushed it a few times. I would hate to be called a four-flusher. 

TP taste test.

Finally climbing my way out of deadlines, my friends! But I can't let a Thursday pass without giving you something entertaining for your visit.

I was shaving at the mirror when junior dog Izzy paid me a friendly call. Then he set to work, quick as a wink. 

In less time than it took me to finish shaving with the electric razor, he had de-papered the toilet. He also took half the cardboard roll with him as a souvenir. 

This is, fortunately, not the crisis it might have been two years ago, those innocent days when we would stop the Chinese Death Virus in its tracks in two weeks and our biggest problem was the hoarders and wreckers who took all the toilet paper. While inflation runs rampant and supply issues still curdle our cream, at least we have plenty of Angel Soft and the like to go around. Losing a roll to the inquisitive chompers of Chew-Chew Charlie is not the worst thing that can happen, nor is TP the worst thing he has chewed upon. (The new iPhone is working out just fine, thanks for asking.)

But I'm not going to keep the bathroom door open while I'm shaving anymore. He has plenty of toys to abuse; he doesn't need to lay waste to the Quilted Northern too. 

Meanwhile, speaking of toilets, today is St. Patrick's Day, which means amateur day for many out there, especially among the youths. Be careful on the roads, and in public bathrooms, and anyplace where drunks may cause mayhem. 'Twould be a sin indeed for the great saint's day to be remembered for something awful that befell ye. And remember: Water may run in the gutter, but 'twill never put ye there. 

The power of clean.

 Ranked from weakest to strongest, the fundamental forces of the universe are: 

• Gravity
• The Weak Nuclear Force
• Electromagnetism
• The Strong Nuclear Force
• The Power that Attaches a Hair to the Side of a Toilet

Got the spider!

Baby dog Izzy was off to the groomer yesterday morning, so I put aside my paying labors to clean the bathrooms. It's very difficult to do any chores around the ten-month-old scamp, because when chores are attempted he goes through a few stages, all of which are useless:

1) Curiosity -- What is going on?

2) Participation -- I'm going to help!

3) Frustration -- This is boring and smells bad.

4) Interference -- This is stupid! Let's go play!

It's much better to take any opportunity when he is not around to get things done. 

So I'm glad that's done, but today is Ash Wednesday, which means it's time for me to consider cleaning something much more gross than any ol' bathroom -- my miserable soul. I'm not going into hiding this year like one of the Desert Fathers, nor have I planned to give up anything like chocolate, like one of the Dessert Fathers. (rimshot) I'm up in the air at this late date about what to do for Lent, but I'll do something. 

Meanwhile, remember how glad I was yesterday that I survived February without a big fall? Guess who stepped on black ice this morning and introduced his hip to the tarmac? Yes, your old pal Fred. Izzy sort of freaked out, while Tralfaz just laid on the snow looking at me. Man's best friend. 

Seasonal song.

Long-time readers of this blog (who are all smart and good-looking) may recall that I have a penchant for amusing myself with making up songs when under duress. And surely one of those times is while standing in the frigid blasts of February on the ice, waiting for not one but two dogs to find a place to weewee. They're good boys, but I think there are two issues at play here:

1) When things are suddenly covered with ice or snow, their sense of what makes a good spot is compromised; and 

2) They're both built for cold and/or rainy weather by nature and they like being outside, and they're not above dawdling to stay there.

So I started singing them a little song. In my mind it goes like a jaunty little number from a musical, maybe mid-sixties, the kind of piece that hits the audience before they get restless, and maybe becomes a standalone hit if the rest of the production bombs. And it goes like this:

🐕🐶🐕🐶🐕🐶

Let's go

Let's go out in the snow

Let's go out and go pee

It's good for you and it's good for me

We'll go

And yes, we won't be slow

What a happy chap you will be

Once you're relieved of all that pee

[bridge]

Call it urinate or micturate  

But don't you dawdle or diddle

It's freezing cold and I'm feeling old  

So buckle down, boys, and piddle

And you

You might even go poo

You might even go prance

Over the yard with a song and dance

[bridge]

A winterscape that you must escape 

But you're a most lucky fellow

The gals go marking their names in dark ink  

But you write 'em in yellow

And then

You'll be finished and when

You and I go inside

I'll warm my hide by the fireside

Then how happy we'll be

'Cause you'll have gone and gone pee. 

🚽🚽🚽🚽🚽🚽

Hey, if this thing could have a good run in New York, why not?

Dog positioning.

Since he was a wee puppy, large dog Tralfaz has had one favorite spot that's very annoying -- lying right outside the hall bathroom downstairs, the most commonly used commode in the house. I had considered reasons why this might be so -- the high likelihood of passersby, the interesting odors, the chance to get in and use the big water bowl -- but then I realized that he may have seen something on television that affected him.

Just a thought. 

 

Bang Gunley rides again.

Once again the unfortunate inspiration strikes to chronicle the Western adventures of Bang Gunly, Western Hero and saddle-sore specialist, as we have done earlier here and here. 

"BANG GUNLY RIDES AGAIN ONCE MORE"

by Frederick Key

Dedicated to Mike "Flangepart" Weller,

who created Bang and deserves the shame credit

Bang Gunly sat on the old hoss he called Irv, looking around to get a feel for the place. It was hot in Arizona territory, blisteringly hot, and dry as an Oxford don's jokes. But Bang was in Nebraska and he was freezing his behindular area off. 

"Hey, you!" came a voice from Bang's left. 

Bang casually put his right hand on his trusty six-shooter and turned to see who was talking. "What you want, mister?" 

"Get off'n that danged horse right now! It's my turn."

"Oh, yeah," said Bang. "Sorry."

Bang dismounted and let the little kid take a turn on Irv. Too bad Bang had run out of quarters. He'd found the mechanical horse soothing on his saddle sores. 

Bang sauntered away from the five-and dime and across the street to the quarter-and-dollar. He'd come to like this place well enough. Gold City, Nebraska, they called it, after the big silver strike that had been found by Herschel Gold. The silver mine petered out fast, but the name of the town kept bringing in prospectors who left their money behind as they ran out into the prairie with new supplies, looking for gold. 

Bang had a feeling that something wasn't right today, though. He'd always had a feel for trouble. And trouble always had a feel for him. It could be embarrassing if anyone saw them.

A yell from several doors down confirmed his hunch. "Help! Help!"

Bang hustled down the sidewalk, his boots galumphing along the wooden planks. His gun filled his hand by the time he arrived. 

It was the boot and shoe store, and the yeller was Lulu LaLou, the young lady who worked for her father, the owner. She was a nice piece of work, a corseted queen as loaded with buttons and bows as could make Bob Hope happy. Bang had been trying to get to meet her, and probably could have, but he was too cheap to buy new boots. "What's wrong, young lady?" he said.

"Trouble's afoot!"

"Yes, I know." Troubles Afoot was the name of the store.

"No, I mean we've been robbed! It's terrible! Someone has grabbed my pa and demanded the combination for the safe! When Pa wouldn't tell them, they dropped him in the outhouse hole!"

"That's terrible!"

"Please get him out!"

"I'll... go for help!"

As Bang arranged a party from the saloon to help with the disgusting rescue, he realized he'd seen this kind of dirty work before. There was one varmint who loved dumping his victims in the outhouse. And that varmint was the one and only Deuce Baggio.

🤠🤠🤠

Bang Gunly was just outside of Gold City, facing a pair of tents, one of whom held the man he wanted to see. He was tempted to just blast them both with his revolver, but he had to make sure. Not like that time in Minneapolis. That was a sticky situation.

"Deuce!" he yelled. "Come on out and say hello, you miserable skunk!"

The flaps on the two tents flew open. In the cold fading sunlight Bang could make out one face--it was Deuce. 

"Is that Bang Gunly I hear?" growled the miserable skunk. "This here's an honor, boys."

"I reckon we need to have a chat, Baggio."

With the clink and clank of spurs and firearms, Deuce Baggio and seven of his men arose from the tents. Bang tried to keep his eyes from bugging out, but he was thinking, How the hell did them fellers all fit in them tents? Maybe it was better not to know. Anyway, they all had guns and rifles out, pointing at Bang, and that seemed a little more urgent.

"How'd you find me, Bang?" asked Deuce through his mangy black beard.  

"Followed the bread crumbs from the bakery. On your way outta town you pinched a loaf."

"I sure did, and it was a good one," said Deuce. 

"You had a busy day," said Bang. "Went by the restaurant and took a dumpster. Find anything?"

"Just some old silverware."

"I heard you did number two."

"Yeah, the whorehouse at number two on Gold Street."

"Then you guys were heaving Havanas on the sidewalk..."

"We all enjoy a nice cigar."

"...saw a man about a horse..."

"Bill Jones, had a gelding named Oswalt."

"...left a floater in the outhouse..."

"I warned LaLou!"

"...released the Kraken..."

"Heh heh, didn't that bronco run wild!"

"...took the Browns to the Super Bowl..."

"And they said it couldn't be done!"

"Well, you've terrorized Gold City enough. You clear out of the county or else!"

"Or else what, Bang? Maybe you ain't noticed that we got twelve guns on you between us."

"And maybe you ain't noticed the fuse that's been burning this whole time."

Deuce Baggio and his men looked around in panic, but it was too late. The fuse had just run down on the dynamite that Bang had planted. Bang dove for cover behind a hillock as the explosion blew Deuce sky-high. Two other scoundrels were blown up a whole lot, one was blown up just a little, and the rest were dazed and blackened like Yosemite Sam on a bad day. They were easy for Bang to tie up and drag back to town for justice. 

The next morning, Bang and Lulu LaLou enjoyed a latte at the Gold City Trattoria and Bait Shop. The headline in the Gold City American Standard said GUNLY DROPS DEUCE.

"How brave, to face all those rapscallions and ruffians on your own!" said Lulu.

"Nuthin' any man with some guts and some dynamite couldn't do," said Bang. "How's yer old man?"

"He's doing well after his harrowing adventure," she said. "He wants to thank you personally!"

"Well, that's kind of him."

"Let's go," Lulu said, rising from the table. "Oh, you'll want one of these when we get to the house." She handed him a clothespin.

"I s'pose," he said, putting it on his nose. "Id's a berfecd fid."

🤠🤠🤠

Tune in next time for another adventure of Bang Gunly. No, I don't know when. We'll alert the media.

Products at the end of the world.

So, as the week draws to a close, and the world comes to an end (your mileage may vary) due to Chinese Death Virus and election shenanigans and all the other fun from 2020, what's out there worth buying?

Well, we all still need hand sanitizer, and now we have to get kiddie hand sanitizer, just like we have kiddie toothpaste and kiddie bubble bath. So who wants some SpongeBob hand sanitizer?

While suspended by a handy carabiner, the product does have three problems I can identify. One, it is made in China, who started all the trouble in the first place. Two, it wants to trade off the fame of cartoon TV star SpongeBob SquarePants, but he barely appears on the packaging. Three, it is supposed to smell like bubble gum, but mostly smells like fake banana candy -- you know, as in circus peanuts.

Oh, and four -- it looks like someone peed in your hand. For real.

The yellow color is quite vivid and goes all over your hands as you sanitize, but seems to fade into your skin as you go. I'm not sure how this works. Maybe it just becomes faint. If you use it as an aftershave you might look jaundiced, and maybe get out of work for the day. 

This too came from China, via Target:

So that's cheerful hand sanitizer, isn't it? "Winter Wonderland"! Blue color! Snowman! Snowflakes! "Scentfull"! So what do you think it smells like? 

Wrong! I don't know what it smells like -- maybe some cheap 70's cologne with Tabasco mixed in -- but if you guessed mint or whipped cream or something, you're off base. The Target site says it has "the cozy scent of Frosted Balsam, Vanilla & Musk," which "will leave your hands delightfully fragranced." I don't know what Balsam smells like, let alone Frosted Balsam, and Musk I know not either. 

Years ago, long before this whole COVID-19 crap broke out, I bought a store-brand hand sanitizer from Home Depot, an HDX-branded bottle that came from China. At that time Purell and GermX were the only brands in the game, and they smelled nice. The HDX stuff smelled like peppered tequila that had been infected with some kind of fungus. I later heard that the soap at the Hotel Millennium in Downtown Manhattan also had an odd peppery scent that was meant to appeal to its many travelers from China and Japan. Well, the HDX didn't appeal to me. I got rid of it. Little could I foresee the weird sanitizers in our future. 

I think I finally figured out this scent: It's Fang Fang's femme fatale perfume. 

Let's get to something more useful. Mr. Fix-It here has had a busy week at the homestead. I found a flood under the kitchen sink and fixed it! (Seems like the dishwasher's vibrations had loosened the wastepipe over the years and a leak suddenly developed, fixed by... tightening the pipes!) Worse, one of the two little pre-lit trees that stand vigil at the front door lost half its lights during the off-season. Since these were pre-strung, pulling off the old lights to replace them is virtually impossible, but finding the entwined outage is about as difficult. Quelle damage! What's do be done? Shoot it! 

I love the little Light Keeper kit. It can detect outages in the bulbs and the cords! It can test individual bulbs! It carries replacement bulbs! Best of all, you can try to restart a line by shooting into an empty bulb socket! Okay, it didn't work, but it helped me find and replace the dead bulb in no time. It was $23 from Home Depot, but a lot cheaper than replacing the little tree, or both of them if a match could not be found. I'm getting a little holster for this gun to carry with me next year during decorating. 

Now, for those out there saying, "The perfect ornament doesn't exist for 2020! We know because Fred looked at all the Hallmark ornaments in October!" I say "Ha!" And add, "I looked farther afield than Hallmark and found this!"

Yes, it's the festive and lovely toilet paper roll ornament from the one and only Old World Christmas. What better way to celebrate 2020? It comes with a little card that explains the history of toilet paper right up to its first US production in 1857. It's going to look great on my tree. At least until my wife finds it. The only question I have is, why didn't it make Dave Barry's annual gift guide?

Finally, I got myself a present this year, something I've been putting off. The comedian Larry Miller has been doing a podcast for eleven seasons, but due to the coronavirus crisis has decided to call it quits at last. Well, I've been eyeing the shirts and such in his souvenir shop, and have long wanted this:

For those who know the world of Milleronia, no explanation is needed; for those who do not, no explanation will suffice. 

The most valuable real estate.

If you live in a domestic situation, as many people do, you may quibble with this point, and I welcome such lively debate. But I wish to set down the case as I see it. The question is: What is the most valuable real estate within the home?

Someone with small children can certainly make the case for every bit of open floor space. Even more than pets, kids are notorious for leaving objects and sometimes food any old place on the floor. The naked foot / LEGO connection is the stuff of legend. But except in the case of the most awful hoarders, or the kids' playroom, the actual space is mostly space. What makes it dangerous is that the small things are unexpected because the floor is mostly bare.

Similarly, the garage, cellar, or attic may seem valuable because they are cluttered, as Manhattan is valuable real estate because it's already built up. But the comparison doesn't apply; people live in Manhattan, or used to; nothing human can live in those clutter bins. I've seen a number of attached garages that not only can't be used for cars, they can't be used as an exit from the house. 

Then there's the bathroom. Many men find out in adulthood -- sooner if they have sisters -- that a lot of women are fascinated by products. What products? You have to ask? Hair products, skin products, beauty products, soothing products, aromatherapy products, and so on, not to even mention the small appliances like hair curlers and dryers and straighteners and all kinds of various tools for removing unwanted hair or blackheads or whatever else is unwanted. A guy goes in his girlfriend's bathroom and reels in shock at every horizontal surface being jammed with stuff. Meanwhile, at home, his bathroom has a razor, shaving cream, deodorant, and this:

Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in one. It could be used as shaving cream, like any soap; if only it could be used as a deodorant he'd be all set. 

(For the record, I have known men who also made large collections of products; it's just mostly women that these things are marketed toward, and for a reason.)

The bathroom space can indeed be crucial real estate, but I argue that when it becomes very tight it is usually because the bathroom is old-fashioned and tiny, or too many people use it as a primary grooming station, or some other issue -- that issue being that too many products have proved disappointing or unhelpful and have not been pitched, even if they have passed their expiration date. In other words, a little planning, vigilance, cooperation, and a second bathroom could solve the problem. 

But there's only one kitchen, usually, and that's where we hit the skids. 

A kitchen, even a large one, only has X amount of counter space, but if you add up all the possible countertop appliances one might want, you find it comes to X ✕ 2, or even X². Here's a list of all the kitchen countertop appliance types on Bed, Bath and Beyond (a store that doesn't even mention Kitchen in its name): 

• toaster oven
• toaster
• blender
• juicer
• air fryer
• food processor
• waffle maker
• stand mixer
• slow cooker
• coffee maker
• coffee pod machine
• electric grill
• electric pressure cooker
• microwave oven
• electric steamer
• pizza maker
• espresso machine
• vacuum sealer
• electric kettle
• meat slicer
• dehydrator
• coffee grinder
• fondue pot
• deep fryer
• ice crusher
• wine refrigerator
• popcorn maker
• infrawave oven (!)
• pasta machine
• mug warmer
• grain mill
• cotton candy maker (!!)
• rice cooker
• ice maker
• deep fryer
• electric griddle
• electric skillet
• ice cream maker
• bread machine
• cupcake maker (!!!)
• baby food maker
• snow cone maker
• electric teapot
• electric burner
• electric induction burner
• quesadilla maker
• electric wok
• convection oven
• soda machine
• soy / nut milk maker (!!!!)
• sprouter (don't ask)
• water reviltalizer (no idea)
• yogurt maker
• empanada / churro maker
• cake pop maker
• pressure cooking oven (?)
• hot dog toaster (you read that right)
• hot chocolate maker
• Bundt cake maker
• mini pie maker

Sixty appliances. I didn't even include handheld items like electric knives and immersion blenders that would typically not be left out when unused. 

Obviously no one would need or even want all of these things, but you can just imagine the kind of ridiculous pileup that would be caused on the kitchen counters with even a handful. Now throw in the Ronco Rotisserie & BBQ Oven and you see why kitchen counters are precious land. 

You literally cannot make a kitchen large enough for all possible countertop appliances. Any kitchen close would be so huge it would be impossible to get a meal cooked and served at a proper temperature. Besides, if you have an oven and stovetop, most won't be necessary. 

So we have to pick and choose. This can start early with something like the wedding registry. Take it easy on the registry! You don't really need a popcorn popper if you have a microwave oven, do you? Especially in your starter apartment?

Since I got rid of the Sodastream (for reasons detailed here if you're interested) and retired the Mr. Coffee Ice Tea Maker, we have these appliances permanently stationed on the counters:

• toaster oven (for toast and for light cooking in the summer)
• microwave oven
• coffee grinder
• coffee pot
• coffee pod machine

And that's all. We love our coffee; can you tell? 

We also have an electric vegetable steamer, a large and a small slow cooker, a food processor, and a waffle maker. These are tucked away unless needed. The waffle maker has not been used in years, actually, not since my wife decided she was sick of waffles for dinner on Friday during Lent. Sad!

So that's how we allocate our valuable real estate in the kitchen. How about you?

The pipes are piping.

Good day, YouTube world, and welcome to Uncle Fred's Home Repair show. Today we take you deep into the bathroom of Uncle Fred's house to show you yesterday's project -- a project you can complete in your very own home with your very own hands. Or, if necessary, someone else's hands. Watch these clips.

So here I am examining the sink in my wife's bathroom. (You viewers may remember my #1 tip for domestic harmony when possible: separate bathrooms.) Seems that her sink has been running slow. Now, the cap on this kind of drain plug can be unscrewed. Many people don't know that, because it unscrews to the right -- righty loosey, in this case. Maybe it's Australian? Anyway, here it is off, and look at that hair! Somehow, some hair from her head has gone into the drain. We'll have to pull that out. I'm using a needle-nose pliers and a long, thin screwdriver to get the tangle. And it's just a little clump. Why is human hair so nice on the head and so awful everywhere else? Just a rhetorical question from Ol' Uncle Fred.

Now here I am in the hallway after that job, deep in thought. You can tell because my lips are moving. The drain in my shower has been awfully sluggish. Can it be a hair issue? Ah, you say, Uncle Fred has precious few hairs on his head. That's true. Maybe an armadillo died in there. Let's open 'er up and have a look.

For this job I'm using a long piece of metal in lieu of a screwdriver. Why? Because the piece of metal was in the junk drawer in the kitchen, so it saved me a trip to the cellar. We just put it in the screw on the drain cap and -- There we go! The screw is loose and -- huh? It's not pulling out? Let's pry up the drain cover and --

HOLY CRAP! It looks like someone's been scalped, and the scalp stuffed in the drain! 

Here we see Uncle Fred retching as he pulls his own gooey, sticky hair clumps out of the drain. The upside is that there's no clog in the pipe. The downside is, it's disgusting. This is why Uncle Fred admires professional plumbers so much. This is gross enough when it's just my own hair. If it was some stranger's hair it would be worse. 

With the old hair pried out, we just return the drain cover with a few twists of the metal stand-in for the screwdriver and the job is done. Easy, right? The only question that remains is: Why is there more Fred hair in the drain than on Fred's head? Maybe some mysteries are not meant to be solved. 

That's all for today. Join us next time when Uncle Fred deconstructs a leaky toilet and calls 9-1-1!

Moon the moon.

Mooooon TOOOOIIILET!
For one-sixth gravity
I'm using you to pee
Today
Oh, flush potty
Don't be naughty
However I'm goin'
I'm goin' your way

According to the site Tech Crunch, NASA is looking for your help -- yes, you! sitting on the toilet looking at your phone! -- to design a better Moon Toilet: "Specifically, the competition seeks 'innovative designs for fully capable, low-mass toilets that can be used both in space and on the Moon.'" It seems "the agency wants to open this up to outside academics, researchers, designers and engineers because they’re hoping that fresh perspective from outside the aerospace industry can help them see potential solutions that otherwise wouldn’t have occurred to people used to working in the field." They're offering a prize of $35,000 for winning designs.

Well, I think that's just great. A lot of people do their best thinking on the can, and what better place to think about toilet designs? You have to admit that there's been a lot of innovation in the form over the last hundred years, probably due to people thinking hard on one end while giving it their all on the other. The low-flow toilet, for example, is a lot better now than when they were first mandated in 1992. Why? Because the smart minds connected to the smart hinds made a better product. (Still not as good as the old seven-gallon flushers, but there's no substitute for kinetic warfare on some things.)

So here's your chance to make 35 big ones to help our future astronauts drop some big ones of their own on our nearest celestial neighbor.

Meanwhile, if you'd like some inspiration, let Italian astronaut Samantha Cristoforetti give you the grand tour of the ISS can. It's actually pretty interesting and a little gross.

Electric booga-loo.

So the national toilet paper emergency continues, and I'd like to thank Will Oremus for providing a little light on the subject. Writing in Medium, he charges that the shortages in stores are not caused so much by panic buying at this point but by the fact that many more behinds are being cleansed at home, rather than at the office or school or other commercial places:

People actually do need to buy significantly more toilet paper during the pandemic — not because they’re making more trips to the bathroom, but because they’re making more of them at home. With some 75% of the U.S. population under stay-at-home orders, Americans are no longer using the restrooms at their workplace, in schools, at restaurants, at hotels, or in airports.
      Georgia-Pacific, a leading toilet paper manufacturer based in Atlanta, estimates that the average household will use 40% more toilet paper than usual if all of its members are staying home around the clock. That’s a huge leap in demand for a product whose supply chain is predicated on the assumption that demand is essentially constant. It’s one that won’t fully subside even when people stop hoarding or panic-buying.

It's a good piece of reporting, one of the few unbiased, non-panicky pieces getting traction out there. It also makes me feel better about my fellow Americans, and not think of them as wreckers and hoarders, betraying the revolution of 1776.

But what it doesn't do is solve the problem of what to do when we find ourselves stranded on the toilet bowl without another Quilted Northern in sight. I mentioned this to a friend, who enthusiastically recommended the SmartBidet 1000!

Look at this thing! Toilet seat! Wireless remote control! Elongated or round! Tushie or feminine use! Easy installation! Heated seat! Heated water! Heated dryer! Skin sensor (whatever that is)! And soft-closing hinges so you don't wind up calling for Dr. Bagga! This thing is wired for everything but sound!

And if you want that, maybe the luxurious SmartBidet 3000 has that! No, but it has a deodorizer, a child wash (?), LED backlit nightlights (I wish they were disco lights), and a stainless steel nozzle with replaceable cap. If you want sound, you'll have to spring for a Sound Princess.

The 1000 costs $300 and the 3000 costs $650, but they have other models, too. Amazon has these hot seats and they seem to be selling like hotcakes.

And yet, I pooh-poohed the idea. I don't wish to cast aspersions on the engineers at SmartBidet or other similar outfits, but as I told my friend, "Toilet plus electricity equals the worst obituary ever." For example:

HERMAN GROSSCHUSTER

Herman Grosschuster, 85, passed away suddenly at home on April 6. While engaged in common bathroom use, he was accidentally electrocuted by his toilet.
      "We are so sad that Herman has left us," said Bob Finkle, chairman of the Plumberg chapter of the Abnormally Loyal Order of Wombats, to which Grosschuster belonged for many years. "We loved him for his intestinal fortitude. He was a retired baker by trade, and they always said no one could pinch a loaf like Herman. He was a familiar sight at the lodge bar, exuding wisdom from his stool. At least we know he died doing what he loved."
      Grosschuster is survived by his sons, Sherman and Hermann with Two N's, and a parakeet named Mr. Peepy.

Electric toilet plus me would probably equal something like that.

Surviving Walmart.

For the second week in a row I went shopping early on Sunday morning. I have never planned so hard for a mere restocking of supplies, not even when planning a major get-together or holiday event.

Why Walmart? A couple of reasons: 1) You can usually count on them to have the basics, whatever the crisis, and 2) I needed a doorknob. The supermarkets don't carry doorknobs.

Even though I had been successful the week before, the constant drone of the viral news was making me a bit nervous. I mean, anyone who's ever seen the People of Walmart site could be unnerved by making an off-hours jaunt to that fabled retailer anyway. However, I think that those People are usually spotted in the late-night hours, and currently Walmart has no late-night hours. Even they are closing to sanitize the shop.

As for the doorknob, the doorknob on the downstairs can, after years of faithful service, was starting to make a click and thud sound when turned. I did not get to be this age without knowing that something was broken inside, and eventually someone was going to wind up locked in the bathroom. So a new knob was in order. And I did find it, as I found everything I was looking for there, with minor omissions.

TP Report: There was a posted notice of One TP Per Customer, and yet the only package I saw was a Scottissue multipack that had a tear in the plastic. Fortunately we are still living large off the Cottonelle I got at BJ's before all this went down. And I would have been reluctant to go with Scott brand anyway. I grew up with that in the house, and that's why I have a flat behind -- it was sanded down throughout my childhood.

But (ha!) that's TMI. The trip was a success, and was followed by a successful stop at the supermarket for produce and other things that Walmart does not do well. I was very fortunate, or blessed, as I am still in a good deal of back and leg pain since my awful hospital visit in February. I can barely walk a quarter of a mile without burning pain that may or may not go away if I crouch down for a short rest. Well, I was able to do the whole run without much discomfort, and that's a major win.

There were many reminders present of the Coronapocalypse, however.

Mask and glove report: Only about a quarter of the supermarket patrons wore masks; for Walmart, it was closer to half. Maybe half the supermarket shoppers had some kind of gloves on, but Walmart, close to 75%, including me. I had no masks, but I had one pair of latex gloves. I decided to choose which store to use it in, since I didn't want to transfer any germs into my car by wearing them throughout my expedition, and I didn't want to buy any since we had more at home, and you could probably guess why I chose to wear them in Walmart.

Shopping is still a very strange event. Fortunately we seem to be past the bulk of the hoarding craze, even though we don't know when all this will be over.

As I say, to make a trip like this efficiently required much planning. We still live in times of plenty; we just seem to have to overthink everything. And when I say We I mean I.