Size does matter.

 

The Unknown IMF Mission.

"We have an extremely difficult mission this time, and I want to make sure you understand how dangerous it is before any of you agrees to it."

"Come on, Jim -- the government didn't name this the Possible Missions Force. We know what we signed up to do." 

"Thanks, Barney. All right -- here are the basics. You may have heard that the nation of Lmnopystan has been refining radioactive material in the hope of creating nuclear weapons to threaten Western targets. The Secretary says that we have managed to stop their acquisitions, but our mission is to retrieve their stockpile. Sources tell us that it is hidden in a leaden vault in Fort Stunckenholff.

"Within two days we will be in position. Roland and Cinnamon, your job will be to infiltrate the fort using the false identities of Major General Hrump and his wife, Sheila. The actual Hrump family has been detained in Milan. I will be stationed in a safe house fifteen miles from the fort. When you get the passcodes, you will radio them to me. Then Willy will deliver a truck full of supplies, including Barney."

"Yeah, man, in a box again, I dig it."

"Barney will be able to crack the vault that holds the safe, and Willy, well, he can lift heavy things. You will signal me when the vault is on the truck; I will signal Roland, and you will meet at the gate. Naturally there is a very good chance you will be detected soon after exiting."

"So we make a run for the border?"

"That's the problem, Roland. Look at the map. We will be meeting a ship to take us out of country. Our rondezvous point is here, at Port Snyegrump, five hours away from the fort, on heavily policed highways and through multiple checkpoints. And to make the ship we will have to get to the port in just two hours."

"They'll be all over us. I say it can't be done."

"Well, Willy, that's why I've called in a special operative for this mission, a fast driver with a faster car who can draw off and lose the authorities while you shoot through with the truck. Allow me to introduce the Bandit."

"Hiya, boys. And girl."

"I'm riding back with him."

Options they don't allow us.

 

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. 

Will Fred survive this burger?

The current CEO of McDonald's, Christopher Kempczinski, made internet infamy a couple of weeks back with what seems to be an ill-considered video of him trying the company's Big Arch, their most enormous hamburger to date, I believe. From most accounts (such as this one) it did not go too well. Mr. Kempczinski seems to be a man in good shape, one who does a lot of aerobic activity -- for all I know he rides a bike to work. He does not, in fact, look like someone who has ever set foot in a McDonald's restaurant. 

By contrast, when Donald Trump took a turn making fries and working the window of a McDonald's in 2024, he looked like he fit right in. 

But while Kempczinski was battered with many jests and parody videos, if his intention was to get people to hear about the Big Arch, he did succeed. The large burger is decribed thus: "two quarter-pound beef patties, three slices of white cheddar cheese, crispy onions, slivered onions, pickles, and a tangy new 'Big Arch sauce' on a sesame-and-poppy-seed bun." Available for a limited time.

Well, on Monday, because we had no time to cook, and we were out later than hoped, the mrs. and I decided to pick up a quick dinner to go from McD's. Even though I was not ravenous, I was curious, and I felt a little bad for the CEO, so I decided to try the monster sandwich. 

Buckle up! 

 

We start right off with the weird hybrid bun -- an holy marriage of sesame and poppy seeds. As neither of these provide much flavor, it seems like McDonald's is just showing off here. Julia Child once complained that the Big Mac had too much bread, and the Big Arch is also bread heavy (although lacking the center slice of the Mac). But I love bread, so no complaints on that score. 

As we take a much more considerable bite than the CEO did, we note that the "Arch Sauce" is not related to the "Dijonaisse" sauce from the failed Arch Deluxe of thirty years gone. This has a more orange look, a bit darker than the Special Sauce of the Big Mac but with a similar flavor. Maybe a little paprika makes the difference. 

(Notice I got the small fries with this burger rather than my usual medium fries; got to watch my figure, you know.)

I would say that if you like the way McDonald's makes hamburgers, this is that but more of it. I could have used more pickles to brighten it up, but that may have been an assembly line error. The crispy onions were tasty but kinda soggy. Since they were cooked, though, they were less gassy than raw onions.

So, I give the Big Arch the conditional thumb's-up.

The CEO claimed he was going to eat his Big Arch for lunch, but I would doubt that even if he had taken a real, manly bite instead of a nibble. I would never get a Big Arch for a meal if I had to be alert afterward. With a reported caloric load of 1,020–1,057 kcal, I would be much more inclined to take a nap.

I did feel afterward like I had consumed the tire off a city bus, and in fact still felt that way in the morning. But I'm no hungry teen -- and I knew some teen athletes in my youth who probably could have eaten two of these with fries and a shake, then wanted dessert. I'm well past that kind of chowhoundery. 

For the record, as hefty as the Big Arch is, it contains fewer calories than Five Guys' Bacon Cheeseburger (1,060), Wendy's Triple (1,195), or Applebee's O-M-Cheese Burger (1,900). That last one is in a class by itself, I think. So while large, and too much for lunch, the Big Arch is hardly the Godzilla-size sandwich it's made out to be. But it ain't health food, and the American Heart Association is probably devoting a page to it on its website as I write.

HELLO?

A dear friend called me the other day, which is always nice, but he called me from the gym. Gym noise, combined with the toll that time and Meniere's syndrome have taken on me, made for a good deal of trouble hearing him. 

I'm no gym rat. I'm not even a gym flea. I've gone to some gyms, like the ones they provide in hotels, and if those have music it's usually gentle stuff, suitable to climbing steps at a reasonable pace or knotting yourself up in yoga or dying in a cable TV drama. But his gym had a lot of peppy music blaring. Combined with the sound of weights smashing and machines whirring and people yapping, it sounded like an entire Chuck E. Cheese -- with birthday party -- rolling down a hill. The only thing missing was the screaming of children (which you'd hear even if the party was stationary). 

 

"WHAT'D YA SAY? YOUR WIFE WANTS A TEA COURSE?"

Sometimes I think the apogee of the telephone was in the 1990s, when we had caller ID and few people were running around with mobile phones. This era was the peak because: 

• You knew who was calling. 
• You could answer or let it go to the machine. 
• If you didn't know who was calling, and it turned out to be someone you wanted to speak to, you could pick up when they started to leave the message and pretend you just got in. 
• If someone was calling you from the gym or Chuck E. Cheese, it was probably from a payphone near the door and not near the speakers. 
• No spoof, spam, robot, or other modern annoyances of the telephonic variety. 

Sure, having a cellie on you all the time is convenient for making calls. But if it's so great, why does everyone want to text now? 

Well, to answer my own question, texting is convenient. You don't have to connect with the other person to get your message across. You can text right on the toilet, something people would not like to know and don't have to -- but would if you were calling. ("What's that echo?") And it's noncommittal -- you can drop out of a text conversation without warning and pick it up later (or block the other texter if things went sour). 

There is, however, the problem of multiple topics breaking out in a text chat, but that's an issue for another time. If there's a takeaway to this blog entry -- and why should this one be different from the others? -- it's to remember the irritation of background noise when making calls. It does your callee no good to hear your voice through construction machines, bowling alley pins, or the cop telling you to recite the alphabet backward. That is all.  

Death or taxes?

I'm thinking, I'm thinking. 

Does anyone ever get pleasantly surprised by his or her income tax calculation? I certainly don't. 

As a freelancer, my income fluctuates annually. Last year I worked almost every single day and managed to have a good year. Not that it felt good, with car trouble and the withering failures of the dishwasher, A/C, water heater, and smaller appliances. The only appliance in the house that has not been replaced at least once is the oven, and I'm keeping an eye on that in case it gets any ideas. 

The upshot of my earned income, of course, is that I have to pay an enormous amount of taxes. I like to think it's going toward missiles to finally end the 50-year war Iran declared on us, but it's probably going to a Minnesotan learing center. 

The comic strip Cathy used to have a running bit where her accountant could tell the heroine where her tax money was actually being used, and it was always some stupid, frivolous thing, like color-coded staplers for the Department of Agriculture. It was funny, but I would take stupid and frivolous over the fraud that has been consuming vast amounts of American citizens' pay.

This year it was recommended to me that, as there had been some changes to the tax code, that it might be wise to let a professional run the numbers rather than taxpaying software, as I have used the past few tax seasons. That brought me to the door of a local branch of a well-known financial service that I will call McTax's (with apologies to McDonald's). 

I do not want to go through the ensuing confusion, delays, and frustrations, but I will say:

1) What has taken weeks could have been resolved in hours for far less than the $500 I got soaked;

2) It is possible that my tax software might have gotten me the same painful result, but I guarantee it would not have been worse; and

3) I have gotten takeout from a sandwich shop that had cockroaches, been in bars where I thought I might die, and been at the mercy of a crazy, nervous dentist, but none of these made me feel less confident in an establishment than the four "professionals" staffing the office of McTax's.

Well, lesson learned, I guess, or leared as they say in Minneapolis. Now we have another reason to push hard to sell the house, as I am going to have a hard time paying taxes from last year and no way to put down an advance on taxes for this year. Selling the house would solve that issue.

But the oven had better not get any funny ideas.