Quirkee.com

For some time now I have observed the behavior of various tots, including my own nieces and nephews, children of friends, and the young persons in the day care center downstairs from our office. After prolonged observation I'm afraid I can only come up with five words to sum up their behavior: It's totally out of hand.

You say, "What do you expect, they're children, they've got high spirits." Ah. But how do you explain this? The other evening I was at my sister's house, and my niece, the tot Jane E. Frazier, was fiddling with a plate of sliced Honeybaked ham that was sitting on the table and that we were planning to eat for dinner. I stood guarding the ham because Jane E. Frazier has a history of squishing her fingers into food. Food I'm going to eat! I don't want her-or anybody's-grubby little mitts in my food. Is that so unreasonable? Is that a crime?

According to a recent report, U.S. consumer confidence fell sharply this month, sinking to near record levels. If consumer confidence were a ship, the musicians would be on deck playing haunting music as the women and children strap on their life vests and James Cameron rushes to the bow and screams "I am king of the world."

My confidence in U.S. consumers has always been low. Just look at the crap they can be talked into buying. (Yes, I use the word "they" instead of "we," because the crap I buy is a lot less stupid and expensive than the crap most of you buy. Perhaps because I'm a comedian and have no money, but still when it comes right down to it, most consumers live lives that are far more craptastic than mine.)

Why does it seem like every mother of a large brood, with the exception of me, is in denial? I’ve yet to hear one of these mothers come right out and say, “Fuck you, uterus, or damn you, Ortho Novum! You both royally screwed me too many times!” Why do these large quivered mamas feel compelled to only say sickeningly sweet things about the fact that they are a walking fetus factory?

Just once, I’d like to hear one echo my sentiment that it sucks to be helpless against repeated, ill timed pregnancy. What are they so afraid of? Do they fear being called a bad mom? It is a reality that not every child of a large family was a planned baby. Trust me. Seven of mine were “Oh shitballs” moments. Yes, all seven. You can choose to argue with me on that, if you want, but it is the honest to goodness truth. I tried, like a son of a gun, to stop. When I realized that stopping was not an option, I decided to settle for spacing them out. Nope, it obviously wasn’t going to happen.

There are different bars for different sorts: the metro bars, the dive bars, the frat bars, the wine bars. There are different neighborhoods: the gay district, the hipster ‘hood, the yuppie precinct. You can select a home in your zone of choice, frequent the most categorically predictable restaurants and bars on that same block, and for nearly all of your day, avoid those parts of humanity that make you feel uneasy or self-conscious or, simply, not quite cool enough. (For me, tattoos inspire all aforementioned emotions. They make me excited and envious and threatened, all at once.) You can stay within your tidy little box of human experience, no problem. Most of the time.

I spent two hours driving to a campground in Elk's Rump Oregon last week so I could talk to sixty men about learning to lighten up and giggle like school girls. This might intimidate a lesser woman, but I spend most of my spare time at Home Depot in order to soak up testosterone (while searching for a studfinder). So I just put on my hiking shoes , memorized some dirty jokes, and applied my Lee Press-On boobs. When it comes to holding the attention of a large group of men, I know the drill.

The best part of the experience was the ping pong tournament going on when I arrived. The guys - most of whom work in the woods and can tell the difference between bear scat and a leftover McDonald's cheeseburger - were intense in their competition to find the best of the best. I guess when you spend most of your day alone in the forest, it's hard to find anyone to show off your athletic skills to. Deer and raccoons could care less if you can slam dunk a basketball or make the perfect chip shot out of the sand. So the men were taking the ping pong tournament VERY seriously.

The cover story in an old issue of Time magazine I was reading recently is titled "The Simple Life: Rejecting the Rat Race, Americans Get Back to Basics." Symbolizing this on the cover is a picture of a pair of walking boots and a bicycle, both looking like they cost a fortune, but what of it. It's the thought that counts.

I don't want to crow, but... ain't I been living this way all along? Where's everybody been? Time surveyed 500 adults, and 69% said they want to "slow down and live a more relaxed life." And so, we read about former corporate sharks who are now looking and acting like a bunch of Amish. They're putting on aprons and plaid shirts and their old knockabout pants and running little markets and cider mills. They're eating cheese-covered casseroles. The men are shaving with brushes and soap instead of Foamy or Edge. (For further details, see reruns of Green Acres on Nickelodeon every night.) Now I find myself on the cusp of a trend.