My plan for fixing the universe through ‘snow atheism’

There is a school of philosophical thought that contends things exist only because we think they exist. The universe, socks, Silly Putty, reruns of “Murder, She Wrote”—they’re all merely constructs created by the human mind to give meaning and form to existence. Or so say proponents of this philosophy.

Some go so far as to say everything that is, is merely the invention of a single mind. You, me, the guy who delivers pizza—we’re nothing but players in someone’s extended daydream.

Could be. All I know is, I don’t feel like someone else’s daydream. To quote Descartes, Cogito, ergo sum (I think, therefore I am). I looked the Latin translation up on Wikipedia, by the way, so I’d look smarter than I really am.

Not that I should care whether I look smart, since: a) I think; b) I must therefore be; and c) it stands to reason that I must be the one having the daydream that created and sustains the universe.

At this point, I’d like to note I’m not the one who came up with this line of thinking—unless of course it’s accurate, in which case I came up with everything, including Descartes and Latin. So why did I have to check Wikipedia for the translation? I wish I could tell you, but thinking about it beyond this point makes my head hurt.

At any rate, I’ve decided to roll with this philosophy. Why? Because of snow.

I walked the dog late last night and got snowed upon, mightily. By the time I arrived home from the park, I looked like the “Bumble,” from the Rudolph Christmas special.

I’m no fan of snow, but for most of my life I’ve put up with it. Well, those days are over. If my new philosophy is accurate, all I have to do is “imagine” it away. If I think it’s gone, it will be.

Snow? Never heard of it. I’m a snow atheist.

I think this might actually work. After all, this will not be the first time I’ve tried to change the universe through sheer force of will.

I did it once in 1970, while in Mr. Paepke’s algebra for dummies class at Riverside Junior High. At some point in the second semester, I decided to become a math atheist. I simply decided math did not exist. This explained my poor test scores, lack of interest, and notes home to my folks.

My old man, who did not share my philosophical bent, was unimpressed with my efforts to reshape existence and insisted I get a passing grade or risk “serious consequences.” I tried to will him into an alternate reality, but I was young then, and my powers had yet to reach their full potential.

Mr. Paepke eventually passed me with a D and that was the last I saw of math. I had finally imagined it out of existence. These days, I balance my checkbook using a system of guesswork, a rattle and chickens sacrificed by the light of a full moon. It works most of the time.

But back to the snow. At the moment, there’s about an inch of it on the ground outside my office window. I’m about to stop believing in it, so prepare yourself for its sudden and unexplained disappearance.

Here we go … five, four, three, two, one … think!

Lemme check.

OK, this could take a little longer than I thought. But I’ll keep on it. I’m sure by April, May at the latest; the last of that snow will be gone!


More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Top Five list of things nobody wants for Christmas

A sure sign that Christmas is coming; ads for electric hot dog bun warmers have started to appear in newspaper circulars.

Soon, superstore shelves across America will overflow with this sort of stuff; retail detritus that finds it’s way out of the warehouse but once a year—during the holiday shopping season. Why only then? Because nobody, but nobody, would ever buy this junk for themselves.

These are “gift items,” purchased for people you either don’t know or don’t like and we all give or receive at least a couple of them every year.

They are generally inexpensive, inoffensive and useless—everything you’re looking for in a “Secret Santa” present for the boss’ nephew down in payroll.

I’m not trying to Scrooge out here, folks, but really, isn’t it time we put an end to this madness? Retailers will hate me, but I’m going to take a stand here. Who knows, it might be the start of something big. Vive la revolution!

That said, here’s a list of things I do not want for Christmas. Seriously, if you were thinking of getting me one of the following items, make a donation to the Santa Claus Girls or some other charity instead. They could use the cash and come Christmas morning, I won’t have to feign excitement over an electric hot dog bun warmer.

At any rate, here’s my Top Five:

1) The bun warmer, or any electric appliance that takes up an acre of counter space and performs the exact same job as my microwave or stovetop, only more slowly and inefficiently.

2) A travel grooming kit. When on the road, I will not need to trim my nose hairs, perform a self-manicure, or grind calluses from the bottoms of my feet. If I think I might actually want to do these things while traveling, I’ll take along the proper tools for the job, which I already have in my medicine cabinet.

3) A funny calendar. Yeah, I like Dilbert, too, but I have calendars on my laptop, PDA and cell phone. I’m not going to use a little pad of tear-off sheets to keep track of my appointments. I’ll read the first three cartoons, and then the thing will sit like a brick on my desk until 2014, at which point The Lovely Mrs. Taylor will finally throw it out.

4) Cheap, battery operated LCD “video games.” If it costs less than a Gameboy, it’s junk. Nobody wants these, do you hear me? Nobody! Stop buying them and maybe they’ll go away.

5) Kinetic “sculptures.” I’m talking about water-filled glass birds that “drink” ceaselessly, metal balls that clack back and forth, bubbles that rise and fall through a plastic tube … these are all fun for about 20 seconds, and then they just gather dust until Mrs. T’s garage sale in June.

That’s my Top Five list of things nobody wants; heaven knows there are plenty more where these came from.

So this year, folks, let’s all stick it to the man and refuse to buy, give, or receive junk gifts. Give a homemade card, instead, or a batch of oatmeal cookies. Or put the money toward that Santa Claus Girls or Salvation Army donation.

And remember, nobody, in the history of the world, has ever needed or wanted a hot dog bun warmer.


More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

It’s hard for a dog to feel burly when dressed like a clown

My new dog is a wimp. There, I said it. I might as well; I’m sure other folks around town are saying it, too, after what happened last weekend.

As usual, I blame The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. It was, after all, her idea to dress our hound up like a clown with gender identity issues and force him to prance around in a “Halloween for Pets” competition.

Now, those of you who read this column regularly (both of you) already know Prince is a big dog, or a small horse; the jury’s still out on that one. He’s a beautiful, noble greyhound, recently “rescued” from the track where he used to chase mechanical bunnies while race fans lost money betting on him. (He’s fast, but not by greyhound standards.)

Despite his losing nature at the track, he is a magnificent example of the breed. I always feel cooler when he’s walking beside me, even though I am not such a hot example of my breed (middle-aged, Caucasian human).

So I was vexed when Mrs. Taylor told me of her plans to drape the poor animal in a frilly clown suit and force him to wear it in public. But once an idea enters her mind, even a bad one, it’s there to stay. I learned long ago it’s easier just to step aside and let things run their course.

Still, I felt pity for the hapless beast as Mrs. T slipped the ruffled, multi-hued anklets over his immense paws. Prince stood stoically as she stretched the collar—also ruffled and gayer than a San Francisco Mayday parade—around his thickly-muscled neck. He balked at wearing the goofy, pointed hat; I give him credit for that.

By the time Mrs. Taylor was finished, Prince could easily have landed a job dancing with The Village People, right between the Indian and the construction worker.

I made one last, desperate plea to Mrs. T to let the poor dog keep his dignity, but my entreaties fell on deaf ears.

“Oh, he looks soooo cute!” Mrs. Taylor enthused.

Prince, meanwhile, huddled behind the big recliner in the corner, trying to hide his shame.

The walk down the street to the old library, where the contest was being held, was an uncomfortable one. Cars slowed, faces gawped through tinted windows. Prince struggled to keep his head up, but was making a poor show of it.

About 50 dogs gathered in front of the library, all looking about as miserable as Prince. My stepson James was there; his girlfriend had dressed their Pit Bull mix as an angel and was introducing her around to the other dogs. James looked every bit as embarrassed as I felt.

Halloween parties for dogs are, not to put to fine a point on it, a chick thing.

The worst part was, despite being by far the largest pooch in attendance, Prince was scared to death of all the other dogs. At one point, a brown ball of fur small enough to fit into my shirt pocket backed Prince into the library doorway where he stood shivering like a naked, wet Eskimo.

Former racing greyhounds can be, well, weird when it comes to socializing with other dogs and Prince, it seems, is no exception. Or maybe it was that idiotic clown suit that sapped his self-confidence.

Whatever the case, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor had to practically drag him past the judges’ table.

Prince won an honorable mention. That’s too bad, because it encouraged Mrs. T, who’s already talking about his chances in next year’s competition.

Poor, poor dog.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

I may have found a way to help Mrs. T kick her chocolate addiction

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor loves chocolate. No, more than loves. It’s more like the attraction Romeo felt toward Juliet, that the Dalai Lama feels toward achieving oneness with the universe, that Ronald McDonald feels toward cheeseburgers.

It’s an addiction.

Our annual summertime trek to Mackinaw Island inevitably becomes, at some point, an orgy of fudge. Come Halloween, we wind up having to purchase nearly twice as much candy as we strictly need for trick-or-treaters; half goes to the kids, half is consumed by Mrs. T in the days leading up to the holiday.

Despite being a choco-junkie, she manages to stay slim and beautiful. (Feel free to hate her for this, ladies. All her friends do.)

At any rate, with every illicit nibble of chocolate Mrs. T takes, she complains bitterly about her habit.

“Oh, I shouldn’t be eating this junk,” she moans. “It’s so bad for me!”

And then the Snicker’s bar disappears. She can’t help herself.

But maybe I can.

This notion came to me recently after reading an article in a Canadian newspaper about a woman, Sabrina Orrico, who found an unpleasant “surprise” in a box of mini chocolate bars she purchased from a Toronto drug store.

She intended, allegedly, to hand out the candy to trick-or-treaters. But—being a chocoholic like Mrs. Taylor—she felt obliged to “sample” the goods first.

Inside the box, along with the candy, Ms. Orrico discovered four packages wrapped in newspaper.

Ms. Orrico was upset, thinking the newspaper had been stuffed in the box to make it appear fuller. She pulled the bundles out and unwrapped the first of the four packages. It contained wire cutters.

The second package held a section of plastic pipe. Inside the final two packages were copper wire and a half-empty bottle of liquid.

Now, 20 years ago, someone might have found all this stuff and thought, “That’s odd.” Times being what they are, however, Ms. Orrico’s response was, “Holy moley! A bomb!”

Despite filmmaker Michael Moore’s assertion that the only crime in Canada happens when Snidely Whiplash ties Sweet Nell to the railroad tracks, Ms. Orrico was worried. So worried, in fact, that she shook the package.

I’m guessing Ms. Orrico has had no formal bomb squad training. I don’t know about you, but when I’m holding a box that I suspect is a bomb, the last thing I’m inclined to do is shake it. Placing it gently on the ground, and then running several miles in the other direction while repeatedly reciting Hail Mary’s is more my speed.

Instead of calling the police, Ms. Orrico repackaged the bomb-making equipment and returned it to the store for a refund. I’ve dealt with employees at those ironically-named “courtesy counters” before, and frankly, I can understand Ms. Orrico’s thinking on this one.

At any rate, Ms. Orrico got her refund, nobody got blown up, and Halloween progressed as it always has. With one minor difference: Ms. Orrico says she is now afraid to eat chocolate. She has developed a serious aversion to it, in fact.

So I’m wondering if a similar trick might work on Mrs. Taylor. There’s a huge, orange tub of candy bars sitting in our guest room closet right now, awaiting the arrival of this year’s crop of costumed children.

I have a windup alarm clock, some wire and a couple pieces of scrap PVC pipe. Come Halloween night, those items will be halfway buried in the candy and I’ll be standing in the shadows behind Mrs. T with an inflated paper bag.

I’ll let you know how it works out.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.