Television is to blame for the way I smell

To my co-workers who sit near me at the office, my sincerest apologies. I know, I’m starting to smell … well … bad.

It’s not my fault. I’m bathing regularly. My teeth are brushed, may hair is washed (and combed to perfection, if false modesty, for a moment, may be set aside).

Yet I stink.

It’s not my fault, but the fault of the laundry where until a couple weeks ago, I washed my clothes. It’s a nice enough laundry; most of the machines work, the dryers are hot, the attendant keeps things clean.

The problem is the televisions. There are two of them, and they are ALWAYS tuned to the most vile garbage imaginable; the most vile garbage I can imagine anyway. Maybe you can imagine worse, but I doubt it.

Before I go on, let me state emphatically that I am NOT one of those literary elitists who watch only PBS while nibbling Brie and sipping Chateau Lafleur from a crystal goblet. In fact, I had to Google “expensive wines” to obtain that Chateau Lafleur reference; I drink the stuff that comes in a box.

I enjoy the Three Stooges (at least the episodes with Curly), the “Planet of the Apes” movies, and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sure, I’ll occasionally watch “Masterpiece Theatre” or listen to “World News Tonight,” but mostly because I dig the British accents.

So what does all this have to do with the way I smell? I just can’t go back in that laundry, that’s what. I can’t. I can’t bear to fold sheets and socks for 45 minutes while some TV judge tries to shout down the two morons in his (or her) courtroom; while a TV host with hair even more perfect than my own gives his (or her) second-grade-level opinions on what’s wrong (or right) with teenage motherhood while a studio audience of what can only be described as the Stupidest People on Planet Earth shout and moan their collective approval or dissent.

I have only a handful of working brain cells left and they are being rapidly depleted by talk shows covering topics like “Lesbian space aliens who have been kidnapped by Amish farmers and forced to do the work of plough horses!!!” or “When weight loss turns deadly! Why the California Banana Cream Pie diet may kill you!!!”

Enquiring minds may want to know, but mine does not.

My wardrobe is beginning to show evidence of this fact; my socks in particular. They used to be white, but no longer. My pants all have bicycle chain grease on the inside right cuff. The pits of most of my office shirts carry an odor that can only be described as tragically reminiscent of my ninth grade gym locker.

I suppose I could bag up all my filthy clothes and drag them along some weekend when I go to visit Sweet Annie. She has her own laundry facilities and would be more than happy to share. But we see each other too seldom and when together, prefer to do fun stuff rather than ironing.

As a last resort, I could take my laundry in later in the evening, after the cultural and moral wasteland that is daytime TV has ended for the day, but who wants to spend Saturday night watching a spin cycle?

So for now, at least, I’ll continue to smell funky. I figure, eventually the stench will grow bad enough that when I enter the laundry, everyone else will leave. At this point, I’ll be free to change the channel to PBS. Or maybe find a “classic” channel airing the Three Stooges.

Mike Taylor’s paperback book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full,” is now available at Robbins Book List in Greenville and in eBook format from Amazon.com. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

My career as a judge was short, though not especially sweet

In last week's column I made a disparaging remark about judges and now I want to take it back.  No, I did not receive a threatening letter from some personal injury attorney and no, nobody has suddenly "discovered" an old bench warrant for my unpaid parking tickets (though I'm guessing there's probably one out there somewhere).

The reason I feel compelled to retract my previous derogatory remark (it's available online if you're really interested) is this: I was recently called upon to serve as a judge myself.  Happily, I wasn't asked to send anyone to prison or the electric chair; all I had to do was decide who had the best Halloween costume.

This may not sound like a job requiring much wisdom, fortitude or legal acumen, but first prize was $75.  There were party-goers at the Riverbend Bar & Grille who really wanted that cash.  This despite the manic pace of the waitstaff, which suggested $75 would not have covered the bar tab of most of the patrons present.

My band was playing Halloween weekend, so I was tagged to "supervise" the costume judging contest.  Theoretically, the winner is determined by audience applause, but as anyone who has ever officiated at one of these things can tell you, this is like trying to organize a can of earthworms.  Earthworms who really like margaritas.  Still, taking my responsibilities seriously (for a change) I downloaded a sound-level meter ap for my Android (there really is an ap for everything).  I even tested it on my girlfriend's snoring, which registered roughly the same sound pressure levels as a 767 taking off from JFK.  (For rebuttals to this comment, please see Sweet Annie's Facebook page.)

I thought I was ready.  I was wrong.

First off, there were far more costumed contestants than I had expected.  To make matters worse, many of the costumes were really good.  In addition to the usual barroom assortment of sexy kittens, naughty nurses and Blues Brothers clones, there were hippies, disco kings and queens, Mother Nature, Indian princesses.  I myself came disguised as my band's lead guitar player, Nelson, who looks just like Otto, the bus driver from the TV show The Simpsons.  Nelson also came as Nelson, since he's too cool to wear a costume.

In addition to the good costumes there were plenty of lousy ones, mostly worn by younger guys who were more interested in meeting girls than in winning contests.

It wasn't until I announced the contest and called for the contestants to gather on the dance floor that I fully realized just how many contestants we had.  It was a crowd.

With the help of our sax player, Rocky, we introduced each contestant in turn and asked the audience to show its appreciation with applause.  It was at this point I realized that--although there is an ap for everything--not all of them work.  My sound meter was going off the charts and proving to be more or less useless.

So I was forced to keep track, in my head, of which contestant garnered the loudest applause.  Also, second and third place had to be accounted for.  I did my best, but at contest's end I could tell there was some dissension amongst the multitude as to the veracity of my judgments.  I think it was the shouted epithets and thrown beer bottles that tipped me off.  I felt a sudden affinity for major league umpires.

I managed to get to my car and make good my escape at the end of the night.  I haven't received any death threats from losing contestants.  But I'm pretty sure my career as a judge is over.

And to all you judges I offended last week: I really am sorry.  Turns out that job is tougher than it looks.

Mike Taylor's book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available at mtrealitycheck.com and in eBook format at Barnes & Noble, Border's Books and other online book sellers.  Email Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.