The Hard Taco Digest

I Know It's Only Rock and Roll (But I Think About Every Seven Seconds)

2012-03-01T00:05:00.027-05:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for March is called, "Ratmen Are Sort of a Person, Too." If you do not listen to the song, everyone will know that it's because you are racist, and you are not open to my message of tolerance and reaching-out-ness.

Quit~~Fit~~ as a Fiddle

Last week, we gave in and let our three-year-old son drop out of violin lessons. When Lauren sent the email to his wonderful violin teacher telling her that we were "taking a break" from class, I felt genuinely sad. Our dream of raising the next Itzhak Perlman crumbled. (Although technically, we had already jeopardized that dream several years ago by giving our son his first polio vaccine.)

But let's back up here. Is anyone surprised that a three-year-old boy has no interest in practicing Lightly Row on the violin? A perfectly valid perspective might be: what the freaking hell were we thinking? On a good day, the poor little guy has the attention span of a house fly after a Red Bull bender. He's not even old enough to pronounce the word "Suzuki" right, and after three months of lessons, we should be happy that he learned how to hold the correct end of the bow in the correct fist while hacking at my leg with it.

My own childhood experiences with music instruction were equally disastrous. After two unpleasant years of piano and four downright miserable years of trumpet lessons, the sound of those instruments gives me something my doctor calls psychogenic gastroenterosis.

But then there was the guitar.

It is no coincidence that barre chord and whammy bar have the same root word as bar mitzvah. Around the age of thirteen, boys develop a powerful urge to touch and experiment with electric guitars. It has something to do with glands.

In pretty much all ways, I was a late bloomer, so I didn't have my first electric guitar experience until my fourteenth birthday. My parents bought me an unfinished Peavey Rockmaster, the bequeathing of which was contingent upon my consenting to take lessons at the local guitar shop. I agreed, contingent upon my secret plan to take two lessons and then intentionally injure myself to get out of taking any more. It had worked for wrestling class and skiing lessons, so why shouldn't it work with guitar?

In the two weeks between the arrival of the guitar and my first lesson, I taught myself how to play Salt 'n' Pepa's Push It on the top two strings. And oh yeah, it just so happens that I mastered the first five notes of Wish You Were Here. Clearly, lessons would be superfluous, but there was no arguing my way out of my obligation.

The cloud of skepticism grew when I met the man who would be my teacher. Doug was in his mid-20's, but his qualifications as an electric guitarist were dubious. His hair was short and he had no visible tattoos or jewelry. I could have named a whole slew of letters near the end of the alphabet, and Doug's guitar didn't look like any of them.

"So what would you like to learn how to play?" he asked. His voice was friendly, and he didn't reek of cigarette smoke even a little bit. This reminded me an awful lot of my trumpet teacher, and I didn't like it.

"Whatever, I don't know."

"Well, what kind of music do you listen to?"

"Pretty much everything. Rush, Pink Floyd, some local bands. That kind of thing."

I pretty much only listened to Pink Floyd, actually, but I thought that including Rush and some unnamed local bands would peg me as a serious musician. The kind who didn't need lessons from a well-groomed guitar shop loser who probably enjoys showering and getting haircuts. To drive home the point that I wasn't the usual kind of no-talent wannabe he was used to seeing, I nonchalantly played the first five notes of Wish You Were Here a few times.

"Well, I see this isn't the first time you've picked up the guitar! Okay, Zach, what do you say we start working our way through your lesson book?"

Time out, what? Guitarists used lesson books? Even electric guitarists? It had taken me years to purge the stain on my soul that was called, "Hal Leonard's Play Trumpet Today Beginner Pack," and I was not going back to that life again. If Doug showed me so much as one black and white picture of Mel Bay demonstrating an A minor chord, that was it... I was running directly into the storeroom to trip over an amplifier and break my arm.

Instead, he produced a lavender Trapper Keeper labeled, "The Rock and Roll Fake Book." Inside were photocopies of chord charts and lyrics to the following:

Rock and Roll (J. Page)
Rock and Roll Band (T. Scholz)
Rock and Roll Music (C. Berry)
Rock and Roll All Night (G. Simmons)
Rock and Roll Hootchie Koo (R. Derringer)
The Heart of Rock and Roll (H. Lewis and the N.)
Old Time Rock and Roll (B. Seger)
Still Rock and Roll to Me (B. Joel)
I Love Rock and Roll (J. Jett)
Too Old to Rock and Roll, Too Young to Die (J. Tull)

I actually thought this was pretty cool, and I decided that Doug might be all right, but his method of instruction was simply not conducive to my learning style. I was really looking for a more modern system that didn't require me to practice the instrument at all. After two weeks, when I still couldn't play the Rick Derringer riff, a routine hike in the ravine suddenly turned tragic. Just minutes before my third lesson, I slipped off a log and fell into the stream, scraping my shin and completely soaking my jeans. There was no time to change, so we had to cancel the lesson.

And all future lessons, too. (My jeans were REALLY wet.)

So let's be honest with ourselves. Does the guy who pulled that stunt really have the right to feel disillusioned by a preschooler who won't practice Mississippi Hot Dog on the violin? I suppose not. Maybe if I give him space, he'll follow his old man's footsteps, go back to the instrument in his own time, and work just hard enough to be really mediocre at it...

With warmest regards,
Zach

Senior Party Central: Move your dorsal, shake your ventral

2012-02-01T00:15:00.699-05:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for February, "Senior Party Central," is dedicated to Brown Class of '97. I regret that I will not be attending the reunion this year, but please accept this reunion-themed song in my stead. And although I don't say it outright in the song, I hope it is implied: Class of '98 drools.

Ice Cream Parlours I have Known
By the way, Class of '97, I find myself wondering if you, too, are slowly morphing into fuddy duddies. As the years dribble by, do you also reminisce loudly about simpler times when a nickel would buy you a 3 oz Cherry Coke or a 200 mg PepsiColace? And don't get me started about the death of good customer service! Drug dealers these days can't be bothered to politely count the change into your hand after your purchase. And why won't strangers carry bags onto a plane for me anymore? Nobody trusts anybody else anymore, and the airlines have all these weird rules. Smaller bombs under the seat in front of you, reserving the overhead bins for larger explosive items.

But if there is one thing that proves once and for all that I'm Fogy-licious, it's this: I still use Hotmail.

A Dying Breed, Like Cowboys, or Some Breeds of Cows
I am proud to say that I am one of the last 364 million users of the Hotmail. Go ahead and chastise me for my "sad devotion to that ancient [web-based email program]," but I find your lack of faith disturbing, and I will Force-choke you. I'm a vintage emailer. My Hotmail address has been my pride AND my joy since the late 90s, when Microsoft shrewdly purchased the rights to the word 'HTML' and added vowels to it.

Bill Gates and his team of goobers were on to something big. When people see those four consonants... H T M L, they know they're in for some serious web-business. It was brilliant, but the Gates goober team never took it to the next level.

That's why I've modified that recipe just enough to stay fresh. I've purchased the rights to www.hitmule.com/.

Go ahead and click on it. Okay, there's not much to see yet, but let me paint you a picture for you. Hit Mule... A powerful web presence. Shall I keep painting? Hit Mule. It invokes images of empowerment, hard work, great music, violence against animals, but nothing too gruesome. The future is almost now and it's Hit Mule. It's simple, edgy, and simple. And that's it, I'm out of paint.

If I had gone with Hit Mule instead of Hard Taco in the first place, I'd have 3 million followers on my blog right now instead of three. (Thanks Lauren, Mom, and our friend Becca! You're the best!) Basically, I've found the formula for success, and it's so eloquent that it chafes. Hitmule.com + nothing = success. And by the transitive property, success - hitmule.com = 0.

But what about folks who Hate Mila? If Mila Kunis really gets your goat, there's no website where you can commiserate with other Mila haters. It just makes me so sad. That's why when Hit Mule starts generating mad revenue, I won't let a penny of those profits graze the walls of my change purse until I have also registered other essential H T M L domains, including HateMila.com and HauteMila.fr. (The latter is for Frenchmen who would like to see Ms. Kunis drizzle foie gras with truffle sauce.)

In time, we will also register OH! Tmeal, a website that targets the burgeoning demographic of people surprised by oatmeal. Ohio Tamale will be next, and finally, if I can convince you that Y is sometimes a vowel, we'll complete our web domination with Ahoy, Eat Emily!

Financial Projections
The profits from Hit Mule will be expressed in numbers with so many digits, you'll have to look through the wrong end of a telescope to see the whole thing at once. For my 16 year reunion, I'll roll up College Hill in a satin limousine with a champagne flute-shaped Jacuzzi in the back. That means the Jacuzzi will be really tall and thin, with enough room for just one person to be submerged vertically up to the neck. I will have a satin banner on the side of the satin limousine that says, "Seniors from 1998 Drool." I'm sorry, but that is just how I will be rolling at that time.

With warmest regards,
Zach

The Sorcerer's Kidney Stone

2012-01-01T00:01:00.001-05:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for January, "Kentucky," tells the touching story of a journey home at the end of one's life. Traveling great distances to die at home is common to both Kentuckians and salmon. Here are some other similarities: 1. Often raised on farms. 2. Bite anything shiny.

There's Talent, Oh Yes, and a Thirst to Prove Yourself. But Where Shall I Put You?
There was a lab section during the renal pathophysiology course in medical school that had achieved quite a bit of notoriety. We heard rumors from the class ahead of us, rumors which filled us with wonder and fear. The students, they told us, would be divided into four groups: beer, Pepsi, water, and broth. We would be obligated to drink as much of the assigned beverage as we could endure, collect our urine, and run tests on it. Through this, we would learn about how the human kidney handles alcohol, caffeine, and salt.

Also, we would get to see what our classmates' pee looked like, so there was that.

When we got to the renal unit, the lab instructor read off our libation assignments. He used carefully placed pregnant pauses, ushering our anticipation to a fever pitch.

Jason Baker... Beer!
Peggy Berdelman... Water!

Jason and Peggy pumped their fists and ran over to their lab benches where their new beverage buddies waited with cheers and high fives.

Zach London....

I had recently read the first Harry Potter book, so I tried influencing the outcome the way Harry would have. I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated. Not broth, not broth.

Are you sure? You could do great with broth. It's all there in your kidneys, and broth could help you on the way to greatness... there's no doubt about that.

Not broth, anything but broth.

Okay, if you're sure, better be... BROTH!

The real Hogwarts Sorting Hat wasn't a jackass, but I wasn't so lucky. And so, for an entire afternoon, my six comrades and I guzzled cup after briny cup of room temperature beef bouillon. We were soon nauseated, our mouths were tacky, and our bladders were bursting with all sorts of unnatural electrolytes, but we soldiered on. When the need arose, we excused ourselves, filled up our flasks, brought them back and emptied them into a giant communal beaker reserved for broth urinators.

The short walk from the men's room to the lab was particularly humiliating. Acquaintances passing in the other direction kept surreptitiously checking out my Erlenmeyer, probably taking note of my color, volume, turbidity, and specific gravity. They were judging me. On exactly what basis I didn't know, but I could tell by their deriding glances that something about my urine was not cool. I had the urge to stop each of them and say, "It's all the powdered meat I've been drinking, dude! That's why the pH is so low. I swear it's not usually like this!"

But the beer group, wow. They didn't seem the least bit self-conscious about any of this. They were an animated circle of good-looking, racially diverse 20-somethings clinking High Life bottles together, enjoying life and doing plenty of what beer drinkers do best... pissing a whole lot. Other than that last part, they could have been a Miller commercial. They waved their flasks around confidently, as if each of them had brewed a unique single malt, and when they proudly pooled their efforts in the giant volumetric beaker they had concocted a fine blended whiskey.

Then there was the Pepsi group. They were energized, focused, and completed their work quickly and accurately. Encouraged by their success that day, many of them would go on to become nephrologists.

There was no swagger in the broth group, though. We couldn't even look at each other. I quietly trudged through the urinalysis, occasionally rubbing my eyes to wipe away the thin film beef stock that had begun to coat them. In the end, the tests confirmed what I had feared... my bladder was an environment conducive to raising saltwater fish.

The seven of us never spoke of that day to each other again, and ever since, I cringe a little when a waitress asks me if I want soup with my entree.

No, salad, please. Definitely salad.

With warmest regards,
Zach

A Piggyback Ride from Batman

2011-12-01T00:15:00.637-05:00

Dear Friends,

I. Your Hair Looks Great Today
It's true. And you know what would make this day even better? (You: Did you say something about a piggyback ride from Batman?)

No, even better. The new Hard Taco album, "Who Dares Disturb My Slumber?" It's available here, here, and here. To the stark naked eye, it looks just like any other compact disc, but if you gaze through the polycarbonate layer and reflect your laser vision back into your opto-electronic sensing organs, you will perceive combinations of zeroes and ones that will blow your tiny mind. (e.g. 1011 ker-pfff!)

And look, here comes the Dark Knight, crouching down for you to climb on his back, so you're getting both of the things you wanted!

II. It's Called Picornavirus
Usually I try to say something positive about the monthly Hard Taco song to persuade you to listen to it, such as, It's very danceable or This song will soothe your hoof and mouth disease.

This month, I make no such claims. The December Hard Taco song, "Fancy," will speak for itself, and if your hooves are really that painful, I'm sorry, but you just need to suck it up and go into quarantine with the other infected cattle.

III. Back Off: I've Got an Iron-On
When I lived in the U.P., we had a family friend who owned a T-shirt store. One my earliest memories is flipping through a giant catalog of images to pick an iron-on for my size 3T powder blue T-shirt. From thousands of choices, the image I selected was the Loch Ness Monster upsetting a rowboat. There was a man in the rowboat, futilely trying to fend the ferocious creature with a broken oar. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen.

I felt invincible when I wore that shirt and I was convinced that other kids were struck dumb with fear and awe.

"Here comes that preschooler with the sea monster capsizing the rowboat," they probably whispered to each other, "We'd better stand back. He's just so... macho."

After wearing it for 100 consecutive days, the transfer peeled off, but by then I had moved on. In the coming years my badass ideal would evolve from being plesiosaurus-based to being sunglasses-based. Soon, I only wanted T-shirts of characters wearing enormous black shades, like Chester Cheetah or that one California Raisin. This was cathartic for me, you see. I've never really been able to wear sunglasses myself because my ears are affixed to my head at different heights. (It's a common problem. Like 10% of people have it.) At best, sunglasses look foolishly askew on my face, like someone trying to do a parallel bar routine on the uneven bars. But I was at peace with that, because I could wear a T-shirt with a close-up of a surprised Marty McFly lifting his Ray-bans, and that was the next best thing.

IV. Today's Toddler T's.
My son only wears hand-me-downs from his cousins, so as much as I'd like to, I can't take credit for how badass most of his clothes are. These are all real T-shirts I've seen on him or his contemporaries, and each one is more awesome than the last.

Image                                        Caption:
Two helicopters                                            Tactical Team!
A tractor                                                       Total Quad Traction!
Buzz Lightyear Target is on Approach!
A motorcycle at a 45 degree angle Extreme Dirt Bike Zone!
A motorcycle, not at an angle Supreme Maximum Velocity!
Different kinds of balls Playing Sports Every Day is Not Enough!
A giant number 80 Dinosaurs: 80 MILLION years ago!

None of the children who wear these shirts are old enough to read, so I assume that the captions are directed at older kids. "I'd better not pick on that toddler," a would-be bully might say, "His desire to play sports is insatiable!"

With warmest regards,
Zach

The Quarterback Sneak and Other Signs We've Lost Our Moral Compass

2011-11-01T00:01:00.389-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for this month is called, "Drain the Pool," and it is heavy on the synth. If you don't like synth, it might make you wynth, but you'll dance so hard you'll get shin splynth.

People, I feel sick today. Sick from the immortality and deception that blankets our society like icing on a Cinnabon. When I was watching the sports last Sunday, I saw something that registered a bad angle on my moral protractor... a quarterback pump fake. The signal caller extended his arm as if to throw the ball, but didn't let go of it. He didn't throw the ball at all!

I know how linebackers must feel when subjected this kind of footbally subterfuge. I experience the same sense of betrayal whenever I discover regular-sized crackers in a box, even though the picture on the box has been enlarged to show texture. Both the quarterback and that cracker box make my moral litmus paper turn Pink. As. Hell.

Every culture has its own approach to the philosophy of ethics. Our moral thermostat has three settings, corresponding to the categories in 20 Questions. All ethical issues are Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral.

Animal:
Should our furry, 12-teated step-cousins enjoy the same rights as humans? I think they should, but it wouldn't hurt their case if they asserted themselves a little more. The last animal that I interacted with (who, granted, was a lamb chop) was pleasantly docile and did not stand up for itself when I tried to smear it with mint jelly.

I've heard religious justifications to support our subjugation of animals. If God didn't want us to wipe our bums with real archaeopteryx feathers he wouldn't have put nature's most luxurious toilet paper on the napes of the prehistoric birds.

But if you are a more of a secular omnivore, and aren't swayed by all this God talk, think about this. Animals have it way better than us in lot of important ways. I heard a cockroach can go seven days without sweating, and that's utterly bad ass. And I don't know about you, but I can't beat my wings 90 times per second, or fit a whole bunch of acorns in my cheeks. Also, have you ever noticed that other than the snail and the turtle, every animal on Earth is faster than us? There are literally billions of animals that can outrun people, and only two that can't. My moral astrolabe tells me that we must eat those billions of animals in the interest of fairness. And heck, if a turtle attempted to eat me, I'd let it! Snap away, my slimy little friends, you deserve to catch a break.

Vegetable:
Grandpa had indicated in his Living Will that he does not want life sustaining interventions. Now that he's in a coma, do we have to disconnect him from life support or should we wait around a few weeks to see if someone at Mayo Clinic discovers a treatment for malignant throat worms? More importantly, does honoring Grandpa's autonomy trump the preferences of the worms? (See "Animal" above.)

This decision would be much easier if we follow the European model, which takes all control out of the hands of the family. All European patients are put on a ventilator after cardiac arrest, and all of them die within 10 minutes. It has something to do with the fact that the outlets look weird in Europe. If you can't insert the plug in the first place, you don't have to worry about pulling it!

Mineral:
Conflict Minerals. They're so darn tempting.
Like most people, when I hear about a bargain on imported bauxite or talc, I break out the debit card and start swiping it back and forth in anything that has a slit. But what if I told me that buying those minerals was funding machete parts for Congolese ethnic cleansers? What if I proved to myself that half the cost of my wife's gypsum necklace was funneled to a Liberian slave insurrection and the other half went to the forces that put down that insurrection?

Honey, my moral Geiger counter is crackling when I point it at your neck, because you're wearing blood gypsum.

With warmest regards,
Zach

P.S. Conflict vegetables: Not a healthy part of anyone's food pyramid.

Flight Attendants Cross-Check and Prepare for Conniption

2011-10-01T00:01:00.003-04:00

Dear Friends,

They say that closing your eyes heightens your other senses. With that in mind, try listening to the new Hard Taco song, "The Gem of the Argosy," with your eyes closed. It will sound like a rich symphony of lustrous tonality. It will also make that pen you're chewing on burst with the flavor of 100 pens.

I think the worst sound I ever heard was a rabbit screaming. Even with my eyes open, it was indescribably awful. Wild animals are stoic, so by time you hear them scream, it is probably too late to save them, feed them, or stop annoying them. Here's the best way to predict what a screaming animal will sound like:
1. What kind of animal is it? Take the first vowel of that word and write it ten times in a row.
2. Add an 'h' and four exclamation points.
3. If the scream continues for more than ten seconds, select the second vowel in the name of the animal, and repeat.

As you can see, there are five (and sometimes 6) different animal screams. A rabbit makes a gut-wrenching shriek, but a toad may sound pleasantly surprised or even sassy, depending on the intonation.

This rule applies to people, too
But without looking, there is no way to discriminate between the sound of a torture victim, a burn victim, the family member of burn victim, or a perfectly normal toddler. In my neighborhood, it almost always turns out to be the normal toddler. (Reminder to self: investigate whether or not any of those toddlers have burned family members.)

The coolest screaming toddler I ever met was sitting a few rows in front of me on a plane when I was coming home from college one summer. The little girl's mom was employing increasingly venomous whispers to convince her to sit down so the plane could take off, but the kid kept unbuckling her seat belt and jumping on her chair.

A flight attendant came to the aid of the beleaguered mother, hoping to prevent further delays. "She's two? No, I'm sorry," the attendant said, "You can't hold her on your lap during takeoff. She will have to stay in her own seat."

So it came to this: the mother and the flight attendant each held half of the child's body, trying to forcibly fold her midsection so they could cram her into her seat. Even with two adult captors restraining her, the child's puerile fury gave her strength to break free for a moment. She stood up, pulled her head up over the seat back behind her, and with tears cascading down her face on both sides, let out a desperate appeal to the strangers behind her. "Somebody help me," she begged, as her mother pulled her back down from behind, "I'm only a baby!"

That story, which made me giggle for over a decade, became less amusing when I found myself in the role of the parent.

You Shall Not Pass!
Lauren and I grade tantrums on a five point scale, based on the volume, pitch, and duration of the outburst. Extremes in each of those categories can only get you up to a class four. To merit a class five rating, the tantrum must also cause small blood vessels in the face and throat to rupture. This causes the voice to adopt an inhuman timbre that is only be familiar to new parents and people who have overheard a Balrog being banished back to Hell.

My own three-year-old exhibited class five hysterics on a plane once. Most of the passengers in coach were peppered with milk, spittle/phlegm, and pages of Delta Sky Magazine. I was certain that the shrill oscillations emanating from his vibrating gorge would interfere with the aerial navigation system. I was also certain that everyone else on the plane was thinking, "What horrible parents! They won't lift a finger to prevent that child from making our plane crash into the ocean!"

When the fit finally tapered off, my heart rate normalized, and I realized that the fracas may not have been as disruptive as I thought. Evolution has provided us with several skills that are necessary for the survival of our species, and one of them is the ability to ignore screaming toddlers. In fact, the other passengers probably weren't paying attention to my son's tantrum at all.

What they were really thinking during the flight was, "I wonder if a wailing yak goes aaaaaaaaaah or yyyyyyyyyyh?"

With warmest regards,
Zach

Jack of all Tirades

2011-09-01T00:15:00.002-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco Song for September is called, "Jack of Any, Jack of All." Enjoy it irresponsibly.

At the University of Michigan, doctors dictate clinic notes into a phone and within a few hours a written version comes back, ready for to be signed and mailed to the referring physician. The voice recognition software (or Trickster God) responsible for transcribing my dictations is a cruel deceiver, bent on altering the meaning of my correspondence without me noticing. Real example:

The patient is very frustrated by the pain from her chronic unexplained illness... I will start morphine as needed.

became

The patient is very frustrated by the pain from her chronic unexplained dullness... I will start morphing as needed.

When I was a first year neurology resident, my friends training in ophthalmology had a small wager to see if any of them could plant the phrase, "Shiver Me Timbers" in a clinic note. This concept amused us to no end, because there is no way an eye doctor could dictate that expression inconspicuously.

Slit lamp examination shows increasing cataract peripherally in the left eye. The pressures are 22 bilaterally but... Shiver Me Timbers! There is no significant evidence of optic disk cupping!

As a neurologist, though, it's as easy as falling off a velocipede. We often have patients repeat simple phrases to assess their ability to process language. When a woman with memory complaints came to my clinic, I simply said, "Please repeat after me. Shiver Me Timbers."

"Shiver Me Timbers," the patient replied, dutifully.

The patient is a 60 year old woman with a chief complaint of forgetfulness. On examination, she was awake, alert, and [insert pirate accent] could repeat the phrase, "Shiver Me Timbers!" It is my impression that she is neurologically intact. Avastin!

Avastin is the trade name of a chemotherapy drug that was obviously developed by a scurvy-riddled buccaneer. I did not suspect a brain tumor in my patient, of course, so I had to end this dictation with:

Is not indicated at this time.

Here are some other medical terms that I always dictate with a pirate accent:
1. Aricept (A dementia drug. As in, "The patient was unable to repeat Shiver Me Timbers. I will prescribe ARRRicept.")
2. Blow the Man Down (A neurologic test that indicates a patient's balance is very poor.)
3. Pillage (The act of prescribing oral medications, such as ARRRicept)
4. Hearties ("The patient has cardiomyopathy and is now on the transplant list, in case any hearties become available.")
5. Fire in the hole (Hemorrhoids)
6. Privateer ("After delivering the bad news, I stepped out of the room so she could share a Privateer with her family.")
7. Abaft ("The patient should tape a plastic bag around her foot to keep the sutures dry when she is taking abaft.")
8. Keelhaul (What Oates will have to do if he ever wants to be the front man. Surprisingly, this phrase is not commonly used in medical dictations.)

A couple years ago, I had the opportunity to to write a chapter about the neurologic examination for the Oxford American Handbook of Neurology. You can preview this book for free on Google Books, and after reading the delicious passage on the top of page 22, turn back to page 21, where you will see the London Shiver Me Timbers Test included as part of the standard neurologic examination. I'm bolding it not because I enjoy the time-consuming act of pushing the Ctrl key (I don't), but because it is a powerful and original idea, and I must remember to pay myself royalties for mentioning it here.(1)

There's more to this story, but I must stop here because I feel the need to start morphing at this time.

With warmest regards,
Zach

Hard Taco Homepage: http://hardtaco.org/

(1) I have another great idea, but I'm not sure I'm the first person to come up with this. What if we make a velocipede that has two wheels the same size rather than a ridiculously large front wheel and a ridiculously small rear wheel?

Calling All Chain Ganglies

2011-08-01T00:01:00.169-04:00

Dear Friends,

Great news, adolescent yardbirds! "Busting Out of Juvie," the joyful new song from your friends at Hard Taco, will walk you through the procedures for unincarcerating yourself.

Be assured that my pedigree as an escapology coach is excellent. In the slammer they referred to me as Professor Slippery because no cell could hold me. (Before that, I was known as Adjunct Professor Slippery because I hadn't yet published enough to make tenure.) I earned those monikers by escaping from handcuffs, straightjackets, hermetically sealed coffins, barrels, a uterus, and fish-tanks. When it comes to prison breaks, I guess you could say I'm an expert.

As point of fact, I am an expert... the only reason I'm guessing you could say it is that you may have recently injured your larynx. (Perhaps in a botched prison break?)

You Can't Practice Escapology without Apology

You all used to laugh at me when I stayed after school to untie all the knots in the soccer nets while holding my breath. Now I'm on the outside, and you're in the can. Who's laughing now? Certainly not you with your ruptured larynx. But that's all water under the bridge. You need to bust out of lockdown, and Emeritus Professor Slippery is here to help.

The most common mistake that prospective escapees make is waiting until the time is right. If you have that mindset, you'll never get out of prison. Something will always come up! First, you'll tell yourself, "I'll just wait until the trigger-happy tower guard is on vacation." When he is, you'll say, "I should probably stay until I finish a few more license plates, just to complete the series." Next thing you know, you've served out your entire sentence, and you never even burrowed into a single sewer pipe.

No, if you're going to take a powder, you should do it this very instant. Print out the rest of this document and take it with you, following these instructions in real time.

1. Roll up your dirty uniforms and stuff them under your sheets so it looks like there is a sleeping body in your bed. Fill socks with cigarette butts and candy bar wrappers and lay those along side the wadded up uniforms so it looks like arms. Once the body looks believable, put a lifelike silicone replica of your head on the pillow.

2. Bribe the trigger-happy tower guard to hand deliver a sealed envelope to the warden. Surprise! The letter within the envelope orders the warden to kill the person who bore the message. This works especially well when the guard is Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, but it will ultimately backfire if he is a handsome peasant who wants to marry your daughter.

3. Swipe a butter knife from the cafeteria and swallow it. Fake a seizure (or have a real one if you are able.) They will rush you to the infirmary. As they charge up the defibrillator paddles, cough up the butter knife and hold the medical assistant hostage until he gives you an alcohol wipe, a centrifuge, a latex glove, and a bag of normal saline. Swallow them.

3a. Fake another seizure, and then run like mad into the yard. With any luck, the trigger-happy tower guard will be dead by the warden's hand, or at least on vacation today.

4. Cough up the centrifuge and use it to climb the inner wall. It's difficult to explain this procedure in writing, but here's an drawing of how it works.

\ /

| |

| |c \\o..

| | / \

| | '

| |

Legend:
c = centrifuge

Hopefully, you don't accidentally drop the butter knife when you're half way up like you do in my drawing, but if you do, DO NOT GO BACK FOR IT unless there's time.

5. Cough up the latex glove and use it to climb over the barbed wire without getting electrocuted or punctured.

6. The last hurdle is the outer fence. By now, the alcohol wipe and bag of normal saline in your stomach have suppressed your appetite so that you have lost enough weight to slip through the bars easily.

7. You're free! Before they catch you again, enjoy the things that free people do, like going to the Farmer's Market or burrowing into a sewer pipe.

With warmest regards,
Zach

And I Will Share This Tiara With All the Poor People of Little Rock

2011-07-01T06:09:00.008-04:00

Hardtaco.org: Could These New Features BE More Salient?

There is a new Hard Taco website, and it is as smooth as a Ken Doll. There are any number of cool features that will make your bow tie will spin around like a pinwheel.

1. All the songs we ever recorded (hundreds of them) are available for free streaming or download.

2. The Hard Taco Digests are finally a bona fide ever-lovin' blog.

3. CDs are still for sale, but hopefully you know better than to pay for a CD when you download any of the songs for free. You're no greenhorn.

4. Heartier nooks, tastier crannies.

"Yeah, It's Really Interesting, and if it Makes You Happy, That's What's Important"

The Hard Taco song for July, "The Alchemy of Blank Verse," was written for and performed by the cast of The Penny Seats' Summer production of "Good Night, Desdemona (Good Morning Juliet)." Most of these people are very popular, so I am hopeful that they will get all kinds of false compliments on this song!

How to Be Miss Arkansas Starting a Few Days from Now

The next most exciting thing about this July (and it's a distant third) is the impending Miss Arkansas Pageant. The grand prize is a $20,000 educational scholarship, but I found a loophole that allows you to spend all of it at the campus snack bar.

Contestants, when you were a kid, did you read that book about a lovable stuffed bear named Lose-y the Pooh? I didn't think so, because you're a winner. If you want to stay that way you need to listen up and listen hard. I can't make you talented or beautiful. That would require alcohol consumption by you and the judges, respectively. But I can help you ace the question and answer session. Just listen for the most common buzzwords, then recite one of these audience-pleasing platitudes.

If the judge says "Blah blah blah Energy blah blah blah"

As ever, we must all do our part to reduce fossil fuel consumption. Tonight I rubbed KY jelly on my teeth instead of petroleum jelly. All of the contestants you see before you have shiny teeth, but I will not have oil spills on my conscience. Now that's something we can all smile about!

If the judge says "Blah blah blah Goals blah blah blah"

The biggest honor in my life has to be to serve terms as Tiny Miss Arkansas, Little Miss Arkansas, Teen Miss Arkansas, and hopefully soon, Miss Arkansas. My long term aspirations are to be Mrs. Arkansas or Madame Arkansas. One day, I hope to wear a sash that says "The Plus-Sized Widow Arkansas."

If the judge says "Blah blah blah Family blah blah blah"

The person I most look up to is my father. Words cannot express my love and respect for this man who raised three daughters by himself, working two sales jobs to keep food on the table. That is why, while answering this question, I chose to chisel a life-sized ice sculpture of him. He is holding a bottle of maple syrup that he just brought us as a souvenir from one of his sales trips, and... there, he's waiting for us at the Texaracana train station. This ice sculpture train works, so I would ask the other contestants to please look both ways and listen for the bell before crossing the tracks.

If the judge says "Blah blah blah Immigration blah blah blah"

Two thirds of the America's honeybees have died mysteriously since 2006, but our vegetable and grain production has never been more robust. That's because migrant workers from Central America travel the country all year, spreading pollen around with their hands and faces. The bees have died because our ecosystem doesn't need them any more. But what about the hard-working men and women who are getting laid off from the Epi-pen factory? We need bees to support that part of our economy, because migrant workers are decidedly hypoallergenic. That's why I support more stringent immigration laws, as ever.

If the judge says "Blah blah blah American Dream blah blah blah"

Let's recapture that spirit of innovation that America was built upon! Picture this: a car with an electric engine, but gasoline-powered windows and locks! When I close my eyes, I imagine driving such a car down Main Street with the gasoline-powered windows rolled down. There are dozens of people running behind me in slow motion, shouting, "American innovation!"

If the judge says "Blah blah blah Values blah blah blah"

Before she passed away, my grandmother told me, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." Grandma, I promise you that I will strive to be self-reliant. I will make the best of every situation, even when the chips are down. I will also consume countless pitchers of sweetened rodent bone-slurry, just in case I misheard you, and you actually said "when life gives you lemmings..."

With warmest regards,

Zach

The Bloody Leotard

2011-06-01T00:01:00.021-04:00

Dear Friends,

The June Hard Taco song is called, “Big-Calved Woman.” It’s a little misogynistic, has only two chords, and features a rather grating vocal track. If that doesn’t scare you away, what if I tell you that it is performed by hornets and Chinese puppets?! (These are your deepest fears, according to the “browser cookies” in your computer.)

If you were able to ascertain my darkest secrets by querying my cookies, you would discover that I have been harboring a lot of guilt for something I did when I was 17. I broke a ballerina’s leg. This particular dancer was male, but he was wearing a frilly pink tutu, so one could feel justified referring to him as a ballerina. The injury took place as the result of me running my parents’ station wagon into him in a parking lot, pinning his legs between two cars. It was probably the first time he had ever held his feet in fifth position.

The maimed ballerina was an aspiring comedian working as a “ballet parker” at a Milwaukee club called Comedysportz. I spent many evenings and weekends at that club because I was on the Nicolet High School Comedysportz team. Every Saturday morning, we would match our wits against one of the other schools, and by “wits” I mean “ability to think of terrible puns while cross-dressing.” It was the only sport I did in high school and shut up, it is too a sport. Competitive improv a sport in the same way that beer pong is a sport. Some people are certainly better at it than others, but everyone finds themselves hilarious after playing for an hour. Also, as it turns out, both increase your risk for having your legs crushed in a car accident.

You're Going to Feel My Finger Now

2011-05-01T00:01:00.019-04:00

Dear Friends,

On December 7th, 1941, a Japanese fighter pilot crash landed on Ni'ihau, the smallest and westernmost Hawaiian island, mistakenly believing it to be uninhabited. The remarkable events that transpired on that tiny island over the next six days have become known as "The Ni'ihau Incident." I'll let Wikipedia tell you the story. Since reading this, I have been obsessed with the idea that this needs to be made into a stage play. I couldn't write a play to save my life, but I can write songs (especially if lives are on the line), so I composed a song about what it would be like if there was a play about the Ni'ihau incident.

The Boggy Man

I was 19 years old and seriously considering medical school, so my dad made arrangements for me to spend an afternoon shadowing a colleague of his in the family medicine clinic. The first patient we saw was an elderly gentleman presenting for a routine health maintenance examination. Dr. Bower wasted no time introducing me as "Student Doctor London," and announced that I would be assisting him with the rectal exam.

The misleading title made me a bit uncomfortable, but I loved the idea of "assisting." It implied that a good rectal exam requires teamwork, and I was part of that team!

So here I was, snapping on a latex glove and squirting lube on my right index finger. This is how the first patient encounter of my life would begin.

"Do you feel it?" Dr. Bower asked, "Do you feel the prostate?"

"Maybe," I said, "Actually, I'm not sure."

"You'll know you're there, because it feels just like the tip of your nose."

I carefully brought my ungloved left index finger to my nose and gently rubbed it back and forth. I was surprised to discover that the tip of my nose had a subtle divot that I had never noticed before.

Postcards from Panama, Part 3

2011-04-01T22:19:00.003-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for April is called, “Spinneret.” It is so energizing that after you listen to it, you will be able to go to your middle school gymnasium and beat your best time at the shuttle run.

With warmest regards,

Zach

Postcards from Panama City, Part 3

(You may enjoy re-reading Part 1 and Part 2 beforehand)

3/11/2011

Dear Karen,

I have great news. I hired a secretary to take dictations for me. He is bilingual and does secretarial work full-time for only $300 a month! I will have him sign his name after mine at the bottom so you can see how different our handwriting is.

I’m very excited about this, because now I can finally get some exercise while I write! As you know, there are three forms of exercise: strength training, toning and cardio. With my body type and long term goals, I have decided to focus 100% of my efforts on toning. I have a "toning diary," which is a piece of graph paper where I will log objective and subjective observations about my muscle tone.

With warmest regards,

Michael

y Hector

Numerators of the Lost Ark

2011-03-01T03:01:00.003-05:00

Dear Friends,

Your name is Carmencita Calderón. It is 1930, and you are the dance partner of Cachafáz, the most notorious tango dancer in Buenos Aires. His pock-marked face and slick choreography are legendary, but you do not love him. No, your heart belongs to a man they call El Vasco, another professional tango dancer who left Argentina ten years ago to seek his fortunes in the smoky nightclubs of Paris.

After sending you not so much as a letter for years, your lover returns unexpectedly and sweeps you up in a particularly fiery tango. But Cachafáz is a jealous man. He challenges El Vasco to a high stakes dance-off, to the death. You know this is a battle your love cannot win. You must beg him to flee, flee the country this very night and never return!

This, dear friends, is the story of “El Vasco,” the Hard Taco song for March that will break your heart into mil piezas de dolor, a thousand aching splinters.

Numerators of the Lost Ark

The so-called Golden Ratio, (a+b)/a = a/b, has been used as far back as Euclid to make the world’s most beautifully proportioned rectangles. In his seminal textbook Elements (~300 B.C.), Euclid describes an incident in which King Ptolemy spends a whole Saturday working on a new rectangle and neglects to use the Golden Ratio to choose its proportions. Ptolemy invites Euclid to brunch at the palace to show off the rectangle, and all Euclid can do is smile politely and comment about what a nice personality it has. And you know what’s also nice, Your Highness? (a+b)/a = a/b.

Dry Heaves for the Packers

2011-02-01T03:01:00.002-05:00

The evolution of a Packers fan between 1997 and 2011.

Dear friends,

This month's Hard Taco release is a (nearly) 7 minute opus called, "The Pottage Point Centennial Band." I realize that only unemployed people have enough free time to listen to something that long, which is why I waited until this year to release it.

But before I can write another word about it, let's talk football, because I have a hard time talking about anything else these days.

Nicholas Dodman is an an animal psychologist who wrote a book entitled, "The Dog Who Loved too Much." I haven't read it, but the first chapter was described to me as follows: The author has a patient, a dog, who loves her owner too much. When the owner leaves the house each morning, she becomes so worried that he won't return that she loses control of her bladder. She paces around the house peeing on everything. When he finally comes home at 5 pm, she is so overjoyed to see him that she throws up. The joy is so pervasive that she vomits constantly until he leaves again the next morning, at which point the bladder problem kicks in again.

That is how I feel about the Green Bay Packers. It is a special kind of staggering love that only emotionally disturbed dogs and true sports devotees can experience. We soar, we suffer, and we soar again, and all of it is unhealthy.

Insert not Make Dangerous in Flammable Substance

2011-01-01T03:01:00.003-05:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for January, “A Man and His Jeweler” contains no less than three explicit lyrics. This is a bit of a departure for me, because in real life, the dirtiest words I use are zounds, poppycock, criminy, and during Michael Jackson impersonation contests, smooth criminy.

This song goes out to my late Grandma Shirley, who would have loved cash-money-bling-bling rap if she had lived to see its heyday.

This being the 104^th Hard Taco Digest, I humbly accept my place among the pantheon of the world’s most successful writers of unwanted emails. Today, I’d like to honor the men and women whose shoulders I stand on with a tribute to some of my favorite writers of indecipherable spam.

Spoiler alert: the unifying feature of all great spam is the liberal use of the double exclamation point!!

“Electronics and Other Goods”

by m439sfd@nouuunns.com

Friend, are you doing? Honest, Does you approve online purchasing? I often shop goods store in a network, and mainly electronic products, even refrigerators ,yacht!! All products are sold regular discount, so see if you must need commodities at this website. Click and please make a talk!!

Sacred Blood Pact or Profane Phlegm-oath?

2010-12-01T03:01:00.002-05:00

Dear Friends,

I. You're going to need this: ( )

It's an electronic representation of an opposing thumb and index finger, ready to pinch you. Why do you need electronic pinching? Because there is a glistening new Hard Taco album, “Approach Approach Conflict," and nothing could be dreamier.

The President of the

United States

has already released this statement:

"Holla, fellow Americans. At this time I wish I was in a deep coma, so I could finally listen to Hard Taco's Approach Approach Conflict 24 hours a day without missing state dinners. I only regret that strangling all nine Supreme Court justices won't free up enough seats to appoint all the marvelous musicians who played on this album. Somebody e-pinch me!"

Get some Hard Taco CDs today, because otherwise I’ll stop bugging you.

II. What is up? Therefore, up is what. Q.E.D.

Remember 17 years ago, when I guaranteed one new Hard Taco song a month, even though I despise doing it with all my heart? I was hoping you’d forget by now, but a promise is a promise. (A = A. Q.E.D.) Whether it was a sacred blood pact or merely a profane phlegm-oath, I suppose I’ll have to make good.

The Hard Taco song for December is called, "Secret Chaver." Unless you're that guy at the soup kitchen who actually ladles the soup, there is no better use of your next four minutes than listening to this song. (Yes, I'm talking to you, guy who buses trays at the soup kitchen.)

Mud: It's for Slinging

2010-11-01T21:19:00.002-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for November is called, “The Penny Seats Are Nothing But Trouble.” These Penny Seats apparently are a theatre company in Ann Arbor, and let me tell you something… they are bad news. If you look up “Up to no good” in the dictionary, you will find that it’s not there, because it’s more of a phrase than a word. If you squint, however, you can imagine a picture of those Penny Seats crammed in the tiny space between “uptight” and “uptown.”

Listen to “The Penny Seats Are Nothing But Trouble,” because Merriam and Webster agree: these lovely Hard Taco songs are the very definition of the word, “Up to Some Good.”

Poll-ish Mustard: How to Forget Not to Vote Tomorrow

This may be the last thing you read before mid-term elections, so I feel obligated to volunteer my endorsements for the Michigan gubernatorial race. I am in a unique position to provide coverage of this race, because I have access to my answering machine. The rest of the year, when I pick up the phone and there’s a long pause, it is usually followed by heavy breathing. But come October of an even-numbered year, that pause is invariably precedes an attack ad against one of the candidates (or if they really want my vote, heavy breathing followed by an attack ad.) Here is what my answering machine has to say about our gubernatorial candidates, Virg Bernero (D) and Rick Snyder (R).

Virg Bernero wants to write a blank check to the same career politicians who spent the last four years trimming the thumbnails of Big Insurance.

Rick Snyder wants the tears of the hard-working working class and occasionally-hard-working upper middle class families to smear the mascara of his right wing agenda all over the dirty hands of the Lansing mandatory abortion lobby.

It's More of a Science UNfair, if You Ask Me

2010-10-01T03:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

Last weekend, I was driving around Boca Raton in a rental car, flipping through the Miami radio stations. Normally, I would be the last person to belittle the artistic value of pop music, but I was feeling inexplicably cantankerous. The ubiquitous octogenarians must excrete some kind of pheromone that makes passersby disparaging and close-minded. Every time a new song came on that I didn’t recognize, I said to myself, “Pffff. This could have been written by a 5 year-old.” By time we reached our destination, my eyes were sore from rolling so much.

On the plane ride home I took a few deep breaths and began to think clearly again. (Thanks, Delta Airlines geriatric miasma-removing air filters!) The reason great songs sound like they were written by 5-year-olds is that 5-year olds write great songs. With that premise, I immediately set Scarlett to work.

The result is “I’m on a Plane,” the first Hard Taco song in over a decade with co-authored lyrics. I think you will agree that it contains intangibles.

The Making of an Evil Scientist

I was one of a few students in my 9^th grade class chosen to represent our school at the regional science fair. My project, entitled “Up and Add ‘Em,” offered groundbreaking evidence that subjects could complete more math problems in 60 seconds if they were standing up rather than sitting down. Upon closer inspection, I actually proved that standing subjects could do more math problems in 70 seconds than sitting subjects could do in 60 seconds. Also, the smarter kids were placed in the standing group. These were just details, though, and there wasn’t enough room on the poster for details.

To this day, I believe I could have beaten Katrina Sopkovich in the Behavioral Science category if I hadn’t muddled the oral presentation. After I elegantly expounded on the mind-blowing significance of my fraudulent conclusions, a tiny white-haired judge asked me, “What are your dependent and independent variables?”

My what? Seconds ticked by. I heard myself mumbling something like, “Well, it depends. It varies, it’s all variable, actually.”

Ladies and gentlemen, the blue ribbon goes to Ms. Sopkovich for her study on smell memory!

I vowed that I would never make that mistake again. When the time came to devise a 10th grade biology project, I was an authority on scientific methodology, and I was ready to get back to what I did best… fudging data. Ms. Kolb surprised us by announcing that we would each have a $30 budget to cover supplies. (Yes, this was a public school, for those of you feeling nostalgic for the days of adequate educational funding.)

She passed around a 500 page catalog of biological supplies, and it was all in there. Petri dishes with blood agar, Petri dishes with chocolate agar, live fruit flies with different colored eyes, ether for sedating them and cover slips for squishing them. And what do you know? They sell dissection specimens. Fetal pig... $22. Sheep brain... $6. Monkey heart… $11.

Oh my God Monkey vagina… $4 for one or $20 for six.

There wasn’t a picture. Why wasn’t there a picture? They had a picture of the fetal pig. And did that say $20 for six? It was baffling beyond reason that this unusual commodity was in the catalog at all, let alone with an incentive discount. I imagined that somewhere in Germany, a bearded man in a lab coat was ripping the page out of the catalog and shouting to a roomful of collaborators, "True, we only need one to complete our study, but a deal like this can not… must not be ignored!"

I tried very hard to think of an experiment that would justify this purchase, but I just wasn’t that creative. More to the point, I wasn’t that brave. I couldn’t see myself standing by my poster, telling the judge, “Well, Ma’am, for starters I randomized the monkey vaginas into two groups of three.”

“And before I go further, let me just point out that the independent variable is which of these two groups a given monkey vagina is in.”

No, in the end I spent my $30 on milkweed bugs and sulfuric acid. The project is not worth explaining, but I will tell you this: many bugs died, and my improbable hypothesis was overwhelmingly supported by pages and pages of made up numbers. I’m sure Ms. Kolb was on to me, but she, like every other teacher, was a sucker for neat handwriting and a clear plastic binder.

With warmest regards,

Zach

You Can't Make Atonement without Mentos

2010-09-01T03:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

There is a short list of things you have been waiting for you whole life, and the September Hard Taco song, “Jumex Flow,” is certainly on it. It’s somewhere towards the middle of that list, right in between ‘a car with revolving doors’ and ‘never to feel lonely, even for one second.’

Listen to “Jumex Flow” right now. Don’t make me come over there and listen to it for you.

This month, Jews all over the globe will observe Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. In the weeks leading up to this holiday, it is customary to seek forgiveness for any bad behavior in the last year. I like the idea of rectifying my wrongdoings, but I’m still a little behind on my payments, apology-wise. To begin with, I have a couple transgressions from when I was in 5^th grade that I would like to get off my chest.

Apology #1: I’m sorry I engaged in an imbalanced Garbage Pail Kid trade with a cognitively disabled classmate.

Nikki was a girl in my grade who had been collecting Garbage Pail Kids longer than the rest of us. It was rumored that she had several of the coveted first series cards, including ‘Adam Bomb,’ the crown jewel of the GPK collection. Of possible relevance to this story, Nikki had Down syndrome. One day I cornered her at recess.

Me: Hi, Nikki. Do you want to see my new Garbage Pail Kids? I’ve got ‘Bruised LEE’ and ‘Glandular ANGELA.’

Nikki: Hi, okay. I’m playing with this one… ‘GARRET-ed.’

Me: That’s a cool one. Do you have the other one that looks like that, ‘Garrote-TED?’

Nikki: No. I do not.

Me: Well, check this out… I have two copies of ‘Garrote-TED!’ Hey, you know what would be fun? We should make a trade. I’ll give you one of them for one of your cards, like maybe… ‘ADAM Bomb.’

Nikki: I’ll have to ask my parents.

Me: Come on! You don’t need to ask your parents. Just look at this card I’m holding. It’s a chubby toddler being garroted. His eyes are bulging out and stuff. It’s totally rad!

Nikki: Yeah, it is pretty rad! Okay.

And so went the most lopsided deal in trading card history. As of this morning, ‘ADAM Bomb’ is going on eBay for over $15.00. I could sell it and use the cash to get a haircut… a haircut that should have been Nikki’s. I’ve felt lousy about this for a while, so a few years ago I took steps to assure that I would never forget that I exploited a vulnerable individual. I threw away all my Garbage Pail Kids except for two: ‘ADAM Bomb’ and ‘Special ED.’

Apology #2: I’m sorry I abused the audience-participation privilege at a ComedySportz game by insulting my sister, Sari.

“My sister got glasses and braces and now she’s really ugly!”

I was at an improv comedy club with my family, and when the emcee asked for suggestions from the audience, I shouted out the aforementioned sentence. I think the specific request was for a newspaper headline, but I probably would have yelled out the same thing if he has asked for an emotion or the name of a fictional salad dressing. In my mind, it was just too funny to go unsuggested for a minute longer.

I can see you shaking your head and saying, “Oh, that poor girl!” I admit it was rude, but try to put yourself in my shoes for a moment. Declaring that your sister is ugly is not supposed to be hurtful, nor is it based on empiric observation. You’re nine years old, and you have a limited arsenal of phrases. If you’ve already used, “Give me your Little Debbie,” and, “He who smelt it, dealt it,” the only other combination of sounds that your mouth is capable of generating is something about the repulsive appearance of your siblings.

At any rate, Sari didn’t think it was very funny, and neither did anyone else in the audience. In fact, several people booed, including some of the performers. Unfortunately for all of us, they were bound by the improvisers’ code to use the suggestion, and grudgingly ad-libbed a hilarious sketch about how the 11-year old girl in the audience was ugly because of her glasses and braces.

Anyway, Sari has probably forgotten about this incident, but I wanted to ask her forgiveness for being such a terribly insensitive younger brother that one time. (As far as I know, there were no other such incidents.) Also, I was hoping she could dig up some old pictures, just to see if the glasses in question were as hideous as I had implied, because maybe that would partially absolve me. Just a thought.

Merry Yom Kippur, everyone!

With warmest regards,

Zach

"Why I Defect" By Oleg Chernyaev

2010-08-01T03:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

I’ve been on a government watch list for a couple of years now. I trace it back to the time I searched for “pipe bomb parts” on eBay and then clicked “sort by price: high to low.” The only thing that alarms the Department of Homeland Security more than a random guy shopping for pipe bomb parts is a random guy shopping for stylish, brand name pipe bomb parts.

Here is your opportunity to join me as one of the FBI’s most hounded. The delightful new Hard Taco song, “Make a Mint,” contains explicit instructions for counterfeiting U.S. coins. If you download this song or read the lyrics, you will undoubtedly find yourself subjected to cavity searches at airports and bus stops for the rest of your life. Instead of calling you Stephanie, journalists will refer to you as The Radical Cleric Stephanie, because they believe you to be capable of extraordinary anger and beard growth.

I hate to brag, Steph, but this song is worth it.

Here’s something unrelated. (I’ve been working on my segues.)

Why I Defect

By Oleg Chernyaev

As child in Soviet Union I learn squeeze fish. When in old country, men squeeze many many fish. But Oleg, I squeeze fish best.

Impress many women.

Impress Russian Federal Strategic Defense Ministry Space Force Commandant. “Oleg,” he say, “I make you kosmonavt. You squeeze fish for foremost glorious space program.”

So I do. Twenty two month I float around Mir space station squeezing on fish for research. I fill forms, I make on documents, I run system checkings. Not always glamorous. Still, I squeeze fish some few hours a day, and is important work. Know this… number fish I squeeze is highly classified, but Oleg tell you absolutely truth… is enormous number.

After twenty two month, Soyuz craft return me to Earth. To Moskva. Oleg get welcome of hero! Father meet me at base, and bring my girlfriend, Irina, who is very plain but with foremost major endowments.

Father say, “Oleg, you are most welcome back to planet. For gift I give you fish wrapped in nyewspaper. Is Pravda nyewspaper, Oleg, not left-ving Pravda online veersion your Babushka read.” Father hand me fish, I unwrap. Is whole beluga, eyes still on. Very appetizing.

“Go stand next to Irina, Oleg,” he say, “Squeeze fish. I take peecture.”

I smile for picture, I try squeeze fish, but is big struggle. I try and some more try, but hands feel weak. Then I have flashback. I think of words of Pavel Vinogradov, who serve as flight engineer on Mir 24. One day while making on documents together, Pavel say that kosmonavt who squeeze fish in environment of no-gravity have probably troubles with squeezing of fish back on Earth. Ha! I laugh at Pavel, of course, for he is brainless fool flight engineer.

But Pavel not so styupid. Flashback is over, and Father is saying, “What is matter, Oleg? Big fish squeezing man not so big now?”

Girlfriend Irina say, “You’re not big, big squeezing fish man. Oleg go home! You can not even dream of squeezing Irina’s foremost major endowments.”

And that is whole story. Is why I never marry girlfriend. Is why I immigrate here at Indianapolis and get whole new job as health fair coordinator at mall. Now I tell you absolutely truth… I miss Father and Babushka. I like American rally of monster truck, but I miss Moskva. I miss innocent days when Oleg squeeze fish in bath house with many old men watching.

I not really miss Irina. Plenty Indiana women impressed totally with big health fair coordinator man.

With warmest regards,

Zach

The Adventures of Mr. Smartapple

2010-07-01T03:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

You can’t solve crimes without clues, and there are no better clue-finders than 6^th grader Sarah Blevins and her younger brother, Tyler. But in the town of Plaincroft, Vermont, nobody is going to give valuable clues to a couple of meddlesome kids. That is, not until Tyler sits on Sarah’s shoulders and they put on their dad’s overcoat. Now they aren’t just two nosey kids. They are “Mr. Smartapple,” a distinguished gentleman in an ill-fitting bowler hat who knows one thing… it’s clue finding time!

(Scene 1: At the gas station. “Mr. Smartapple” weaves in and makes his way to the checkout counter.)

Tyler: Excuse me, Shopkeeper, I would like to purchase some cigarettes.

Attendant: Are you sure you’re old enough to buy cigarettes?

Tyler: (Guffaws.) Old enough to…? (Guffaws again.) Oh, young Miss, you flatter me. Old enough to buy cigarettes! No, sadly, I am far older than 18, as you can see by the fact that I am over 7 feet tall. Plus, my brow is furrowed.

Attendant: What kind of cigarettes would you like?

Tyler: Oh, whatever you’ve got. Listen, friend, have you seen a man with a handlebar mustache and one abnormally large hand?

Attendant: Hmmm. I do remember a man who looked like that, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. He was in here, oh, just a few days ago. He mentioned something about getting ahead… at the off-track betting facility. Oh, and he dropped this matchbook from the Burlington Opera House.
Sarah: The mysterious man wasn’t talking about a gambling parlor, but a mattress store… Off Track Bedding on

8^th Ave.

He wasn’t trying to get ahead, he wanted to get “a head”. A headboard for a bed! But why?

Attendant: Did your abdomen just say a whole bunch of things?

Tyler: No, all of that was just my ringtone. Good afternoon, fellow grown one. (Into his coat.) Time to get some more clues!

(Scene 2: “Off-Track Bedding” Mattress Shop.)

Tyler: Why hello, Miss. I have recently voted in a local election.

Shop girl: Are you sure you’re old enough to vote?

Tyler: (Guffaws.) Amazing! The vitamin cream really works! No, sadly, I have been over 18 years old for longer than I care to remember. Anyway, if you’re curious, I voted the straight party ticket. But let me get right to the point. Have you seen a man with a handlebar mustache and one abnormally large hand?

Shop girl: Definitely not. Although, now that you mention it, there was a man like that in here yesterday. He wanted a particular headboard made out Philippine mahogany. He said he needed it by Friday or none of this would matter anymore. We had a headboard that was similar, but it wasn’t an exact match. He was very angry and rude, but eventually bought it.

Tyler: Was he wearing a shark-tooth necklace?

Shop girl: No, but he was carrying a library book. It had such a strange nonsensical title that I couldn’t help but remember it. It was entitled, “Come Coltivare Le Piante Tossiche.”

Tyler: Thanks you, Miss. I am strongly considering one of these box springs, but I need to discuss it with my wife and many children. We’ll be back! (Into his coat.) Time to get more clues!

(Scene 3: The Library)

Tyler: (Talking into imaginary phone) Yes, I too prefer soft core pornography to crinkle-cut carrots. Goodbye.

Librarian: Excuse me?

Tyler: Oh, I was just finishing up a common conversation with another adult man on my mobile phone. Do you have any more copies of the book, “Come Coltivare Le Piante Tossiche?”

Librarian: No, it was checked out two days ago. But we do have the English translation, “How to Grow Poisonous Plants.”

Tyler: Did the person who checked out the Italian version borrow any other books?

Librarian: Look, I’m really not supposed to tell you that.

Tyler: You can trust us. I mean me! You can trust me. I’m over 7 feet tall.

Librarian: Well, okay. He checked out a book called, “Intermediate level Whittling.”

Tyler: Thank you. I would love to talk further, but I have an appointment with my geriatrician in 15 minutes. (Into his coat.) Time to close this case!

(Scene 4: The police station. The overcoat and bowler hat are on the floor.)

Officer Whelon: Slow down, slow down, kids! Are you telling me you’ve solved the Leonara murder?

Sarah: Yep.

Officer Whelon: And that the killer is none other than the great tenor, Carlo Bergonzi?

Sarah: That’s right!

Officer Whelon: But that’s impossible. Carlo Bergonzi is famous!

Tyler: But Leonara was more famous, so he decided to take her very life.

Sarah: The Burlington Opera House is putting on Verdi’s Oberto this season. Bergonzi’s character is supposed to kill Leonara’s character in the second act by suffocating her with a wreath of bluebells. But Bergonzi replaced them with home-grown mountain laurels. Poisonous mountain laurels. When she inhaled them, she blacked out and cracked her head on the stage bed.

Tyler: In front of a packed house of 1500 unsuspecting audience members! None of them knew she was really dead!

Sarah: Everyone was fooled.

Officer Whelon: Even us?

Sarah: Even the police. All Bergonzi needed to do was replace the bloodstained headboard and he would get away with it.

Tyler: But the headboard was made out of a rare wood, and when he couldn’t find an exact replica, he had to buy the closest match and whittle it to look like the original.

Sarah: Exactly, but in his impatience to finish the job before the next performance, he skipped “Whittling for Beginners” and went straight to the intermediate level lesson. In doing so, he would have missed the basic tenet that a whittling knife needs to be sharpened after every hour of use, or the carvings become rutted and uneven.

Tyler: Bergonzi’s right hand is abnormally large, so he would have carved left-handed, and that means he would have whittled the headboard from left to right.

Sarah: We’re willing to bet that the replacement headboard will have uneven carvings on its right half.

Officer Whelon: That sounds crazy, but I’ll call the opera house and ask. Hold on. (Dials.) Yes, are there rutted or uneven carvings on the right half of the headboard that you use as a set-piece in Oberto? I see. Don’t let Bergonzi leave. I’m coming to arrest him! (Hangs up.) What can I do to thank you kids?

Tyler: (Getting back on Sarah’s shoulders and slipping into overcoat) Kids? What kids? I am Mr. Smartapple, and I was hoping you could direct me to the nearest winery that offers free tastings for fully-developed adults.

Officer Whelon: Your secret is safe with me!

The End

With warmest regards,

Zach

P.S. The Hard Taco song for July is called, “Dance Your Life Away.”

Down with Comic Sans

2010-06-01T03:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

I hate Comic Sans. I really can't stand it. It’s immature, repulsive, and absurdly inappropriate in every context. It is eye-raping. It's like water torture... each letter is like a harmless droplet, but as they relentlessly fall on the page they become a sledge hammer bashing me rhythmically into madness. I find that font entirely loathsome, and I'm not alone. I’m a member of a Delaware-sized society of outraged citizens (a term I prefer to “hate group”) that stands united on this issue.

Download the Hard Taco song, “I Hate Comic Sans,” and see if you have what it takes to be an outraged citizen.

Let me put it another way… if I had a time machine, I would travel back to 1995 and find Vincent Connare, the man who was about to invent Comic Sans. I would give him a choice: A) Go to sleep forever, or B) Take the keys to the time machine. I assume he’d go with B, and with that kind of power, he’d forget all about typography. Either way, we’d be saved from Comic Sans, and although I'd be stuck in 1995, at least I wouldn’t have to wait very long to see the Packers win the Superbowl.

People, Comic Sans is obscene. If the Hard Taco song has not been enough to win you over, I regret I have no choice but to teach you this lesson, Guantanamo Bay-style. Here is the first chapter of an autobiographical novel I’m writing, presented in Comic Sans MS 12 pt. Before you read this, I urge you to contact the nearest hospital and get the pager number for the ophthalmologist on call, because no one gets through this much Comic Sans without developing corneal ulcers.

“Taco Noir”

It was too dark to see out the window, at least not with the half-empty glass of bourbon whiskey tilted back in front of my eyes. I drained it, and looked out again. They call Ann Arbor the City of Dreams, but I haven't found a dreamer yet, not a real one. Hapless grifters, hardboiled fall guys, aging boxers. I've traced my hand on the walls of every alley, mixed up with characters of every stripe, and let me tell you… they’re all just looking for a way to fill the emptiness between the next two cigarettes. Not one of them has a dream bigger than tomorrow’s breakfast.

My name is Guy Beakes. Every sap has a story, and maybe yours has a missing sister or a cheating wife. If so, you might know me. I'm a private dick. It’s etched into the glass on my front door. I also have a business card, but I’ve never had to use it. I wish I could say the same about my pistol.

A knock woke me from my reverie. I looked up and saw her leaning in the doorway. A tall brunette framed in a cloud of waltzing smoke. She had lips the color of cheap Shiraz and the saddest eyes I’d ever seen outside of my bathroom mirror. She was worth a stare, but I wasn’t ready to give her the satisfaction.

“Are you the one they call The Beak?” she asked.

Even with my sinus problems, I could smell that she was trouble, and not the kind of trouble I went looking for. She was a silo filled with poison ivy, a dental amalgam made of TNT, a “get well” card dipped in arsenic, and then dipped in chocolate, so you couldn’t see the arsenic. She was here to play me like a second-hand accordion, and all I could do was breathe in and out, trying to make the music she wanted to hear.

“That’s right, Sweetheart,” I said, “I’m Guy Beakes. It says so on my door. I’m a private dick, and a damn good one. That’s on the door, too, but you already knew that, didn’t you, Miss… ?”

She tapped a Chesterfield out of the box and brought it to her lips. “I’ll tell you that when you're ready to know it, Mr. Beakes,” she said. I offered her a light. She chain-smoked the rest of the pack. “Okay, I think you're ready, now. I’m Tess. Tess Hennnessy.”

Tess Hennessy. Of course. I knew her family. The Hennessy’s were law-abiding insurance investigators. Unless she was one of the South Side Hennessy’s… they were alienated plainclothes policemen. There were also the Midtown Hennessy’s, who ran numbers, and not the good kind. A gruesome lot of bottom feeders and candy striper molls with questionable virtues. I like questionable virtues, because you’re never really sure. Are they good virtues or bad virtues? If you knew the answer, they wouldn’t be questionable anymore.

“Well, Ms. Hennessy,” I began, “there are three types of people in the world…”

“I know,” she interrupted, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

My jaw dropped like a lead pigeon. Nobody cut me off before I could enumerate the three types of people in the world. Nobody. It was practically part of my contract.

“Mr. Beakes, I’ve got a problem, and I’ve heard you’re the kind of guy who makes problems go away.”

"Sweetheart," I said, "that's why they call me Guy." I knew her story before she said another word. “It’s your husband, isn't it? Mr. Hennessey's a snake... comes home late or not at all, and you think he’s two-timing or worse. You want him tailed. Smoked out. You came to me because I worm out double dealers and I don’t ask questions. It says so on my door.”

“Mr. Beakes, I need to know that you can be… discrete.”

She meant discreet, of course. Discrete means distinct or separate, but it didn’t matter. I’m both. (That’s also written my door.)

“Sweetheart, if you’ve got $40 a day plus expenses and a picture of Mr. Hennessy in that purse of yours, I’ll be your bloodhound,” I told her, “It’s like I said, there are three types of people in this world...“

“I know, Mr. Beakes,” she said, caressing a roll of greenbacks onto my desk. Again, she wasn’t letting me say my bit about the three different types of people. It’s a really good bit. This dame knew how to frustrate a guy.

“I don’t have a picture of my husband, Mr. Beakes, but you won't need one. He has black hair and a mysterious past that continues to haunt him, hunting him down with a fatalism that taunts him relentlessly before delivering the final blow. He usually wears a hat. Do you think you can find the man that meets that description?”

“As sure as my name is Guy Beakes, PI,” I told her. I turned around to pour half a glass of Blue Hills Single-barrel, and when I looked back, she was gone.

I never knew Ann Arbor before the war, with its chintzy string quartets, its ersatz glamour, its rose-colored storefronts and echoing sidewalks. I swirled the whiskey in my glass as I watched the door swinging shut, and wondered for the hundredth time why I went to the trouble of writing so much stuff on it.

With warmest regards,
Zach

Serendipity and Sharin' Da Pity

2010-05-01T03:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

Admit the following: there is something satisfying about a choir of British orphans. Inevitably, one can only blast “Food Glorious Food” and “Another Brick in the Wall Part 2” so many times before otherwise friendly people start pulling one's hair. The Hard Taco song for May is called “Foundling Tokens,” and if you like orphan choirs and mixed metaphors, you can stick this one right up your alley.

Show some mercy, Guv’na, and listen to “Foundling Tokens.”

There is an historical basis for this song. In 1748, the shipbuilder Thomas Coram opened the Foundling Hospital in London as a refuge for deserted children. Mothers could abandon their babies at the door of the hospital, no questions asked, with just one stipulation. The mother had to leave some sort of trinket or token by which the child could be identified if the mother ever decided to come back for it. I learned about the Foundling Hospital because I accidentally ran a web search for "fondling Tolkien," and Google asked me if I meant "foundling token." Yes, Google! That is, of course, what I meant!

To summarize, I did not discover this topic inadvertently while looking up something repulsive. In contrast, a number of great discoveries and inventions have been made by accident. That brings us to this month's topic: Great moments of SERENDIPITY in history.

VULCANIZED RUBBER

Charles Goodyear made this discovery while burning natural rubber with sulfur, hoping to create a pencil eraser that emitted a foul odor when used. The "reeking eraser" had been commissioned by a syndicate of wicked schoolmarms who were looking for a way to make the children of Akron suffer for making a writing error in the first place. To the chagrin of the wicked schoolmarms, Goodyear's new polymer was the key ingredient for making tire swings, which are basically the most fun things ever.

PENICILLIN

One morning, a Scottish dairy owner named Alexander Fleming knocked a cheese wheel into a vat of yogurt, and didn't have time to fish it out before leaving for his 8 am tee time. When Fleming returned to the farm that afternoon, the yogurt was gone and the cheese had expanded to fill the vat. He correctly surmised that the cheese mold had killed the bacterial culture in the yogurt, and that this would usher in a new era of antimicrobial medicine. He verified this hypothesis by demonstrating that he was unable to contract impetigo or syphilis while standing in the vat.

URANUS

In 1781, William Herschel was tracking a meteorite's descent to the Earth using a telescope of his own design. He was in the process of describing the crater created by the impact when he noticed that it contained a fixed bluish light source with a regular orbit. Hershel was flummoxed, not realizing that his sister was leaning on the telescope, and it was pointing back towards the heavens rather than the crater. When he reported his findings to the Royal Astronomical Society, they wrote him back, stating, "We regret that you were unable to tell Uranus from a hole in the ground."

ReNU

Drs. Bausch and Lomb made this breakthrough in eye care when they accidentally crashed their lab carts into each other. The subsequent conversation was later documented by a bystander.

Bausch: Fool! You got your salt in my deionized water!

Lomb: Moron! You got your deionized water all over my salt!

Bystander: You both got all your stuff on my gas permeable lenses. And they feel... great!

Bausch: Eureka! We'll be rich!

Lomb: I agree: Eureka! Of course, I would have to give up my important research on cosmetically whitening salt.

Bausch: And I would have to divert my attention from my daughter's science fair project, "Does Water Make Subjects Less Thirsty Than Placebo?"

Lomb: Perhaps this bystander will commercialize our discovery, and use our names so this day will live on?

Bystander: I swear I will.

Bausch: To us! (All three raise a glass of water or placebo.)

AMERICA

Christopher Columbus was looking for the New World, but mistakenly docked his ships in India. He met with the native religious leaders, and since Columbus assumed that he was in the Caribbean, he referred to them as Bahamans. Columbus was a great admiral, but his calligraphy was dismal. When Queen Isabella read his dispatches, she thought he was calling the people "Baramans." The name stuck, even after Columbus realized he was in India, and even today, many natives of India still refer to themselves by this name.

With warmest regards,

Zach

SWEET ON U

2010-04-01T03:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Puddin' Pie,

The Hard Taco song for April is called "Sweet Tooth Trollop." To coincide with the release of this ridiculously splendid song, I am also unveiling a brand new swing dance move, the "Bob Cratchit." It goes like this: the couple is dancing... they're dancing... they're dancing, and then suddenly the man FLINGS the woman straight up in the air. There is another man waiting in the second story window, and he does a quick Charleston kick with the girl as she flies by. Then all three partners yell "Bob Cratchit!" (Some day, my biographer will criticize the fact that every dance move I invented features the dancers yelling out the name of the move as they do it. My preemptive rebuttal: that's why you're the biographer and I'm the dance move-inventor.)

Download Sweet Tooth Trollop, and other songs that make you want to Bob Cratchit the night away.

Love + Candy = Better Love

I'm totally going to get into trouble for this, but I’m prepared to disclose the unofficial list of NECCO's Candy Conversation Hearts phrases for next year. These phrases are chosen 9 months in advance because the recipe for the candies calls for both barrel-aging and a process called "The Trials," a confectionary boot camp in which imprinted candy hearts are subjected to extreme temperatures, white noise, and violent desiccation.

In a recent phone conversation, a NECCO employee detailed this lengthy process to me, saying, "HAND-CARVD. HARD WORK. CARPL TUNNL. MISS FAMLY. WORTH W8ING. THEY RULE." He then added, "LET'S KISS."

Why would anyone care about the Sweetheart phrases for 2011? Let’s just say there is a girl you are sweet on. (If you are a woman, then you are hypothetically bi-curious in this scenario.) You work out a can’t-fail strategy of giving her a Valentine's candy heart inscribed with phrase, "SWEET ON U." You draft a mock-up for this plan on real blueprints. Everything is all sunbeams and buttercups, until you buy a box in January and learn that: Holy Buckets! The phrase "SWEET ON U" has been discontinued!

Did I mention that it's already January?!

That's why I'm leaking the 2011 candy conversation phrases now. I want to ensure you have ample time to construct your intricate bi-curious wooing strategy around them. Here goes:

(I believe the idea of this one is that consumers can scratch off either the B or the last O, depending on their needs)

The last three are somewhat enigmatic right now, but it is my belief that they are topical and will make sense to us by the end of the calendar year. Sweetheart phrases often have predicted cultural trends for the following year, such as "Tweet Me" (2009), "Dwarf Planet" (2005, in reference to Pluto), or "Ripken Streak" (1982-1998).

Was BPaul BBunyan a Blumberjack?

Technically, he was a blogger (groan!), and while I'm blogging about food (still groaning from prior joke!), I wanted to rant about the fact that the health food is just food with more adjectives. Like “health.” Let’s compare Triscuits to their Trader Joe’s equivalent.

Triscuits contain: wheat, soybean and/or palm oil, salt. Warning: Contains wheat.

Wendy's Organic Woven Weaves contain: whole-grain bulgar durum semolina flour, pure deionized Cascade Mountain fair trade Spring water, sun-ripened Baltic sea salt, organic expeller-pressed eastern pasque flower oil and/or hemp-filtered rapeseed oil, hand-teased early autumn butcher's yeast, high fructose free-range Indian corn syrup, 100% anti-oxidant enriched privy-aged dung butter. Warning: Hand-woven on wooden wheat looms that are also used to process traces of weathered prune masa.

Which cracker would you rather eat? Neither! Because like the rest of us, you are saving your appetite for January 2011, when you can eat platefuls of XBOXO!

With warmest regards,

Zach

The Telegram is Coming From Inside the Log Cabin

2010-03-01T03:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for March is called, "The Old Tongue." If you listen to it right now, you can stop reading, which will free up your eyes for four minutes of seductive fluttering.

If you prefer to read, and there is no one between you and the computer screen you want to seduce, this is your lucky email. This month's literary offering is the synopsis of a terrifying new chiller/thriller I am writing/optioning. This story follows the sexy lives and gruesome deaths of four smoking-hot former First Ladies. The title (and I'm prouder of this than anything else I've ever done) will be, "Body Count Gushmore." At first, it reminds you of Mount Rushmore, but this title has layers of meaning, and the second layer makes you think about grisly murder.

Body Count Gushmore*

by Zach London

Chapter 1:

(The Mount Vernon library.)

Martha Dandridge Custin Washington trips over a loose floorboard and lands on all fours. She lifts up the floorboard to reveal an ancient book, bound in peculiar pale leather that has nipples and a rash. The book is called the "Lexicon Asmocropolai", and it contains incantations for summoning demons. Martha decides to undress slowly, and read the book aloud while taking a hot, steamy bath. Suddenly, the bathwater starts to boil, and a swarm of winged hellbeasts pours out of the fireplace and into her screaming mouth. Special effects occur, and she dies.

Chapter 2:

(The streets of Richmond, Virginia.)

Martha Wales Skelton Jefferson turns up her nose at a haggard street augur. The jilted fortune teller vows to get revenge. Martha laughs dismissively, and returns home with the intention of undressing slowly and enjoying a hot, steamy bath. While she is rubbing lotion on her arms, the street augur sneaks into her parlor and replaces her husband's bottle of wig powder with a different bottle; one that is shaped like a claw and glows a little. That evening, Thomas Jefferson applies the cursed powder to his wig, and gradually develops an unquenchable craving for brain-based cuisine. He chases Martha around the oval office, trying to puncture her skull with a quill. Eventually, she loses him, and leans against a wall to catch her breath. Ah! His arms burst through the wall and grab her. Somewhere, the augur is laughing violently.

Chapter 3:

(A log cabin, somewhere in a scary as hell forest.)

Mary Todd Lincoln is babysitting. The "little twerps" are misbehaving, so she puts them to bed early. As she is undressing slowly to take a hot, steamy bath, she receives a telegram that reads, "are you alone? -(STOP)-" At first she shrugs it off, but 10 minutes later, she receives another telegram, this one reading, "mary tod lincoln is gong to be stabbed at -(STOP)-"

Now terrified, she writes a two-page letter explaining her situation, and dispatches a pony express rider to the nearest police outpost, 20 miles downriver. When the police receive her letter, they send a courier by steamship to the Telegraph and Cable Office. As Mary Todd Lincoln anxiously waits for assurances from them, the windows keep blowing open. Finally, a dispatcher arrives with an urgent communiqué from the Telegraph and Cable Office. It reads, "Dear valued customer: Get out now, the telegram is coming from inside the log cabin!" She tries to escape, but it is too late.

Chapter 4:

(The executive mansion, Washington, D.C.)

Ignoring the pleas of everyone, Edith Kermit Cardow Roosevelt makes arrangements for a new East Wing of the White House to be built on an Indian burial mound. To expedite construction, she digs up all the graves herself, displacing the bones of Chief Otaktay ("Killer Among Killers") and pocketing an amulet that she pries out of his skeletonized hand.

Since it is midnight and she is alone, she decides to strip down to her underwear and use the light of the full moon to complete the final calculations for her unholy cloning research. While slowly undressing, she inadvertently knocks an old blind man into the grave. In his dying breath, the blind man asks her if she was aware that people in their neighborhood have been disappearing mysteriously. He also mentions that he hears a surge of poisonous beetles on the horizon.

Mrs. Roosevelt ignores these warnings and hides the man's body under her porch. Proceeding inside, she sees her children hovering eerily in the hallway, their eyes rolled back, babbling an octave too low in an ancient language. Just to make sure they are okay, she hugs and kisses each of them. Then she remembers that she left something important under the porch with the dead blind man. As she squeezes into the dark crawlspace, she finds an artifact that can only be described as "a puzzle to unlock a portal to Hell," and she solves it.

Then she goes inside and takes a hot, steamy bath.

With warmest regards,

Zach

* Alternate title: Mount Much-Gore

1000 Generations of Rock

2010-02-01T03:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Friends,

At the beginning of a post-college summer road trip around the country, my companion and I endeavored to write a song about every state through which we passed. We dubbed the entire campaign, "Road Trip '97: A Thousand Generations of Rock," and by the end of the first week, we had penned anthems about Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, and Florida. By time it was North Carolina's turn, unfortunately, the well we beginning to run dry, and we had to think about revising our objectives. Here is what I had written in my journal from that day:

6/12/97

Possible dream goals/life missions:

1. Write a song for every state. (Not realistic. Veto.)

2. Have sex with a unicorn in every state. (Repulsive, even less realistic. Veto.)

3. Eat at a Taco Bell in every state (Delicious, and very realistic. In fact, we already did this in the first seven states without noticing.) (Also, Crunchy.)

And that, as you may have guessed, is quite possibly where the name "Hard Taco" came from. One song per state for one month turned into one taco per state for one month, which eventually turned into Hard Taco: one song per month. Do you believe it? I wouldn't.

This month's Hard Taco song, "For North Carolina and the Others," summarizes the rest of that road trip. It's sweet and nostalgic, and does not involve bestiality, mythical or otherwise.

Ever since I Found America, I have been longing to share my favorite experiences with the rest of you. Here is a guide to the nation's most excellent tourist attractions.

Tennessee - Be sure to visit the Museum of Appalachia, where you can stroll through a garden of overturned outhouses and detuned banjos. Then, watch a video of an edentulous woman holding sheep by their hind legs while enumerating her home remedies for their fulminant skin diseases. By then it will become apparent why the early settlers named the region Appalachia, the Latin word for "anything appalling."

South Carolina - Be sure to get tickets to the Comedy Cabana in Myrtle Beach, where every Friday is Yeats Impersonators Night. My opinion: "Young Yeats" has a better Irish accent, but "Fat Yeats" is truer to the poet's unremitting self-realization of the cyclical countertheories of spiritual life.

Georgia - Be sure to visit the beautiful coastal city of Savannah. Motor traffic in the downtown area is terrible thanks to an 1834 city ordinance that mandated that a historic anchor be placed on a pedestal in the middle of every intersection.

Florida - Be sure to visit the secluded home of Ward Stone Ireland, the man who invented the court reporter typewriter ("the stenotype machine") but didn't tell anyone, and just used it for his own home court reporting needs.

Alabama - Be sure to listen to music made by dead people while passing through Alabama. If you drive through the state at the speed limit on Interstate 65, there will be precisely enough time to listen to one song by every musician who committed suicide. If you take interstate 10 through the Southern part of the state, there will only be enough time to listen to songs by musicians who died from urinary tract infections.

Nebraska - Be sure to visit the Omaha headquarters of Bozell Worldwide, one of the oldest advertising agencies in the world. They have kept complete video archives of their client interactions dating back to the founding of the company in 1921. Highlights include a black and white film of a mustachioed advertising executive making one of their most famous pitches:

"You're looking for something sleek, a logo with simple lines and contrasting colors that says, 'Hey, check me out!' Ladies and gentleman of the National Socialist Party, I give you... the swastika! Imagine, if you will, this eye-popping logo on T-shirts, on billboards, and on thousands of armbands. It grabs your attention, it pulls you in, it makes you want to march!"

Washington - Be sure to check out the Pike's Place market, where they are famous for throwing fish against the wall to knock off some of the loose mercury. These fish are quite pricey, but budget shoppers can purchase "no mercury added" fish.

Oregon - Be sure to visit Coast Redwood National Forest. The unique species of sequoia that is native to this region is the only tree on Earth that can used to make ultrathin cardboard. After a devastating forest fire here in 1992, the business reply card industry was paralyzed for several years, and no one could renew their magazine subscriptions.

California - Be sure to see the Ronald Reagan Presidential Diet Museum, and see videos and news clips about all the diets that the former president went on during his terms of office. The attached Presidential Diet Library contains his impressive private collection of over 20,000 nutritional brochures and over 30 years of the president's personal calorie counting logs.

Colorado - Be sure to bring your sweetheart to Invesco Field, where the two of you will be harnessed and suspended by "Bronco-crane" in front of the Jumbotron. Now pucker up, you lovebirds! The Mile High Photographer will take your picture kissing with the giant screen in the background. When your friends see this picture, they will be convinced that you were caught smooching on the Jumbotron!

With warmest regards,

Zach

Postcards from Panama, Part 2

2010-01-01T03:00:00.002-05:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for January is called, "Poof (Are You Unna Dance?)." People sometimes ask me if I ever get tired of coming up with the genre-defining hip hop songs that shape the format for decades to come. The answer is yes, it's exhausting.

With warmest regards,

Zach

Postcards from Panama, Part 2

12/21/09

Dear Karen,

Thank you so much for writing back! I read your letter a vast number of times, and I couldn't help but notice the part where you said that you are allergic to oats. That may be hard to explain at restaurants, especially down here in Panama if you don't speak Spanish. I have decided to order you a custom T-shirt with a smiling Quaker and a big red X over his face. The size of the shirt will be medium. I realize that you could fit into a small, and I am in no way implying that you are in any way fat, but I think that the Panamanian waiters may be embarrassed to look at your T-shirt if it is too tight (they are very polite), and might miss the message that you are not in favor of oats.

Speaking of T-shirts, I saw a great slogan that I believe in with all my heart: "Be living simply so that simple people can also live." It struck a chord with me, because I don't believe in unnecessary luxuries. If you are looking for a man who will invest in opulent frills like a giant round bed, you will need to look elsewhere! It's hard enough to find sheets for a giant round mattress, let alone plastic sheets if one still has a problem with bed-wetting. (I'm taking a class on self-hypnosis and by time we are married, I guarantee this will no longer be a dire issue.)

After reconsideration, I will order custom-made round bedsheets, in case you conclude that my rectangular mattress is a "deal-breaker."

With warnest regards,

Michael

12/23/09

Dear Karen,

I took a closer look at your letter, and I think you actually wrote that you're allergic to cats, not oats. Your handwriting is fine (it's actually really nice.) I was probably just reading the letter too fast or at the wrong angle. I'm guessing that you were mentioning your cat allergy because I informed you that my cat, Otis Redding, will live with us when we are married. Your letter makes more sense now, although I thought you were mentioning your oat allergy out of the blue as a "getting to know you" kind of thing.

I am going to go ahead and send you the medium-sized anti-Quaker shirt anyway, because I was already done designing it online by time I figured out the mistake. You shouldn't wear it to restaurants, because they will incorrectly deduce that you don't want lots of oats, but you could still wear it to church, assuming that you do not go to a Quaker church.

Have you ever seen the comic strip where the Sarge says %$@! in one frame and *&@# in the next frame? I'm not naive... I know these are supposed to be swear words, but I have been trying to crack the code to figure out WHICH swear words. I think @ is a vowel or a very common consonant, because it seems to be in both words.

With warmest regards,

Michael

12/27/09

Dear Karen,

When you move down here, be sure to vacuum before the movers come. Here's a cautionary tale that explains why: You probably remember my family moved away after 10th grade. (The science fair incident was a factor in that decision, but there were lots of other factors.) My dad had arthritis in his pelvis, so we hired some Mexican movers to pack and unpack for us. Three of the five of them were brothers. They were not very tall, but not a single one of them had joint aches or other joint-related problems like my dad. Here's the part that is amazing: The movers picked up stray pieces of shredded cheese that had fallen under the kitchen table, packed them in bubble wrap, boxed them up, and labeled the boxes "Kitchen." When we got to our new house in Carson City, they unpacked the shredded cheese underneath the kitchen table again. Doesn't that just make your jaw drop? I was just in high school at the time, but I know we gave them an excellent tip.

My neighbor, Dignidad, is teaching me how to make paper. You'll never guess what the main ingredient is. It's paper! You actually put paper in a blender with water and a few other ingredients, and roll it out to make new sheets of paper. Apparently, this is how it is done the world over.

With warmest regards,

Michael

12/29/09

Dear Karen,

I wanted you to know that I gave away my cat, Otis Redding, so you can safely move here any time that is convenient for you. Even if you weren't allergic to her, I was going to give her away anyway, because she needs more freedom than I can ever provide her. She will be living next door with my neighbor, Dignidad, and we can visit her any time. I still have a small vial of her blood from when we were thinking about screening her for feline leukemia, but they wouldn't run the test because the vet couldn't accept personal checks. The vial is airtight, so you should be safe from the blood allergens, but I will put clear tape over the top of it, because you can never be too sure about these things!

Dignidad is a man, in case you were curious. His name means dignity. A lot of Panamanians name their children after virtues like tranquility, etiquette, good value, or loftiness. Dignidad's wife is named Cortesia Sobriedad, which means courtesy sobriety, and she has promised that Otis Redding will be well-cared for. Unlike SOME cultures, the Panamanian people do not eat cats, so don't be worried.

With warmest regards,

Michael

12/31/09

Dear Karen,

I went back and looked at your original letter again. Even though the letter was very short, I could tell that you are a great writer because you used a theme sentence at the beginning of the paragraph. I would certainly like to honor your request to "please stop writing," but before I do, I'm going to have to ask for a clarification. Do you want me to stop writing? Please let me know exactly what you mean by this, preferably by sending me another letter with more details about your life and your feelings. Also, please include a return address, because I'm still writing to you at your parents' house! I certainly do not want to bug you if you find these letters annoying or not informative enough, so I will try to make them more informative. Did you know that the Panamanian tamborito is a Spanish dance blended with Native American rhythms, themes, and dance moves?

I'm thinking about coming back to the United States at some point. There is simply too much grocery cart theft here, and I don't want our children to be exposed to that. Let me know how you are doing. What have you been up to?

With warmest regards,

Michael

Tales of a 4th String Nothing

2009-12-01T03:00:00.002-05:00

Dear friends,

The Hard Taco song for December is called, "Suds." As a good meal is matched with the right wine, music should be paired with concordant activities. This song is best enjoyed when bathing, drinking, or drowning.

The Hustler Award

I always tried to avoid sports that involved touching people. Most of the physical contact I had with my schoolmates went like this: One of them would punch me, and in return I would bite his arm and pull his hair. As my penchant for biting and hair-pulling became widely-known, the punching tapered off. I had finally achieved this happy state of equilibrium when I received the calamitous news that I had to try out for the 8th grade basketball team or forfeit my allowance. My parents wanted me to be "well-rounded." More specifically, they wanted to enrich me with the opportunity to fail at lots of different things.

Failure was inevitable. I had skipped kindergarten, and was a late-bloomer anyway. At 4'10", the only person on the court who was shorter than me was the littlest cheerleader (the one who got thrown). As my classmates were quick to remind me, she, at least, could jump. To the chagrin of both the coach and me, he wasn't allowed to cut anyone from the basketball team. Instead, we were divided into castes, or "strings." The 1st stringers played most of the game, and the rest of us would split their leavings. Unfortunately for me, one's "string" level was inversely related to one's Tanner stage.

1st string (Tanner Stage 5): Mr. Conforti, the coach, buys you a Bayside Bulls warm-up jacket with his own money.

2nd string (Tanner Stage 4): You only play for 15 minutes per game, but you still get your own locker during away games.

3rd string (Tanner Stage 2-3): You only play during the cheerleaders' cigarette break. The coach calls your parents and talks to them about better property taxes in other school districts.

I was on the 4th string, a classification invented to describe myself and my friend Jason. Jason had congenitally small fingers on his dribbling hand, and he was ahead of me on the depth chart. For me to see any playing time, two criteria had to be met. 1) Our team had to be ahead by more than 15 points by the closing minutes of the third period and 2) a player ahead of me had to be "injured." In eighth grade basketball, no one ever really got hurt, but sometimes a boy would suddenly throw up during play. As peculiar as this seems, this happened regularly and without warning. When it did, the "injured" player would be escorted to the locker room, and everyone would get to sub up to the next level. If the right combination of people was vomiting, my number might be called.

When I did come in off the bench, I always gave it everything I had. I never made a basket, but if I got to play for two minutes, I would spend that two minutes biting the arms and pulling the hair of every opposing player on the court. I was a competitor.

At the end of the season, Mr. Conforti brought us all back to his classroom and thanked us for a great year. He announced that Lamont Brown was the winner of the MVP Award, and we all cheered.

Then Mr. Conforti surprised everyone in the room by singling me out for the "Hustler Award." I can't remember the exact words he used, but essentially, the Hustler Award was granted to the player who kept showing up for practice despite obvious futility. He said that sometimes he would look down to the far end of the bench and see my hopeful eyes looking back at him as if to say, "Are you gonna put me in, Coach?" When I looked at him like that, he said to a roomful of my peers, he would get a little choked up.

So Lamont Brown and I both left that classroom holding shiny plastic basketball players. His was a portent of future success in high school hoops. Mine was a charity trophy, achieved through a scrappy ineptitude that evoked a baffling emotional incontinence in my coach. Paradoxically, it was both one of the proudest and most embarrassing moments of my life, and incidentally, it would be the only sports trophy I would ever get.

Someday, when I'm forcing my own children to participate in activities they hate, I will show them the trophy. "Your dad was a hustler," I'll tell them with quavering voice, "a well-rounded hustler. So if you don't practice your clarinet right now, I will bite your arm."

With warmest regards,

Zach

Tough as Boots

2009-11-01T00:00:00.002-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for November is called "Alpha Mom." A parody of this song will one day be featured in "Guitar Hero - Al Yankovic North American Tour." I'm hoping for either "Alfalfa Mom" or "Balfour Aplomb," the latter being a reference to the great composure of the Englishman who facilitated Israel becoming a Jewish state. I'm just throwing those out there. The ball is in your court now, Weird Al.

Anti-Semitism in the Upper Peninsula and Why It's My Fault

Like most small towns, Houghton, Michigan didn't have a particularly robust Jewish community in the early 1980s. When you're the only Jewish kid in school, you have to be tough as boots. I learned early on that if a classmate said something hurtful like, "You killed Jesus," the correct response was to gnash my teeth and scream, "That's right I killed him! That's right I killed the son of God! Who's next?!" As the saying goes, a lamb has to grow claws to survive among rams.

When we lived in Houghton I had a neighborhood friend named Wilhelm Greuer, and I absolutely idolized him. He was a year older than me, and by the age of 8 he was printing and distributing a home made newspaper, The Houghton Bugle. The Bugle featured Wilhelm's opinion pieces ("Walter Mondale is Way Rad") and my own guerilla journalism ("School Closes on Certain Days When There's Lots of Snowing Sometimes Sometimes.") Wilhelm was also responsible for the comics section, but since we didn't know how to print anything other than text, they were more like miniature screenplays:

(Charlie Brown and Lucy are standing. In the background there is a straight line, representing the horizon.)

CHARLIE BROWN: Lucy, how old are you?

LUCY: A woman never reveals her age.

CHARLIE BROWN: What year were you born?

LUCY: 1979.

CHARLIE BROWN: Then you must be five.

LUCY: You blockhead!

I liked to spend as much time as I could at Wilhelm's house. When I wasn't scouring the Wall Street Journal for headlines that we could plagiarize, I would run my hands over their furniture, hoping to pick up loose pieces of his sister Frederika's straight blonde hair, which I had an inexplicable desire to touch.

Wilhelm and Frederika were first generation German-Americans, and based on our limited discussions about World War II, it was clear that their family didn't really buy in to the whole blame game thing. Wilhelm once told me that the Holocaust, while regrettable, happened because the Jews kind of got in Hitler's way.

Okay, I guess that makes sense. Wilhelm was older than me and smarter than me, after all, and I didn't see any reason to doubt his logic. Why point fingers? Hitler was inconvenienced, one thing led to another, some unfortunate stuff happened, and now everything is fine, here we are, and isn't that Frederika's hairbrush over there?

Really, the only thing that came between myself and the Greuer family was my own gluttony. Mrs. Greuer kept a silver canister of fancy German Gummi candy out on their living room table. I asked about it politely, and she told me that it was imported and that I was not allowed to have any.

The phrase "not allowed to have any" needed further clarification. At my house, leaving candy anywhere it could be seen, smelled, or reached by stacking chairs and climbing on top of the refrigerator was an open invitation to eat it. If my parents had candy that wanted to live to see the sun go down, they would place it in a safe deposit box and hide the key in a bee hive.

Meanwhile, the Greuer's weren't just displaying a 3-pack of SweeTARTS. This was luscious, multicolored imported Gummi candy, in a silver canister no less. I knew it was off limits. I knew that if I stole the candy, I would be reinforcing whatever stereotypes I assumed they had about me, but in the end, it didn't matter. I pinched those German Gummis, twice in fact, and Mrs. Greuer caught me both times. So yes, dear EVERY JEWISH PERSON NORTH OF THE MACKINAC BRIDGE, I am the reason none of your neighbors like you.

The next year we moved to Milwaukee, presumably so my family could escape the stigma of my sticky fingers. There were plenty of Jewish kids in my new school, but we lived in a predominantly Catholic neighborhood. The closest thing to anti-Semitism that I experienced was when one of the McDevitt boys would drive by me and yell "Read the Torah!" out the window of his car. Then he would turn around in a cul-de-sac, and drive past me the other way, yelling, "Read the Torah!" just to reinforce his point. I wasn't really sure if that was intended to be an insult or paternal advise, akin to "Stay in school! Get a library card!" But read the Torah? Didn't he know I wasn't old enough? Maybe because I was so tough as boots he assumed that I was 13 instead of 9.

Too Dirty for Apple

When the newest Hard Taco album became available on iTunes about a month ago, I was startled to discover that the iTunes Store had slapped the "Parental Advisory" sticker on the album and deemed 18 of the 19 songs to be Explicit. Boo! (As in "Boo, I'm scary!" Not as in "Boo, I'm crying!" It was just Halloween, after all, not Valentine's Day.) What makes these songs explicit? The leading theory, dear EVERYONE WHOSE EMAIL ADDRESS I KNOW, is that they are too sincere and charmingly personal for anyone under 40.

With warmest regards,

Zach

Fiestaware-Induced Superpowers

2009-10-01T00:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for October is called, "Muscle Memory." I strongly encourage you to use this as your audition song on "So You Think You Can Dance." Rest assured, none of the other contestants will be dancing to my father's trombone playing, and that itself should be enough to get you to the final 8.

Infertility: The Consequence of Unavoidable Actions

Mr. Feltyberger asked our AP Physics class to break up into pairs and stand with our partner at one of the lab benches. At each station was an object; a rubber duck, the mantle from a camping lantern, a rusty thermometer, a shapeless lump of metal. Ethan and I chose a station and inspected what appeared to be a piece of a broken plate with a glossy orange finish. Mr Feltyberger announced, "One of the objects in this room is radioactive. I will go from station to station with a Geiger counter and we will use it to find out which one."

I was immediately disappointed. There was no way that my broken orange plate was radioactive. I was 100% sure. Jyothi Vinnakota had laid claim to the shapeless lump of metal, and she was already smiling, because everyone knew she had chosen the radioactive object, and the rest of us were wasting our time. Stupid radio-inert plate shard.

So I did what any 16-year-old boy would do with fragment of dinnerware that was decidedly not radioactive.

I put it down my pants.

This was quickly followed by a loud announcement to my lab partner, "Oh no! I accidentally put the radioactive plate down my pants!" I placed my hands on my cheeks and shook my head from side to side with mouth agape in feigned terror. I was confident that this was a pretty accurate impersonation of a man with an object in his pants that was emitting dangerous doses of radiation. Did Ethan find this hilarious? Yes he did.

Meanwhile, Mr. Feltyberger held the Geiger counter up to the box of fertilizer. No sound. Mr. Feltyberger held the Geiger counter up to the shapeless lump. No sound. "Huh," I said, and removed the plate from my pants.

The rusty thermometer? No sound. The Geiger counter continued its voiceless journey from station to station. At each object, the tension heightened, as if Mr. Feltyberger were saying, "Duck..... duck...... duck....." The old coffee tin? No sound. When I looked down at my station I no longer saw a broken plate, but a shiny orange shard of doubt. Radioactive things are supposed to glow or at least make a subtle humming sound, right?

If you've never heard a Geiger counter, it sounds vaguely reminiscent of a DJ scratching out a beat on vinyl. When Mr. Feltyberger pointed it at my shard, the DJ went to town. I felt strangely itchy. I closed my eyes and imagined that the scratching was the sound of Run DMC bursting through the classroom door. As the beat started, the rappers stood back-to-back with their hands on their shoulders and started laying down rhymes...

DJ Run: Well they call me Run

DMC: And my name's Darryl

DJ Run: And your 501's are filled with... peril!

DMC: Cuz Sucka MC's gonna end up... sterile!

DJ Run: For dropping that nuke down your... apparel!

DMC: The orange glaze was uranium... laced!

DJ Run: So now you got ill with a nuclear...

Both: Waist!

Jam-Master Jay and Geiger Counter: Wik-wik-wik wikky wikky woo!

Mr. Feltyberger than explained that the reddish-orange Fiestaware got its distinctive color from depleted uranium. Obviously, it was not safe to eat off these plates, so the line had been discontinued in the early 70's.

And so I spent the next 12 years of my life convinced that I would never sire a child, or at least one with an even number of nipples. Happily, this turned out to be a baseless fear, and when my kids were born with the traditional allotment of limbs and organs, I quickly blocked out the Fiestaware Incident.

Then yesterday, I was watching my children play. Scarlett was sitting on the floor and Malcolm walked over and sat in her lap. It was if they were stacking on top of each other, and they fit together almost too perfectly. I began to wonder, could it be that these children have… unusual aptitudes? Then I realized that all of those years I had been worried about the wrong thing. My children are not normal. They will never be like the other kids, because they are endowed with special, unnatural... plate powers.

With warmest regards,

Zach

It Doesn't Take a Genie

2009-09-01T00:00:00.003-04:00

Dear Friends,

I am pleased to announce that a large box of new Hard Taco CDs is sitting in my kitchen, and like all things on God's brown Earth, it has a name. The box is called "box," and the album is called, “and then the training takes over…” The new disc is truly a sensual massage of all four of your senses.

(I warned you to stop using Zicam, but did you listen to me?)

This CD features a handful of previously unreleased songs about GREAT AMERICAN WARS which will direct a relentless blitzkrieg on your remaining three senses.

(Seriously, why would you keep liquid nitrogen right next to your mouthwash and in an identical bottle?)

However, even without these exciting military-themed tunes, this CD is nothing less than a merciless steamrolling frenzied onslaught/assault on both of your senses.

(Just to clarify... you're wearing that blindfold just in case you happen upon a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey?)

Scarlett's Recording Debut

The Hard Taco song for September is called, "Roughhousing Robots." This is a milestone for us, because it is the first song in our oeuvre to feature vocals by a local up-'n'-comer, Scarlett London. You will be moved, touched, softened, disconcerted, placated, ruffled, and completely melted by her performance. Then you will hear her second line, and you will experience an entirely different set of emotions.

And now I will throw a bone to the majority of readers who scan the HT Digest looking for content that has nothing to do with music by presenting an fragment entitled:

The Startling Origins of Common Expressions

Common phrase: "Children are like sponges."

Original phrase: "Sponges are like children."

In 1849, the Lynchburg General Store began to market huggable sponges to young women who had been rendered infertile by malnutrition and weevils. The phrase "sponges are like children" became so engrained into to the vernacular that when child labor laws were ratified a decade later, it became illegal to mop up a spill with a sponge that was less than 16 years old.

Common phrase: "It doesn't take a genius to know..."

Original phrase: "It doesn't take a genie to know..."

This expression became ubiquitous after a rash of magic lamp-finders squandered all three wishes by asking the genie to verify the following:

1. Inhaling poisonous fumes isn't the most healthy thing to do.

2. There is a problem when the "Check Engine" light comes on.

3. Meg Ryan might have had plastic surgery.

Common phrase: "Starve a fever, feed a cold."

Original phrase: "Starve a beaver, feed a toad."

The odds of surviving an illness in the 17th century were greatly increased by having ample firewood to keep warm. This expression built on the common misconception that beavers ate wood, and that toads ate beavers.

Common phrase: "No Skin off My Nose."

Original phrase: "No Skin on My Nose."

This is said to be an observation made by Joan of Arc shortly before her death, in reference to one of the more noticeable effects of being burned at the stake. For unclear reasons, the expression has taken on exactly the opposite meaning over time. Another example of this phenomenon is the phrase "Don't let the cat out of the bag," which originally was, "Don't! Let the cat out of the bag!"

Next month: the startling origin of the phrase, "When life gives you ovals, make Ovaltine."

Sincerely,

Zach

Postcards from Panama, Part 1

2009-08-01T00:00:00.001-04:00

The new Hard Taco Song for August: "Backup Torch Song" is ready to be enjoyed and feared.

8/1/09

Dear Karen,

Remember when you made me promise that if neither of us were married by August 2009, we should just give up looking for someone else and marry each other? I just happened to be near a calendar last night (at midnight) and realized that it is August 2009! I’ve been travelling all summer, but I will be back in the U.S. in a few weeks, and I thought maybe we could get together to laugh about that silly little promise we made in eighth grade, and how funny it is that we both remember it. I hope all is well.

With warmest regards,

Michael

8/4/09

Dear Karen,

Have you seen that YouTube video with the 4-year-old who plays the gong? She plays very fast, with a great deal of confidence. The fact that she’s so young makes it even more amazing. I know it has been a long time since we’ve talked, but I think I still know the kind of thing that you would find amazing.

With warmest regards,

Michael

8/15/09

Dear Karen,

I haven’t heard from you yet. What are you up to?! This is a picture of passenger ship I rode down the infamous Panama Canal today. The Captain told me that A) The average toll to take a ship through the Panama Canal is $54,000, and B) The lane with the attendant is actually quicker than the lane where you throw change in the basket. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve been sending these postcards to your parents’ house, because I’m not 100% sure I know where you live right now.

With warmest regards,

Michael

8/16/09

Dear Karen,

Did you know there is a psychiatric disease that is unique to Panamanians? They call it Almejaldulterio. (It is a masculine word even when a woman has the disease.) The afflicted person becomes convinced, despite reasonable evidence to the contrary, that a clam is wearing their clothes and aiming to replace them in the workplace and the wedding bed. Pilar told me about a movie (a thriller) in which a clam really is wearing this woman’s clothes, and nobody believes her because they think she has Almejalduterio. In case you were wondering, Pilar is a friend who I know because she works at the place I go to rent inner tubes.

With warmest regards,

Michael

8/17/09

Dear Karen,

The natural beauty here is amazing. I have never seen so many trees packed in so tightly. Pilar drives a Toyota pickup truck with flames painted on the back half of it. The flames make it look like the truck is backing up really fast. She needs a pickup truck for her job because she has to carry stacks of inner tubes upstream after people are done riding them. I am not telling you this to make you jealous. Interestingly, many people have commented to each other that she is quite attractive, but I just see her as a close friend. Please write me back and acknowledge that you received the ocarina I sent you. It is nothing special, except that it was very expensive because it was made out of something called vegetable ivory. Hope you’re doing well!!! Please write back.

With warmest regards,

Michael

8/17/09

Dear Karen,

I still haven’t heard from you, and I’m wondering if it is because you’ve had second thoughts about keeping that promise you made on the evening of August 1, 1989. I’m positive that we promised each other that we would get married exactly twenty years later, because I wrote it down at the time. I’ve been thinking about how much you’d love Panama, especially because the people here are so vigilant about defending the rain forests. The objective is to minimize the impact on wildlife and their habitats. With that in mind, do you think we should just go ahead and have the wedding down here? I don’t care either way.

With warmest regards,

Michael

P.S. If you are already married to someone else, please let me know, because that would be totally fine with me. Just let me know.

Dystopia: [dis-toh-pi-a], n. a future in which loafers have no pennies

2009-07-01T00:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

I spent most of my early years in the icy shadow of the magnificent Quincy Mine, a defunct copper mine outside of Hancock, Michigan. The Quincy Mine closed its doors in 1945, but trust me, Honey, there are still plenty of copper deposits left in "Old Reliable." All it would take is someone, someone like you who already has a flashlight taped to his or her head, to ride the Quincy hoist elevator to the floor of the deepest shaft and pluck the loose copper nuggets off its sweet, fertile ore bed.

Wait…did you hear that? If I am not mistaken, that is the sound of coppertunity knocking.

The Hard Taco song for July is called "The Quincy Steam Hoist." This song celebrates the Yooper’s dream, in which there are two saunas in every basement and the streets are once again paved with amygdaloid lower-grade strataform copper orebodies.*

Getting Down to Brass Tacks

Rather, get down to this alarming fact: Without copper, there would be no brass tacks, which are a 70/30 copper/zinc alloy. Like fossil fuels or Vitamin Water, copper is a finite resource. We now have synthetic copper substitutes for most electrical applications, but musical science has not yet found a way to make a timpani without native copper. The popularity of the timpani is increasing at unsustainable rates in both India and China. Within 25 years, the earth's copper supply will be all but depleted, and within two generations there will be no more songs that go BAHM BOHM BAHM BOHM bubbita bubbita bubbita bubbita BOHM!

If you think that a future without timpani music is grim/chilling, try to visualize a world without pennies. The U.S. one cent piece is only 2.5% copper, but this modest proportion is crucial to maintain the weight and the yaw of the coin. Those of us who wear penny loafers depend on a perfectly balanced penny with consistent yaw, parity, and drag. A penny with less than 2.5% copper, when inserted into the slit of one's Weejuns, disrupts the equilibrium, causing one to tumble about on the deck of one's pleasure boat.

I pray every night that, before our copper surplus is gone, a hero will arise with a system of counterweighted argyles, chinos, and tennis sweaters that can compensate for penniless loafers. If they don't, I fear that our grandchildren will inherit a bleak tomorrow in which dreary closets are stocked with miserable brogues and tassel loafers.

With warmest regards,

Zach

* Most Yoopers just dream of having roads that are paved, period.

Smackdown: Natural Childbirth vs. Reality

2009-06-01T12:00:00.008-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for June 2009 is called, "Denmark Needs Rock Stars." If you don't love this song instantly, check your control panel to make sure that the speakers aren't on mute.

Our Childbirth Class

The brochure uses a restaurant analogy to highlight the difference between the two Lamaze courses. There is a six day course, for couples "who want and need a tablecloth, real napkins, and real silverware." Then there is the half-day "drive-through" version of childbirth classes. We agree, drive-through sounds good.

When we arrive, we sit in a circle with about ten other couples and our instructor, Gretchen. The first thing Gretchen does is apprise us of her credentials. She is a mother of three who spent over 10 years as a lactation consultant. She is also a registered doula, which I'm pretty sure means she knows how to lead explorers around the Himalayas and carry their camping gear for them. I miss the rest of her introduction, because I'm imagining Gretchen explaining to a team of British adventurers that the mules refuse to go down that pass, because they sense a great evil there.

When I start paying attention again, it is only because I note an inkling of hostility between Gretchen and my wife.

Gretchen: The Lamaze method is about promoting wellness. Many women find interventions like painkillers and epidurals to be superfluous and really invasive. Doctors may try to pressure you into a troubling intervention when you're at your most vulnerable. I will teach you how to make informed choices and be politely assertive.

Lauren: I want to have an epidural.

Gretchen: And that's perfectly... I mean, that's certainly a choice some women make. But you should know that it's your right as a mother to empower yourself to avoid the routine use of unnecessary interventions as part of your transition to parenthood if that's what your inner wisdom guides you to do.

Lauren: I'm definitely getting an epidural. Like, as soon as I possibly can.

Gretchen: (gritting her teeth) Fine.

We are then handed a workbook. There are five chapters, which I would summarize as follows:

Chapter 1: In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Chapter 2: Pain medication during labor preemptively annuls any natural bond between mother and baby.

Chapter 3: If your inner wisdom is trying to tell you to give birth while squatting on a large rubber ball in your bathtub at home, listen to it! If your inner wisdom sounds like it's telling you it prefers a sterile hospital bed, you're not listening close enough.
Chapter 4: The health benefits of breast-feeding are doubled when it is done in public.
Chapter 5: Commercial baby formula has been linked to autism and pediatric gambling problems.

Gretchen then tells us that the next activity is called, "The Alphabet of Support." The men go to one side of the room and the women to the other. I am handed a blank sheet of paper and a Sharpie and asked to scribe for our team. Our charge is to come up with a list of things that the husbands or boyfriends can do to show support during labor. We need one item starting with each letter of the alphabet, and we have 45 minutes to do this. It went like this:

A. Let's see. Affection. Answer her questions - questions she might have.

Applicators. Do women use applicators when they're in labor?

For B we can do Be Nice or Be Supportive.

I like Be Nice. Put that down. And let's put Massage for M.

C. Considerate. Show consideration, or Consider her feelings. Or just be there for her Considerably.

C could also be talk about Church.

Let's put Lamaze for L!

No, L should be Love.

How about Labor, comma, help with?

Labor... help with.... got it. But we're still at D.

Seriously, I've done this before when my sister had her son. The best right answer for L is Love. Are you going to change it?

Okay.

D... Dahhh... Dehhh....

Druhhhh...Drum... Darm... Denmark. Danish! Bring her a Danish!

As the morning winds down, we hear from a woman in our class named Meredith, who I can only describe as huffy. Her husband is a heavy, balding man with swatches of thick black neck hair bursting out around his collar, narrowly set eyes, and a look of learned helplessness on his face. "Isn't it true," Meredith says, "That people should just leave you alone after you have the baby? That new parents shouldn't have any visitors at all, even family, for a good 8-10 weeks?"

Gretchen pauses and then says something about every woman making the choices that are right for her.

I glance at Meredith's sad puppy staring-at-the-floor husband and imagine the two of them taking swimming lessons. "Isn't it true," she would say, "that it's best for a wife to hold her husband's head underwater for a good 2-3 minutes after he stops struggling? That she should, at the very least, throw away his personal mail without letting him read it?"

And I'm thinking, I am so grateful for the woman I married. When our big day comes, I will make sure that she gets her pain medicines. I will definitely Be Nice, and I will definitely bring her a Danish.

With warmest regards,

Zach

The Best Lore in Canandia

2009-05-01T00:00:00.002-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for May is called, "Blankety Blank." Don't be afraid to listen to it at double speed.

MYTHS AND FOLK TALES OF CANADA

In my travels, I found myself deeply moved by the rich folklore tradition of our neighbors to the North. For the digest this month, I am reprinting excerpts from my favorite compendium of Canadian folk legends ("Grandma, Where Do Igloos Come From?") and my favorite book of Canadian ghost stories ("The Bloody Puck").

The Newfoudland Bull Moose: Twenty miles west of St. John's, there is sinkhole that is believed to be the home of a spectral bull moose named San Yarnford. Once every hundred years, San Yarnford emerges from the recesses of his dank basin to let children stroke his antlers and to warn them of the perils of playing too close to sinkholes.

The Leaning Trapper: There once was a trapper who roamed the vasty wilds of Labrador. He was a simple man, and he believed that iron snares were an indulgence. Instead, he would sleep at a 45 degree angle, propping his shoulders with a stick. Inevitably, a beaver would brush against the stick and knock it over, causing the sleeping trapper to fall on the animal. The more the beaver struggled, the sleepier and heavier the trapper would become. In honor of this legendary trapper, it is now customary for every trading post to be guarded by two sleeping men propped on sticks.

The Silent Howls: A wealthy French furrier offered a woman nine pure white huskies for her hand in marriage. When she accepted, the huskies immediately set upon her, and tore fissures in her trunk and limbs. She slowly regained her constitution over many months, during which time her only companions were the wretched ice chiggers who spoon-fed her a slurry of nutrient plaster. When she was finally strong enough to lift her head, she slew the nine huskies and fashioned a fanny pack from their nine snow white dewlaps. If you walk the shores of Port Alice on a still night, you can still hear the spirits of the nine huskies, trying in vain to howl without their dewlaps.

The Wendigo: The Algonquian Indians believe that there are feral people with unnatural size who live in wooded areas and eat other people. It is believed that this is based loosely on the Winnebago Legend, in which the feral people park recreational vehicles in wooded areas and eat other people.

The Purloined Skull: In the early days of McGill University, a heady young chess enthusiast wrote in the margins of his journal, "I have discovered a rook that can travel diagonally as well as linearly. I must share this with the scientific community at once before they com..." The last word trailed off at an angle, almost as if the author's skull had been taken mid-sentence. Nobody knows who purloined his skull. Was it an anatomy professor? A spurned lover? A Fraternal Order of Ivy League Chess Reactionaries? Could I convince you that the true answer is... all three, working in cahoots?

The Golden Chin: A Micmac warrior lost his chin in battle, and replaced it with a chin of gold. His four younger brothers were envious of the golden chin and used guile to wrest it from him. The warrior saw through their deceit, however, and never removed his chin. One day, the youngest brother handed the warrior a piece of parchment enumerating the deeds of their ancestors. So afraid was the warrior that the document would blow away that he placed his golden chin on top of it as a paperweight. At once, the younger brother seized the chin, and ran off into the gulches. To commemorate his own folly, the humbled warrior commissioned a replacement chin made of Atlantic cod.

The Fox and the Magic Clasp: It is said that Glorious Jim the Prospector was tracking an elusive ingot through the marshes of Fort George when he came upon an axe wedged in a tree trunk. He knew that if he removed the axe, he would be crowned King of the Loggers, but he was not strong enough to do so. He stayed with the axe through the winter's night, neglecting shelter, neglecting food, and forgetting the precious ingot he had been following for so many days. When his fellow prospectors found his frozen body the next morning they gave him a traditional prospector burial, which consisted of sifting his remains through a pan. To this day, nobody knows why this legend is called "The Fox and the Magic Clasp."

With warmest regards,

Zach

Hot New Additions for Your Girl Scout Trophy Sash

2009-04-01T12:00:00.002-04:00

Dear Friends,

Assuming that you keep your iTunes playlist arranged alphabetically, and assuming that you're tired of ABBA, this may be the happiest day of your short life. Seconds from now, you will have access to the exhausting new jam from your favorite group, Aardtaco. Oh yes, little readers, this is not some puzzling brand of April Foolery. We are, in truth, creating new music under the moniker Aardtaco in an effort to appeal to our base. (I believe that our base consists mostly of pirates.)

If you're thinking, "Toooooo cool!" I certainly can't stop you. To do so I would need to take mind control lessons and who has the time?

So here you have it, the first Aardtaco song, "A Life of Crime." Again, this is a topic that is of interest to our base.

As you may remember, The Hard Taco Digest usually focused on topics of broad interest such as Disney Sequels and Germs, but the new Aardtaco MyGest is personalized, using cookies from your computer to identify your areas of interest. Based on your search history, your custom Aardtaco MyGest this month is:

"Most Desirable Girl Scout Badges"

WEBESOS - Not to be confused with WEBELOS, this badge is worn by Girl Scouts who are not yet potty-trained. It is short for "We Be Soiled Scouts." By convention, these girls are typically referred to as "Brownies."

Purple Heart - To qualify for this badge, you must sustain an injury that results in the loss of your right arm and shoulder, such that you cannot wear your sash without it slipping off.

Sew Simple - Earn points towards the Sew Simple badge by fixing a Purple Heart-wearer's sash to her shoulder-stump. You need to fix 3 sashes to 3 different shoulder stumps to qualify.

The Red Badge of Storage - Similar to the Purple Heart, but the injury must occur while stocking Tagalongs into their plastic cookie cozies.

Volunteer Dog-Sitting - To dog-sit without being paid is the most selfless thing a girl scout can do.

Alarmist - Have your parents take you to try 1-Alarm Chili.

Advanced Alarmist - Have your parents take you to try 2-Alarm Chili.

Trenchie - For accumulating over 20 hours of experience in trench warfare. As all trenchies know, it is crucial that you never open more than one box of Thin Mints, to hide your numbers.

Money wise - Use your knowledge and your self-esteem to open a bank account.

Moderation - While the teller is looking down to type in your information, grab a hostage and demand a backpack filled almost half-way with unmarked FIVE DOLLAR BILLS.

Eco-Action - Take a step toward saving the planet by unrolling the cardboard in your Dum-Dum stick, folding it twice, and gently placing it in a recycling bin.

Influence - Use your powers of persuasion to coax a fish out of your brother's sandbox.

Chicken Sexing - Large industrial egg-producing facilities are only interested in raising female chickens. To earn this badge, you must master the skill of squeezing a baby chick in such a way that you can identify its gender. If it is an unwanted male, your troopmaster will immediately "cull," (which means "kill") the chick. Learn about the various methods for "killing" a male chick (which means "culling" a male chick), including burying it alive or macerating it in a wood chipper.

Hen Rights - Learn about gender equality. Chicken sexing is downright chicken sexist! All the female chicks can do is gaze enviously up through that glass ceiling and see their male counterparts liquefied in a high-speed grinder, suffocated in a plastic bag, or simply have their necks broken. Write to your senator and insist that female chicks are equally qualified for decapitation and asphyxiation with carbon dioxide.

Brash - Whatever it is you are thinking about doing impulsively, just go right ahead and do it without considering the consequences.

The Juliette - Named for Juliette Gordon Lowe, the founder of Girl Scouts of America and a notorious cross-dresser. To earn this badge, put on a Boy Scout neckerchief and shoulder loops, stand in front of the mirror and repeat the phrase, "I'm going to win the Pinewood Derby..."

With Warmest Regards,

Zach

Praise They Ever Cherished Name, Dear Hapless Crapalope

2009-03-01T12:00:00.003-05:00

Hey College Kids,

Put down Wii Tetherball for a minute and pay attention. The Hard Taco song for March is called "Excelsior," and I'm not going to lie to you: It's pretty swell. But look, I'm not going to beat around the bush: good grades are pretty swell, too. You can listen to the song, but I'm not going to sugar-coat the truth: you really need to study harder, starting right now. You're never going to win a lifetime achievement award at this rate.

On the Subject of Imaginary States, Their Universities, and Their State Birds

Ohio State... Florida State... Michigan State....

Their names evoke images of storied university campuses nestled somewhere within the boundaries of a geographic territory that has attained political statehood. But what about the thousands of undergraduate students who attend imaginary state schools? Wayne State, Kent State, Ball State, Wright State, Appalachian State... the colleges are very real, of course, but they are all located in fictitious land masses.

Students at these institutions face a number of challenges. Foremost, it is rather impossible to visit an imaginary state, which means that the U.S. Postal service cannot deliver care packages to students. If your daughter is a freshman, you have to wait until she is home on break to give her microwave popcorn and Easy Mac. If you're truly intent on getting to campus for Parents Weekend, your only chance is to ride a plane (destination irrelevant), and turn on your cellphone just before landing. Most of the time, the navigation system will go so haywire that the pilot will lose track of the ground and send the plane careening into the sun. Occasionally, though, the plane may wind up delivering you to your daughter's school in time for convocation.

But let me answer the question you're really curious about... can an imaginary state have a real state animal? Unfortunately, the answer is no. By convention, most imaginary state schools retain the jackalope as their sports mascot. A handful of teams have taken exception to this precedent, but none have completely abandoned the tradition of mongrelizing antelopes. Examples follow:

The Morehead State Crabalopes

The Grambling State Imapalarangutans

The Ferris State Kangazelles

The Bowling Green State Springboxen (Oxen with the antlers of springboks)

The Empire State Boxsprings (Springboks that offer your mattress the comfort and support of oxen)

The Alcorn State Hapless Crapalopes*

With warmest regards,

Zach

*This is pronounced cra-PAH-loh-pees. However, their mascot is still a piece of crap with antlers.

How to Save Sharper Image

2009-02-01T20:46:00.002-05:00

Dear Friends,

I was saddened to learn that The Sharper Image shut down all of its retail stores last year. Perhaps their product line was simply too innovative. Or perhaps the customers that could benefit most from the Sleeve Lengthener or the GPS-ready Water Wings are already dead.

The Hard Taco song for February, "Let's Play Pretend," is only a little innovative, so it might be just thing that The Sharper Image needs to reconnect with consumers.

Okay, Sharper Image, now that we’ve entered into this partnership, let's take a look at your competition. There used to be a catalog called Hammacher Schlemmer that sold a lot of similar gadgets. Well, when Hammacher Schlemmer came to America, its name was offhandedly changed by an anglophile Ellis Island immigration official. On paper, the company must now go by "Hamburglar.”

The real giant in the innovative products industry is Sky Mall. They have identified a willing niche: airborne consumers with at least one hand. Their only competition for the attention of these consumers is a half-finished crossword puzzle in the in-flight magazine. I suggest that The Sharper Image change their name to "Mallwings" or “Shopping While High” to help capture a share of this market, and kick off their new product line with the following moderately innovative offerings:

Lawn Sodoku - A delightful square 20' x 20' Soduku board, easy to install. One use, medium difficulty. $39

Thiesman Fracture Replica - Have your own 1:1 scale replica of Joe Thiesman's gruesome compound tibial fracture. $119.

Meter-Aid Parking Alarm - The Meter-Aid uses smart technology to predict when your meter is about to expire. It then drops additional quarters directly onto your windshield. When the parking cops arrive to ticket you, they will be safely bribed while you continue your errands. $279

Shoeprint Stencils - Wouldn't it be great to do the Shim-Sham-Shimmy in your own kitchen? But who can remember the moves?! With our new shoeprint stencils and some black spray paint, you can commemorate your favorite dance moves wherever you want. These stencils are also helpful for more mature customers who don’t remember how to get to their own bathrooms. $49

Chinese Burr Garden - Ancient Chinese horticulturalists knew that burrs could be arranged in a bed of sand to channel positive energy. While wild burrs are very difficult to capture and dangerous to handle, modern Chinese horticulturists believe that the same affect can be attained by arranging small pieces of Velcro. $69

Engraved Gummi Worm – Have your initials (or favorite three letter word) commemorated forever on a gummi worm. Maximum order: 1. $25

Showers of the World – What would it feel like to shower at the bottom of Lake Ontario or the shores of the Panama Canal? The Showers of the World satellite system continuously updates your shower experience to match the real time temperature and turbidity of any body of water in the world. $499

AccentID - Accents are caused by subtle changes in the shape of someone's palate and tongue. Now you can identify even the most obscure accents. Simply take a plastic/plaster mold of the foreign person saying "em," "voo," unh," and "beef." AccentID will analyze the molds and tell you the origin of the accent from its library of >10000 languages and dialects.

iPod Popcorn Adapter - iPods are great for watching small movies, but it's not truly a miniature theater experience without a single kernel of freshly popped buttered popcorn. Includes 20 individually wrapped kernels with adapter wiring. $49

Handsie Pajamas - We all remember pajamas with hands, but until now they were not available in adult sizes. Hurry, because this fad won’t last long. $69

Baby Jesus Monitor - Now parents can keep close tabs on Baby Jesus, even when they are up to 100 feet outside of the manger. $50

With warmest regards,

Zach

Down with Fruit Bruises

2009-01-01T20:51:00.002-05:00

Dear Friends,

Happy New Year, Sweetie. The first Hard Taco song for 2009, "Never Shake a Baby," is not only a great song, but a great idea for your next New Year's resolution. I'm not going to beat around the bush: 2009 is not going to be a ridiculously great year, whether you stick to this resolution or not.

   There is one resolution I hope we all keep, however. We must resolve to buy more American fruit. This is crucial because, for one, many people aren't buying enough American fruit. Tomorrow, when the supermarkets re-open, you can go scope out the produce aisle and see for yourself. The problem is fruit bruises. If there is one infallible truth about groceries, it is that nobody (Nobody) wants bruised fruit.

   At this point, you are undoubtedly printing out Mapquest directions to the nearest megaphone rental so you can scream "I agree!" Relax... I can already hear you. If you feel the need to prove it, take this simple quiz about fruit bruise attitudes:

You accidentally pick up a bosc pear with an unsightly brown cavity. You immediately:
A) Avert your eyes. Remember that you were supposed to pick up some yogurt. Announce this aloud to everyone within 20 feet of you, and make it sound urgent. Run like hell.
B) Hold your arms over the broccoli, praying that one of those mist-machines on a timer will activate and cleanse the wicked bruise ichor from your fingers. Afterwards, run like hell.
C) Put the bruised pear in a bag. Use your iPhone to look up the mailing address of that insufferable prick you went to high school with. Think about mailing him the blemished pear as retribution for being so unforgivably loathsome. Realize that this would require you to handle the pear. Proceed, instead, to take a picture of the fruit bruise with your iPhone and email it to him. Run like hell.

   Now that we are, as they say, tethered to the same psychological zip-line, let's talk through a solution to the problem by examining the facts.

Fact: Nobody (Nobody) would intentionally purchase bruised fruit.
Fact: Every piece of fruit has a little sticker on it. This is called a fruit sticker.
Fact: The location of a fruit sticker on a given piece of fruit is entirely arbitrary.
Fact: If a piece of fruit is 95% healthy and 5% bruised, a sticker placed over a healthy area will drop the percentage of visibly delicious fruit to 90%. The likelihood that the fruit will be sold will plummet!

Now imagine, if it pleases you, a device* that identifies the largest bruise on each piece of fruit and puts the sticker directly over it. Now the fruit from our example looks 95% healthy, 0% bruised, and 5% mysterious! Folks, we just increased the chance of that fruit being sold (using math.)

When people buy more American fruit, you guessed it: everyone wins. Suddenly, grocery stores will find themselves with a budget surplus, which they can spend on more fruit stickers. Soon, every fruit bruise in America will be concealed. With no more smashed, rotted fruit to camouflage, grocers will be forced to meet burgeoning demands by pulling handfuls of whatever out of the dumpster and covering it with a monolayer of fruit stickers.

At this point, the buyers are going to catch on, right? People won't actually purchase wood shavings and amputated ankles just because they are encapsulated in small adhesive ovals... WILL THEY?

I can't predict that, but I'll be prepared for any contingency, because my plan has a PHASE 2. Instead of smothering a decayed piece of produce* with unattractive identification labels, we use stickers that are stylin'. I'm talking about stickers everybody (Everybody) wants. Of course, the licensing fees for branded images like Princess Jasmine or the ReMax balloon would be prohibitive, but there is one sticker that is highly desirable and absolutely free…

I will not lie to you about this: I don’t know anybody (Anybody) who can resist this sticker. I recently stood in line for over an hour just to get one. Now imagine a banana wrapped in fifteen "I Voted" stickers, each with a little American flag on it. Would you buy that banana? Would you campaign on that banana's behalf? Would you stand behind that banana, even if it turns out to be rotten? I believe you would.

I believe you will.

With warmest regards,
Zach

* or migrant worker

Good Afternoon, Cruel World

2008-12-01T20:57:00.001-05:00

Dear Friends,

At only 37 seconds, the Hard Taco song for December, "Giant U-Shaped Magnet," is the shortest piece to ever qualify as a monthly offering. From now on, Hard Taco will get in, tell you what you need to hear, and get out.

As you know, the most popular topic of conversation for several years now had been The Case of the Runaway Bride. For those of you who have been living underneath a particularly heavy sound-proof rock, there was a woman named Jennifer Wilbanks who disappeared shortly before her wedding in the Spring of 2005. She reappeared in New Mexico, where she told police that she had been kidnapped and molested by a rotten-toothed Hispanic man. Eventually she confessed that she had invented the whole story, and simply had pre-marital jitters. This story was so captivating that nobody I know has been able to talk about anything else for nearly four years. You see, cases like this never really close. Will Wilbanks remarry? Will she issue a written apology to the rotten-toothed Hispanic community? Have the dogs in her search party been rendered useless for future rape-victim sniffing? If so, should Wilbanks have to pay to train some new dogs?

This month, all interest in the Runaway Bride was suddenly and inexplicably supplanted by a new conversational nugget. The topic that has been on everyone's minds these days is financial uncertainty, and in particular "Depression-era suicide rates." Unless you've been living in a particularly air-tight collapsed mine hole, you've seen headlines such as, "How to Talk to Your Children About Depression-Era Suicide Rates," and "Will Depression-Era Suicide Rates Change in the Next Five Years?"

Many media outlets have been displaying grainy black and white images of disheveled businessmen standing on high ledges. What they don't tell you is that these pictures were all taken at the end of the Great Depression. You see, there were not nearly enough high-rises in 1929 to serve as suicide perches for the large influx of destitute businesspeople. Most corporate establishments were "ranch style" and had only one story*. Despairing white collar workers who jumped from the ledges of their workplaces would occasionally twist their ankles or damage a flower bed, but they rarely ended up dead enough to keep them from returning to work the next day.

It was soon recognized that crest-fallen industrial tycoons had become an underserved population. The Roosevelt administration restructured the New Deal to include generous government skyscraper-building contracts, hoping to fill a much-needed role for woebegone day-traders and large business owners. These costly office spaces were quickly snatched up by companies whose self-destructive business executives needed high windows. The construction of these skyscrapers greatly increased the suicide rate among people with suits, while creating thousands of new jobs. This provided the economic stimulus that heralded the end of Great Depression.

70 years later, it appears that we may have learned nothing from history. Unless you've spent the last several months suspended in thick foam, you would know that new skyscraper construction projects, such as the Chicago Spire, have halted due to the subprime mortgage crisis. Friends, we need to prevent this from happening. Today's despondent billionaires are not satisfied simply to jump 100 feet to their doom. Warren Buffet, Alice Walton, Michael Dell, and others have declared that they would be "better off dead" and demanded that the government build them a 200-story building from which to hurl themselves. (This request has often been referred to as the Forbes 200.) Microsoft's Bill Gates has reportedly stated, "I cannot consider suicide a legitimate option to end my [expletive] misery unless I can plummet at least 250 stories." Gates added, "I doubt anyone would miss me."

Please join me in urging our new administration to continue building supertall buildings. We need our nation's richest men and women to end their own lives so we can go back to talking about the Runaway Bride some more.

With warmest regards,

Zach

* As opposed to "dude ranch style," a type of architecture in which weight-bearing walls were reinforced with belt buckles and buttressed with lassos.

Finding Mr. Smile

2008-10-01T21:11:00.002-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for October is called, "Seasonal Affective." This song is so good, if you play it in your car, all of the manholes will explode into the sky you drive by. Ka-Woosh!*

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a well-characterized mood disorder in which patients suffer from symptoms of depression during periods of inadequate light exposure. This usually happens during prolonged periods of dimness, such as the winter months. However, there are severe forms of SAD in which patients can feel hopeless and deflated after brief periods of inadequate light, such as when their eyes are covered during a game of "Pin the Tail on the Donkey." Tragically, hundreds of Mexican children take their own lives every year when they are blindfolded and handed a piñata bat.

There are several other forms of stimulus-induced depression, including Latitude Affective Disorder (LAD), Euclidean Geometry Affective Disorder (EGAD), Queen Affective Disorder (QUAD) or a subset of that, Bohemian Rhapsody Affective Disorder (BRAD). Some people also suffer from Thinking Outside Of the Box Affective Disorder (TOO BAD) or even Midcourse Architectural and Terminal Tier Review Expeditionary Sustainable Solutions Program Affective Disorder (MATTRESS PAD).

Finally, there is an uncommon syndrome in which feelings of anger and frustration are caused by confusing "Affect" and "Effect." This condition has been called People Incorrectly Spelling Seasonal Effective Disorder (PISSED).

The most effective therapy for these conditions is the four-pronged combination treatment of chinning up, hunkering down, finding Mr. Smile, and tucking away all the blues into an invisible envelope that can't be opened.

With warmest regards,
Zach

* While "Ka-Woosh" is certainly an appropriate sound effect for exploding manhole covers, it is also falafel wrapped in lamb and grape leaves.

No Diets Ever Work for Anyone Except That These Diets Work for You

2008-09-01T21:14:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for September is called, "Jelly IA." This song is not about a city in Iowa or an NCAA sports division, as the name may suggest, but a celebration of the seafaring life! You may notice that the lyrics are inspiring, but nonspecific enough to serve as a rallying call for all nautical peoples, from merchant marines and whalers to Argonauts and high school crew teams. Shanty on, my friends!

Are you ready for some foosball?

I raised a few eyebrows in my fantasy foosball draft last week by picking The Row of 3 Foosmen ahead of The Row of 5 Foosmen. Some of the ESPN pundits have predicted that The Row of 2 Foosmen has "deep sleeper potential" and "plenty of upside." Is this possible? No, because it is The Row of 3 that has all of the sleeper potential and upside. Smack.

Your Neighbors at Hard Taco Want to Help You Make Healthy Choices

For years, I've harbored a nagging sense of guilt about the prevalence of obesity in America. Have I been surreptitiously endorsing the consumption of tacos, thereby encouraging my adolescent readers to become or remain fat? Some have suggested that I should remove this subliminal impetus by changing our band name to Hard Fiber Supplement or perhaps, Flax Taco. No, my dear chubbies, that's just the kind of thinking that made you fat in the first place. Rather, I will take a page from the Philip Morris playbook and provide my audience with dieting strategies, while continuing to openly plug the smooth, satisfying taste of the hard taco.

Here, then, are three infallible ways to shed those kilos without having to sacrifice taste (or volcano virgins.)

1. The 51 Cent Stamp Diet

This one is easy, but requires patience. All you have to do is eat lots of salad greens, and replace the dressing with generous portions of 51 cent stamps. Top nutritionists agree that this diet will be so effective that we can all let ourselves go until 2014 when these stamps are first printed. In the meantime, you can spend the same amount on postage by sprinkling a 3:1 admixture of 3 cent stamps and 42 cent stamps on your salad greens. This practice will not affect your body weight in any way, but it will enable the restaurant to ship the leftovers to your house so you don't have to carry a doggie bag around all night.

2. The Oelectrolyte Diet

Her Majesty's Registered Dieticiaries have long known that the secret to maintaining a healthy weight is a daily allowance of essential oelectrolytes. Not surprisingly, the richest sources of essential oelectrolytes are English traditional foods, including:

Pea meal
Bladder treacle
Blood crisps
Kidney Tea
Clotted eels 'n gravy
Mutton batter

3. The Iron Chef Diet

A stoic Japanese chef will take whatever food you crave most and prepare a perplexing five course meal using it. Do you feel like a slice of pie before bed? Iron Chef Chen Kenichi wrest that pie from your hands and return one hour later with a crispy sunburned pork in a pie reduction sauce, roasted spicy pie over skordilia, flash-seared pie and cantaloupe terrine, and a marinated soft-shell turtle in a pie weave dressed with a veal-tongue champagne. Allez cuisine!

With warmest regards,

Zach

Getting Into a Good Dojo

2008-08-01T21:18:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

If you’ve ever wondered what Hard Taco sounds like LIVE and IN PERSONS, you may enjoy the new song for August, "Rotisserie.” It was recorded at a dojo party in 2001.

On the Subject of Dojo Parties

By definition, a martial art is any codified system of combat in which the combatants yell "Hi-YAH!" during a strike. To begin the path towards mastering a martial art, you must first select a dojo. This is sort of like picking which fraternity to join. Everyone tries to get into the "cool" ones, such as Jujitsu or Tae Kwon Do.

But remember this: the dojo has to want you, too! At the end of Rush Week, there will undoubtedly be a roomful of drunk ninjas throwing shuriken and empty sake cans at the projected pictures of the less desirable candidates. These candidates will inevitably end up in a Tae Bo or Acupressure dojo. They can still make lasting friendships and learn a lot of valuable life skills, but no one will ever come to their parties except, perhaps, girls who do yoga.

Here is a summary of some of the most common martial arts, to help you pick which dojo is right for you.

Judo

A Mandarin word for "Two of (something)." A martial art is considered to be Judo if it consists of any combination of two different attacks, such as:

1. Kicking and hair-pulling

2. Suffocating with a pillow and teasing

3. Identity theft and growling

4. Telling half-truths and decapitating

Jujitsu

Jujitsu is a form of combat that takes place while lying on a floating pool mat, usually between bouts of intense tanning. A modern adaptation of jujitsu has been embraced by the military in Japan, where entire companies of armed soldiers recline comfortably in pools, waiting for their orders to paddle lazily over to the deep end and shoot someone.

Aikido

Aikido is not a form of fighting, but a notion of harmoniousness that unites the nine elements of the corporeal world (or Qiuouii) through ethnic jokes. For instance, I could describe a scenario in which a rabbi, a black Canadian, the Pope, and some gay persons are all in a rowboat when something tragic and amusing occurs. The punch line is not relevant. What is important is that all of those people were in that rowboat, fishing together, working together to catch fish, and enjoying each other's company. This togetherness has been referred to as the Qiuaiaa, or transcendent concordance. Aikido derives from the desire to attain this state for the self and for humankind. It also emphasizes the importance of stretching.

Ninjitsu
Ninjitsu is a form of combat practiced by the Ninja. (Likewise, Moose-jitsu is the form of combat practiced by residents of a particular city in Saskatchewan.) Ninjas are known for making warfare using unorthodox methods that have been forbidden by the Samurai code, such as assassination, espionage, and sweeping the leg. Ninjitsu, in fact, is not technically a martial art, since the black scarf wrapped over the mouth prevents the ninja from articulating the phrase, "Hi-YAH!" This muffling face wrap was imposed by the 16th century Samurai authorities who determined that Ninjas had been screaming "Hi-YAH!" at inappropriate times, such as when putting two pieces of bread together to make a sandwich.

Acupressure

Acupressure applied to the wrist of an attacker may quell a motion sickness-induced rage, which could theoretically pave the way for further attempts at diplomacy. Otherwise, acupressure is so poorly-suited for self-defense that people will want to be your enemy just to have an easy ass to kick. (See "A note about Ultimate Fighting Championships" below.)

Karate

This is the most popular martial art among children for one reason: grade inflation. There is so much grade inflation in karate that practically every 9-year-old in America already has a black belt. If you need to boost your GPA to get into med school, this might be the right dojo for you.

French Kicking

I included this one to drive home the point that not all martial arts are Asian in origin. French Kicking is popular among teenage couples who often refer to it as "Tongue Kicking" or "Slipping the Foot."

Shaolin Kung Fu

This martial art was developed at the Shaolin monasteries in the 11th century. The Shaolin monks developed ways to punch people that were literally a hundred years ahead of their time, giving them an enormous technological advantage over their foes. As you can imagine, a monk that is equipped only with an 11th century punch is going to be no match for a monk with a 12th century punch in his arsenal.

Finally, a note about Ultimate Fighting Championships:

Ultimate Fighting is a sport in which people from different dojos compete against each other. If you are ever involved in some sort of Ultimate Fighting Championship, try to arrange your opening match against an acupressurist. All you have to do is punch them in the stomach once, and they will spend the rest of the match pushing on their own earlobes to quell the pain.

With warmest regards,

Zach

History is More or Less Debunked/Rebunked

2008-07-01T21:24:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

The July Hard Taco song is called, "How to Love Your Process." This song will burn into you mind like a scalding vial of folic acid!

Debunking and Rebunking Popular Myths
Referring to something as a "popular myth" would seem to indicate that the veracity of the statement being made is in question. In point of fact, true statements sometimes pretend to be myths because they think it will make them more popular. Who would want to sit at a lunch table with a bunch of Unpopular Truths?

If I haven't already lost you, let's take a superficial look at some of these popular myths.

"Global warming is causing water levels to rise."
Verdict: FALSE
This is sheer balderdash. Water levels are rising, but it has nothing to do with polar ice caps melting. See below.

"Lemmings mindlessly swarm off cliffs as a form of population control."
Verdict: TRUE
Sadly, water levels are rising because the ocean floor is gradually being filled with the carcasses of lemmings.

"Water drains backwards in the southern hemisphere."
Verdict: TRUE
Here's a caveat: Rotini was developed (in Italy) to have a clockwise twist, so the uneaten portions could be flushed down the toilet. Unfortunately, pasta-makers in the southern hemisphere have not yet perfected a flushable counter-rotini. As a result, Australians will not be excused from the table until they eat what they put on their plates.

"No two snowflakes are identical."
Verdict: False
This is pure poppycock and hornswaggle. This myth has been perpetuated for years because no one has ever taken the time to examine snowflakes while they are still in flight. As it happens, snowflakes are exactly the same shape until they land, at which point they are deformed into unique configurations depending upon the angle of impact.

"Eskimos have two hundred words for snow."
Verdict: FALSE
This is a bona fide mound of malarkey. There is only one Inuit word for snow. However, if you punch an Inuit in the mouth while he is saying it, the word will sound different depending upon the angle of impact.

"One human year equals seven dog years."
Verdict: TRUE
Since seven dog generations occur in one human generation, dogs are evolving seven times faster than us. This explains their acutely developed sense of smell. It does not, however, explain their inability to operate a meat thermometer.

"It takes seven years to digest gum."
Verdict: TRUE
Although a dog can digest gum in one year.

"Dog meat is consumed in Korea."
Verdict: TRUE
Korean gum-enthusiasts used to believe that a man could hasten his own digestion of gum by feeding it to a dog, and then eating the dog. By time this was disproved in clinical trials, the Korean Department of Health had already circulated pamphlets featuring a food pyramid that was founded on a base of dog meat products.

"The Great Wall of China is the only manmade structure visible from space."
Verdict: TRUE
If you heard somebody say, "I spent all afternoon staring at the wall," that person was probably an astronaut. The U.S. Space Program has really faltered in recent years, because there is absolutely nothing to do up there but look at the Great Wall of China all day. Talk about boring!

"You can tell the temperature by listening to the chirping of crickets."
Verdict: TRUE
Below 37 degrees Fahrenheit, crickets all stop chirping and die. If you count the number of times you hear crickets chirping in 15 seconds and multiply by six, and the number you get is zero, you should wear a scarf.

"Sucking on a penny will help you pass a breathalyzer test."
Verdict: TRUE
If you're drunk enough for this to seem like a reasonable course of action, you are probably not going to be able to suck on a penny without violently lodging it in your windpipe. The upside of this eventuality is that you will not be able to exhale at all, so the breathalyzer won't register an incriminating value.

"You can't fold a piece of paper in half more than seven times."
Verdict: UNKNOWN
No one has ever actually tried to do this. What possible purpose could be served by a piece of paper that was folded so many times? Honestly, the exercise would be a silly waste of time. It's better to leave this one unsolved.

"Swimming within an hour after eating causes cramps and may lead to drowning."
Verdict: TRUE
Please note that the Olympic Trials are scheduled to take place immediately before lunch. If, for any reason, they are delayed until after lunch, the team event will be renamed "synchronized aspirating of pool water/floating face down."

"You cannot sneeze with your eyes open."
Verdict: FALSE

…but making a splash as a closing salutation.

You cannot sneeze with your eyes open,

Zach

White Lustrium: The Birthstone of Cheaptember

2008-06-01T21:29:00.005-04:00

Dear Friends,

The new Hard Taco song for June, "I'm Not Saying, I'm Just Saying," is meant to serve as a welcome for our newest band member, Malcolm London. If you say this fast, you sound like Pac-man: Welcome, Malcolm, welcome, Malcolm, welcome, Malcolm!

New Hard Taco CD: "Jupiter the Balloon Horse"
Hard Taco's freshest, moddest (as in, "most mod") full-length CD, "Jupiter the Balloon Horse" has dropped. Having this album is such a good idea, it is now widely accepted to be the gold standard by which all other good ideas are based. To help put this context, I've developed the 10-point Having Jupiter (HJ) scale. The higher the number, the better the idea! Here's an example:

9 HJ's - Wearing a tie to a black tie party
7 HJ's - Wearing a tie to a white elephant party
3 HJ's - Bringing an elephant to a black tie party
1 HJ - Bringing a black elephant to a white elephant supremacist party

Who's in the house? Education!
Now that I have children, I have a tough decision to make. Do I want to homeschool? When my wife and I first talked about it, we came up with this list:

Homeschooling Pros:

Kids would both be valedictorians
Get to take off work every time the teacher's union goes on strike
Get to print up customized "hall passes."

Homeschooling Cons:

Have to build a full gymnasium and an Olympic-sized pool with high dive
Pep rallies - would they be underwhelming?

Our biggest concern was that many of the commercially available homeschool curricula have thinly-veiled religious undertones. It turns out our concerns were justified. I could not, for instance, find standardized homeschool lesson plans to teach heretical studies or gay-sex education. Sadly, the majority of homeschooled children graduate "high school" without ever learning how to perform third- and fourth-trimester abortions! It's no wonder homeschooled children do so poorly on standardized tests.

Speaking Of "Intelligent Design"
In the end, we thought of one word that made us accept the fact that our children would have to go to public school: Josten's. The culmination of a public school education is that oversized nugget of beautiful tradition known as a high school class ring. How can homeschooled children celebrate achievements, preserve memories, and shows pride if they can't purchase a class ring*?

Believe me… Josten's class rings live up to the hype. They are made of white lustrium, an alloy of silver and chromium that is guaranteed by the manufacturer to remain tacky for the lifetime of the wearer. The inset is hemi-semi-precious stone such as blue zircon or white spinel. (According to the website, the latter is the birthstone of Cheaptember!) The sides of the ring can be used to depict life-long interests such as:

Hip Hop Awareness

Pheasant Hunting

Love of Satan

JeffGordon

Josten’s class rings are also great for "building affiliations." To this day I have held out hope that a potential employer may place his middle finger next to mine and declare, "Look… we are both dedicated to calf-roping! Let me enlarge your signing bonus!"

Calf-Roping

My Ring ("Zach" is written in Russian)

Of course, this has never really happened. Most people seem to think my class ring is pretty tasteless. In fact, most people don't even look at it at all, unless they are worried that I am about to punch them and they want to predict how much it is going to hurt.**

If I step back, I think my dedication to the concept of the Josten's class ring may have been instilled in me by the onslaught of propaganda from my high school teachers and administrators. They really pressured us into buying class rings. At the time, I thought it was a school pride thing, but now I know the true reason... public schools are under the thumb of BIG LUSTRIUM.

With warmest regards,
Zach

* Josten's apparently does sell class rings to homeschooled children, but they have a disclaimer on their website that these rings are "devoid of all value, emotional or material."
** A little bit more than usual.

Peer Pressure

2008-05-01T21:41:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

What would happen if an elephant and a bee opened competing tea houses across the street from each other? The new Hard Taco song, "The Agony of the Leaves,” attempts to answer that question without relying on profane redneck tirades, paroxysms of weeping, and other gimmicks employed in most elephant- and bee-themed reality television programs.

Consumer Alerght

Don’t be duped by websites offering to sell you “real” Scottish titles. My brother-in-law was hoodwinked into buying a Scottish title, and while I am the first to admit that “Highland Laird Glenflichich Cock O' the North” looks neat on his driver’s license, I doubt that justifies the $750 he spent on it.

I, on the other hand, have decided to invest splendidly in my family’s future by purchasing a British title. Unlike the Scottish equivalents, British titles are a safe, legal internet commodity. Most importantly, the British variety confer all of the rights and privileges of the peerage.

Tantalized yet? Let's take a look at the benefits of lordship.

Trial by Peers

One benefit of becoming a God-sanctioned peer-of-the-realm is that all British lords are entitled to a “Trial by Peers.” Once I purchase my certificate of aristocracy, I intend to exercise this right all the time.

Picture this: A meter maid (or as they call her in England, a “just-o'er-a-yard maid”) catches me parking my MG in a bike lane. She's furious, but since I am a card-carrying peer, she can't do anything about it. Instead, the Earl of Gloucester, the Earl of Breastminster, and Baron Coventry of Rowington-Upon-Hull must slip on their wigs and convene at the House of Lords to write me the parking ticket.

Unfortunately, the Queen has spearheaded a lobby to abolish the privilege of Trial by Peers. I think she was just steamed about being called up for jury duty for the third time in as many months.

Coat of Arms

All British Lords are granted the right to a coat of arms. My family crest consists of a simple shield flanked by two lions with goats wrapped around their torsos. In the center of the shield, there is a gauntlet holding a bejeweled hammerhead shark by the tail. Below that flies a banner with our family motto, “Ever Fierce,” both in English and in a form of Gaelic that replaces all vowels with the letters cgh.*

Most families display the image of their crest on T-shirts and such. However, if I drop a wad of cash on a genuine legitimate lordship, I want my family crest to be genuine too. I’m mentioning this now, because I may need your help in locating goats that are flexible enough for lion-wrapping.

Audience with the Sovereign

As if you would need any more convincing, the price of an authentic legitimate lordship also includes the right to mingle with the Queen. When it’s my turn, I will not waste the HM’s time by prattling about faith-based taxes and which counties in North Ireland have the mealiest currants. Instead, I will ride with her out to the countryside, place her gently on an outcrop next to a gurgling brook, and ask her to close her eyes. “Your Majesty,” I will say, “Is it not truly magical how many wondrous sounds the world around us makes when we simply stop to listen?”**

The guy selling the titles on eBay hasn’t gotten back to me on how many times I am entitled to demand an audience with the sovereign. If it is only once, I may hold off until Prince Charles is coronated, because QE2 has a touch of high-frequency hearing loss, and might not get as much out of this exercise.

(Dude Looks Like A) Lady Chatterley
Choosing a title is both rewarding and challenging. Not surprisingly, the monikers that come with more vassals or bushier eyebrows tend to be more expensive. Here are some of the ultra-legitimate British titles that I have been considering, divided by price point:

Lord Swift Whitekirk of the Mount
The Right Honourable High Falconer Chaddington Kerfuffle of Foxley
Baron Saint Mortimer Blythe-Cornhole

$$$
Lord Bishop of Thrupennies-upon-Tyne
Baronet Regional Accountancy Lord Protector Thorton-beneath-Thames
Earl Buffingshire of Buffingshire-Buffingshire

$$$$

Dowager Bathgate Fenster-on-Bimble

The Duke of Butterwiggle Ironmongery
High Lord Marquess Floorchester Saint Wets-his-Pants
Her Grace Duchess Slapping Tatties née Wixhamderry of the Fine Fettle

If anyone is interested in going in on one of the pricier titles, please let me know. I would be cool with going halvsies if I could wear the robes of Viscount Wentworth Fop-in-the-Hole on Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and alternate Saturdays.

With warmest regards,

Zach

* Gaelic family motto: “Cghvcghr Fcghcghrcgh.”

** Once I am a peer, I may find myself saying “verily” instead of “truly.”

It's Never Just a Cigar

2008-04-01T21:51:00.004-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for April, "Sleep Stages," concerns three actual dreams I have had within the last year.

The three dreams described in “Sleep Stages” are particularly enigmatic, so the lyrics of this song might be somewhat difficult to decipher (in contrast, you will agree, to every other Hard Taco song.) To avoid alienating anyone, I see no choice but to lash myself to the psychiatrist’s couch and attempt to interpret these dreams.

Without even scratching the surface, you can see it’s all here: Insecurity. Sex. Guilt. Self-loathing. Fear of commitment. A paternal-fetal-navel-fecal-feral complex. Now, let’s see what we get when we thrust the trowel of illumination a little deeper into the spongy burial mound of my submerged mind.

Dream 1: Permission to Run Free

In this dream, there are two blind fish. Fish 1 inquires, "Permission to run free, sir?" Fish 2 replies sternly, "Permission denied! Stapes do not run free."

Possible interpretation:
The stapes is a bone in the middle ear that conducts sound. "Stapes do not run free" probably means that listening to other people talk is keeping me from self-fulfillment.

Meanwhile, the most obvious characteristics of blind fish are that they smell bad and they see poorly. Thus, the failure of the subordinate fish to achieve autonomy signifies my desire to create something that smells good, such as a new line of perfumes. The fact that he is blind indicates that I long to embrace a visual aesthetic, perhaps by designing cool labels for my new line of men's and women's fragrances. "Permission Denied" could have a number of meanings, although I believe my subliminal self is suggesting Permission Denied as a brand name for a heady new fragrance.

Dream 2: Wedding Tables
In this dream, all of the tables at our wedding were decked out in customized white wedding dresses instead of tablecloths. During the prior three years of our engagement, each table dutifully came to the bridal boutique several times per year for fittings.

Possible interpretation:
The three-year engagement is obviously a reference to Cher, who is starting a three-year engagement at Caesar's Palace this May. I'm not sure what the rest of it means, but I am quite certain it has nothing to do with hidden feelings about my marriage, so shut up.

Dream 3: Fish Pix
In this dream, I catch fish and have them undergo post mortem plastic surgery to lengthen their bodies. Then I sell pictures of these surgically-enlarged fish on the internet. This obliges a unique customer demographic… perverts who want to look at pictures of REALLY BIG fish. For some reason, I accomplish this with actual surgery rather than just Photoshopping the pictures.

Possible interpretation:

While enlarging fish for the benefit of a bunch of internet deviants is sick (just plain sick, truly), I do have a legitimate interest in ichthyoplastics. As the dream implies, I have been strongly considering harnessing my medical background to open a cosmetic surgery clinic for fish. This is not just for the benefit of a few revolting seafood-fetishists (you make me sick, truly.) No, there are plenty of decent, God-fearing aquarium owners who have legitimate reasons for wanting to remove birthmarks, scars, or signs of aging from their marine companions.

Common procedures include scale transplantation and tattooing, unsightly scale removal, "dorse aug" (dorsal fin augmentation), anal finoplasty (tail lift), and caudal peduncle lateral line operculopexy (folding a fish in half and sewing the gills to the base of the tail). It is even possible for fish to undergo a species change. It isn’t discussed much in polite circles, but there are Oscars who hold a deep conviction that they should have been born Mollies. If a simple surgery could allow them to live the rest of their lives as Mollies, who are we to judge them?

After I wrote this, I used an online dream dictionary to break down each of these dreams. Check out the lyrics to “Sleep Stages” to see the professional interpretations and how they compare to these. If you ask me, they stink.

If, on the other hand, it is you who stinks, try spritzing your neck with a free sample of Permission Denied* for Men.

With warmest regards,

Zach

* Permission Denied is a woody, masculine fragrance reminiscent of oakmoss, bergamot, leather, calluses, salad bark, and tobacco musk.

The Hard Taco Lyric Writing Workshop

2008-03-01T21:53:00.001-05:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for March, "Take Me Home," is the first Southern Rock ballad ever to feature a chorus of women repeatedly shouting the phrase, “By Gum!” If that doesn’t turn you on, you probably have a hormonal problem. I’m not kidding… you should get your oestrotesterol and excretrogin levels checked.

After 15 years, I'm finally ready to fess up to the source of all the "new" lyrics I come up with every month. I use templates. If you want to try it yourself, print out the sample below, circle the choices that articulate your position on things, and sing them. When you're ready to write another song, print out the same template and repeat the process.

Template 4: "Sometimes I Feel Like (Cryin' / Dyin')"

I've been banging on your back (door / with a pipe)
Won't you let me (in / go / sleep / in to go to sleep)
I've got a (belly / pocket) full of (whiskey / nickels / troubles)
And a (mind / reason / contract / gift certificate) to (bring / take) you (down / daisies / to a bake sale)

Sometimes I feel like (cryin' / dyin')
It makes me feel like (dyin' / cryin')

If I'm to (blame / understand correctly), I (understand / have myself to blame)
But I'm not going to (beg / hold / trust / spank) you (anymore / tenderly / after breakfast)
You know me, I just can't be (satisfied / taken alive / out in the sun too long)
So I'm going to (Alabama / St. Louis / make sweet love) in my beat-up (Chevy / girlfriend's Chevy)

I'm a lonely (freight train / wolf / organ grinder) and I'm off to (chase my dreams / Sweet Vernita / private school)
You can (hurt / feed / sculpt) me,
You can (desert / debrief / delouse) me
You can tell me (lies / bitter lies / scathing hurtful fibs)
But at the end of the (day / line / Bronze Age)
The only thing I've come to trust is (God's love / racial profiling)

Sometimes I feel like (cryin' / dyin')
It makes me feel like (dyin' / cryin')

(Baby / Sugar / Your Honor), you're just a (two-timing / big-legged / coal-mining) woman
And there ain't no (shame / point / money) in doing you (wrong / right / in / any favors)

Can't you (see / pretend / disrobe when) I'm on my (knees / deathbed / best behavior)?
Can't you (shake / shave) your (moneymaker / preconceived notions)
And let me (live / die / drink / bake) in (peace / Hell / the pantry)?

Sometimes I feel like (cryin' / dyin')
It makes me feel like (dyin' / cryin')

You drive me (crazy / because I have epilepsy)
But I love (you / America / duck / spin class) anyway
I want to be your (handy / back door / pusher / swamp) man
Please, Baby, please (Baby please / don't take your love away / clear the dishes)

With warmest regards,
Zach

Great Minds Taste Alike

2008-02-01T21:58:00.002-05:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for February is called, "Rattle." Find out for yourself why everyone at the water cooler is talking about it in hushed voices.

SIDE EFFECTS
Me: You look off-kilter today.
You: I took my allergy medicine this morning, and I've felt like a zombie all day.
Me: Yeah, I hate that. (Pause) So I guess that explains the bits of dried blood and scalp on your lips.
You: (Sinking your teeth into my ankle) I can never remember where you keep your brains. Are they in here?

ZOMBIES GETTING LEFT… IN… THE... LURCH
I don't want to reinforce stereotypes, but I defy you dispute the following generalization: zombies are simply not very coordinated. You'll probably never see a zombie throw a lasso, make a lanyard bracelet, or return a ping pong serve. Despite billions of crime-funded dollars in research, modern evil science has failed to engineer a virus that can bring the dead back to life without severely compromising hand-eye coordination.

This has been a great source of disgruntlement for zombies. In fact, I believe that the anger and savagery that zombies frequently exhibit stem from a deep frustration with their inability to participate in group sports.

Zombies have not successfully competed in Olympic-level sports since 1924, when the triathlon officially became swimming, cycling, and running. Prior to that date, the standard triathlon consisted of moaning, dribbling and lurching like a drunk toddler. Inevitably, there would be three zombies shuffling onto the winner’s podium.

Since then, however, athletic events have placed more value on speed, dexterity, and grace. These are not common qualities in the zombie community. For example, no zombie has ever taken home an Olympic medal in ice dancing. The only zombie who tried spent the duration of the three-minute song hacking into her partner’s shins with the skates. The smell of blood on ice attracted a frenzy of other zombies and, of course, hockey players. The event deteriorated into a brawl of face-chewings and body checks. All told it was a real black eye for the Olympic committee.

Zombies fare no better in other events. As walking corpses, they cannot be trusted to steer a bobsled (although they occasionally stumble into an opponent’s sled to consume the opponent). The zombie running long jump record is only eight inches, which is about 30% longer than their standard stride length. Finally, their propensity to hold their arms straight in front of them severely limits the amount of inertia they can give to a shot put.

GREAT MINDS TASTE ALIKE
I am convinced that the inevitable undead uprising can be forestalled simply by instilling zombies with a greater sense of self-worth. We need to get them involved in sports they can play… sports that allow them to feel good about themselves. The more time zombies spend training, the less time they’ll have for swarming through malls and mutilating shoppers.

We can all help out. If you are a high school track coach and a zombie tries out for the team, don't cut him... put him in the relay race! If you space out four zombies on a 400m track, and give one of them a dismembered human foot, there is a very good chance the other three zombies will each take it from him sequentially. The trick is convincing them to do this with a baton instead of a severed limb, and to keep moving instead of stopping to gnaw on it.

What else do we know about zombies that can help us pick the right sports for them? Well, the undead travel in mobs, and innately tend to copy each other's movements. I’m not sure whether this has to do with peer pressure or team spirit, but in either case zombies are perfect for synchronized swimming! If you want to see the ultimate expression of coordinated motion, put eight zombies in a shallow pool and dangle a swinging teenager overhead.

Finally, zombies hordes are often described as "relentless" and "unstoppable." It is these very qualities that make them ideally suited for endurance sports, such as cross-country. This especially holds true when the event consists crossing an entire country. If the race is long enough, living athletes will eventually get fatigued or hungry. Zombies, however, can complete long races without stopping, provided they don't get sidetracked by 1) seeing a person or animal during the course of the race, or by 2) getting beheaded. Plus zombies can eat and eat and they never have to go to the bathroom.

Which probably explains why they walk like that.

With warmest regards,

Zach

A_Cup: omg

2008-01-01T22:04:00.001-05:00

Dear friends,

   Happy new year, baby. It's finally Auei. I hope you and your family have a very plentiful, rewarding Auei. That's right, friends, Auei is not just the word of the day, but the word of the year. Auei, (pronounced "Ow-ee") is short for AUght EIght, which, in turn, is short for 2008.

Just look what I heard in an actual chat room:

   Breighleen11: omg its auei
   training_bra: omg
   grease&luv: omfg it auei
   Breighleen11: brb

(1 year passes)

   Breighleen11: omg its auni
   A_cup: omg
   grease&luv: omfg its auni

*Note: Auni will be pronounced "weenie," and it will be an even buzzier buzzword than Auei.

   Anyway, the inaugural Hard Taco song for Auei is called, "Fortress of Lovingkindness." The idea and ideals of lovingkindness are staggeringly simple, yet a leaf blowing in the wind has a greater grasp of it than you do. If you want to understand lovingkindness as much as the leaf, you will have to immerse your heart in devotedness and open your mind in a thousand tender directions.

   One analogy I like to use to explain lovingkindness is a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Now replace the hat with steadfast radiance and replace the rabbit with heartfelt lovingkindness. Now replace the magician with the rabbit, and have him raise his voice in praise of cherishment and forbearance instead of pulling anything out of something else. Are you starting to get it now? What you're left with is a rabbit who raises his voice in praise of heartfelt lovingkindness, and makes sensitive inroads into steadfast radiance, cherishment, and brotherly rapture-feelings.

   Like I said, lovingkindness is staggeringly simple. The key concept, you will note, is making sensitive inroads. Once you successfully make sensitive inroads, I assure you that you'll get a lot more out of this song, and you can show that blowing leaf what for.

With warmest regards,
Zach

Berserker!

2007-12-01T17:12:00.003-05:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song for December is called "Oslo." This song is a tribute to the noble Viking berserker.

The berserkers were the double espresso version of regular Vikings. When a certain mood hit them, they would throw off their armor and fight with an uncontrollable, trance-like rage. They savaged people and animals indiscriminately and fought with no regard for their own lives. If the berserk fury overtook them when they were on a boat, they would quickly row to shore and wrestle with trees and rocks to prevent them from slaying their own friends.

If a berserker was walking alone through a field and felt the berserk fury welling up, he would bury his arms in the ground as quickly as possible to prevent him from scratching through his abdominal wall and pulling out his own beating stomach. (Not as dramatic as a beating heart, but easier to remove without tools, especially when one's dexterity is compromised by hysterical anger.)

In addition to setting an unreachable standard for the magnitude of human rage, berserkers have been credited with innovations in a number of loosely related spheres. It is thought that they pioneered the use of upside-down lampshades around the neck, a practice employed in modern veterinary care. In their case it was to keep them from frenetically chewing into their wives' carotid arteries during a berserk tantrum.

There are few historical accounts of berserker life. Perhaps the best known is from the Icelandic epic, Hrndgiljob's Saga.

One of the berserkergang, who had the name Lfgeiril, wore a swatch of bearskin tightly around his scalp, for often his forehead veins would explode in the course of berserk conniption. On one such day, he set upon King Thjorb with hands bear. Lfgeiril did lift him bodily and dash him upon the precipice. He next set upon the king's wives and daughters and dashed them upon the same. With much ire, he did step on their necks and shatter them. After the berserk fury passed, Lfgeiril was self-reproachful and did not want to talk on it. There shall be no distraction of the gladdening lute, for the berserker knows he has banished much joy from the kingdom with his poor temper. (Hrndgiljob's Saga, c. 1035)

In another work, a berserker is briefly mentioned by a dying King Hranjob as he recaps his life:

I have few regrets, but entrusting a berserker to carry my porcelain tureen collection up two flights of stairs was clearly a mistake. (Hervarar Oord, c. 1036)

I researched this song extensively, and at this point, I feel fairly qualified to answer any of your questions about how berserkers would react in a certain situation. Please ask! Usually, if you have a question about berserkers, everyone else has the same question!

With warmest regards,

Zach

Daddy Mack'll Make Ya...

2007-11-01T17:15:00.001-04:00

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco's 10th full length CD, "There There," is here and it is ready for public consumption, misuse, and general soaking up.

A colleague recently asked me why I still release CD's every year, despite the fact that most contemporary music aficionados get all of their music online in MP3 form. Well, you can't use the reflective surface of an MP3 to signal a passing plane or temporarily blind a would-be rapist, can you? You can’t tie a piece of string to an MP3 covered with two-sided tape, and use it to go fishing for cash/money while hovering over a bank vault that has no ceiling, can you? And you most definitely cannot cut off your hand and serve it on an MP3 to a jilted lover with a note that says, "You already ate my heart for breakfast. Why not have my hand for lunch? Also, I really dig track 4. Check it out if you have a chance (after you’re done eating my hand)."

To coincide with the release of this album, the Hard Taco song for November is called, "There There There." I encourage you to listen to it!

"There" is one of a a few words in the English language that assumes alternate connotations when you say it twice in a row. For instance, your grandmother may use phrases such as, My My, Now Now, and of course, There There. If your grandmother is a member of Kris Kross, she may also say Jump Jump, which just means that she wants you to jump twice.

Sometimes, it's not enough just to say a word twice. Each of these phrases requires the consecutive use of a single word three or more times to impart the appropriate nuance...

When you want to convey:

1. Shame on you, Pharaoh!

2. I request that you, the patrons of this New York state prison, join me in chorus.

3. Dang, that large piece of soft bubble gum is sexy!

4. The scientific name for the Western Lowland Gorilla

5. Hurry up and cleave this combination chemotherapy that contains cyclophosphamide, hydroxydaunorubicin, Oncovin and prednisone.

6. I am surprised, perhaps ironically, to discover that Orson's water hole is no longer ill.

7. I am your grandmother, and it would really mean a lot to me if you would jump twice, preferably on the second and fourth beats of the measure.

Say:

1. Tut, tut, Tut!

2. Sing, Sing-Sing.

3. Hubba-hubba, Hubba Bubba!

4. Gorilla gorilla gorilla

5. Chop CHOP. Chop, chop!

6. Well, well, well... Welles' well's well.

7. Miggety miggety miggety mack! Jump, Jump!

With warmest regards,

Zach

Do Not Lick Any Frog You Buy from a Street Vendor

2007-10-01T17:19:00.001-04:00

Dear friends,

Three months ago, I called upon you, North and Central America, to vote for the subject of the next great Hard Taco song. Rather than simply counting the votes, I calculated the winner using a histogram variance ANOVA T-test, reproducing the central limit theorom by the sum of inverse squares to distribute the alpha coeffecient's regression toward the null hypothesis.

The winner for the October Hard Taco song was the country ballad, "Our First Dollar." As promised, those who voted for the winning song will receive co-authorship credit. Congratulations and welcome to the band! Unfortunately, I think we're going different directions musically. Let's break up and put out solo albums now.

Download Our First Dollar. (Please note that in the second chorus, the average deviation was corrected for Type II error.)

Pesticides, Antifreeze, Cleaning Supplies, and You

Every year, thousands of children die from ingesting toxic substances that are found in your home. What are these substances and how did you lure all those children into your home? This month, we'll take all the mystery out of toxin shopping with the Hard Taco Field Guide Of Local Poisons.

Poison dart frogs. If you travel to Venezuela, do not lick any frog you buy from a street vendor. It's probably safe to lick frogs in some of the nicer restaurants, but if you're not sure, just bring your own frogs from home to lick. If you do lick a local frog and begin to feel the early signs of brain herniation, quickly direct the nearest villager to this website, which provides Spanish speakers with a catchy musical reminder about how to contact Poison Control.

Nerve gas. Toxic organophosphates are derived from a byproduct of spongy soft darts and squishy orange footballs made by Hasbro. The term "nerve gas" was a mispronunciation by its German inventors, who do not have the letter F in their alphabet.

Arsenic. Arsenic is an element on the periodic table, which means that the smallest possible piece that it can be divided into is one atom. This concept is crucial if you decide to poison someone's coffee a little each day. It is best to start with one atom of arsenic in a cup of coffee (day 1) and gradually work up to one atom of coffee in a cup of arsenic (day 2).

Hemlock. Hemlock is not actually dangerous and I encourage/dare you to eat as much of it as you can immediately. Give me five minutes and I will prove to you that Socrates faked his own death and is still living in a bungalow in Switzerland. Five minutes, I swear to God.

Botulism. Often found in cans of spoiled vegetables, clostridium botulinum is the bacteria that puts the "rot" back in neurotoxin. Botulism can be easily identified because the gas produced by the bacteria will cause the cans to bulge. The only known treatment is to neutralize the bulging can by eating a dented can of the same vegetables.

Cyanide. Cyanide smells like almonds. I know this because I am allergic to tree nuts, so I often substitute cyanide for almond extract when baking macaroons or almond pear galette. (Ratio is 1:1)

Poison Ivy. "Leaves of three, let it be." While this saying is easy to remember, it does help you not differentiate poison ivy from other three-leaved plants such as box elder, Virginia creeper, or blackberry vines. I prefer the mnemonic, "If packing it into your mouth, lungs, and anus makes you itch, stop."

Until next month, remember that apathy is our strongest weapon against ignorance!

With warmest regards,

Zach

The Hard Taco Digest

I Know It's Only Rock and Roll (But I Think About Every Seven Seconds)

Senior Party Central: Move your dorsal, shake your ventral

The Sorcerer's Kidney Stone

A Piggyback Ride from Batman

The Quarterback Sneak and Other Signs We've Lost Our Moral Compass

Flight Attendants Cross-Check and Prepare for Conniption

Jack of all Tirades

Calling All Chain Ganglies

And I Will Share This Tiara With All the Poor People of Little Rock

The Bloody Leotard

You're Going to Feel My Finger Now

The Boggy Man

Postcards from Panama, Part 3

Numerators of the Lost Ark

Dry Heaves for the Packers

Insert not Make Dangerous in Flammable Substance

Sacred Blood Pact or Profane Phlegm-oath?

Mud: It's for Slinging

It's More of a Science UNfair, if You Ask Me

You Can't Make Atonement without Mentos

"Why I Defect" By Oleg Chernyaev

The Adventures of Mr. Smartapple

Down with Comic Sans

Serendipity and Sharin' Da Pity

SWEET ON U

The Telegram is Coming From Inside the Log Cabin

1000 Generations of Rock

Postcards from Panama, Part 2

Tales of a 4th String Nothing

Tough as Boots

Fiestaware-Induced Superpowers

It Doesn't Take a Genie

Postcards from Panama, Part 1

Dystopia: [dis-toh-pi-a], n. a future in which loafers have no pennies

Smackdown: Natural Childbirth vs. Reality

The Best Lore in Canandia

Hot New Additions for Your Girl Scout Trophy Sash

Praise They Ever Cherished Name, Dear Hapless Crapalope

How to Save Sharper Image

Down with Fruit Bruises

Good Afternoon, Cruel World

Top Ten Sad Horse Stories

Finding Mr. Smile

No Diets Ever Work for Anyone Except That These Diets Work for You

Getting Into a Good Dojo

History is More or Less Debunked/Rebunked

White Lustrium: The Birthstone of Cheaptember

Peer Pressure

It's Never Just a Cigar

The Hard Taco Lyric Writing Workshop

Great Minds Taste Alike

A_Cup: omg

Berserker!

Daddy Mack'll Make Ya...

Do Not Lick Any Frog You Buy from a Street Vendor