"Bow wow wow yippee yo yippee yay" sounds way better than "Bow wow wow yippee no yippee nay"

In retrospect, Michael Vick's biggest mistake was naming his dogfighting operation "Bad Newz Kennels." I remain convinced that if he'd named it "Good Newz Kennels," he'd have gotten off scott-free.

Look, no one likez bad newz, especially about dogz.

"I'm sorry to tell you: Spot's cancer spread to his stomach. We had no choice but to put him down."

And then the whole family cries for days.

However, everyone lovez good newz, especially about dogz.

"Check this out: Rover can fetch now! Alright... go get it, boy!"

And then everyone cheers and high-fives each other in celebration.

I can only imagine the scene at the police station if they'd been tipped off about dogfighting at Good Newz Kennels:

"Psshhh... Yeah, right! Look, pal, not at Good Newz Kennels, okay? I mean, 'Good' is in the name for GOOD-ness sake. And they use a 'Z' at the end of 'Newz'! How silly! That's adorable, just like I assume their cute, little fluffy dogs are!"

But instead what went down went more like this:

"What?!? Dogfighting??? Over at Bad Newz Kennels? This sounds bad. Like bad news, even. Those poor dogs. Oh no... They have a 'Z' at the end of 'Newz.' That means only one thing: trouble. I'll assemble the SWAT team for an immediate raid. No warning shots. Shoot on sight."

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except the four dudes coming in the rear, in standard two-by-two cover formation.

I wonder what Santa Claus is up to right now?

Sure, we all knew what he was up to the past few days, but now he's got another whole year to prep for his next round of that sort of UPS-On-Steroids madness.

I bet he's in the studio laying down some new Christmas carols, playing high-stakes games of poker with the elves, or taking Mrs. Claus out to some sort of $1,000-per plate of cookies black tie affair.

Okay, not really.

Actually, I tend to believe Santa doesn't really eat cookies. And that he's not that fat. And that he's not that old. And that he doesn't have a long white beard.

Instead, I tend to believe Santa eats a lot of steaks and salads. And he's in pretty good shape. And that he's only in his early 50s. And he has grey scruff.

I'm more inclined to think of Santa as a highly-decorated ex-soldier named Col. Nick Klause, expertly-trained in tactical espionage, weapons, and hand-to-hand combat than I am to think of him as some sort of happy-go-lucky holiday gift distributor.

But just because he's all hardcore, it doesn't mean I don't think of him as someone who gives back.

In fact, I believe Col. Nick "Santa" Klause to be more of a socially-conscious Robin Hood kind of guy in his motivation, but with Jason Bourne's skillset, and Mattel's business model and resources.

After he left the military, he went on to do a few mercenary gigs for cash, but realized there were suffering children and families out there and wanted to bring joy to them. At the same time, he saw all the people out there who were causing suffering in the world, so he decided to take matters into his own hands.

That's when he moved to the North Pole, assembled his small army of ELVES (Elite Loyal Versatile Economist Soldiers), a unit of gruff, yet highly-educated commandos with similar socioeconomic ideologies.

Over the course of the year, Santa and his ELVES go on independent missions not sanctioned or sponsored—officially or unofficially—by any government, to raid the compounds and ships of warlords, drug lords, smugglers, pirates, and all other sorts of those types of bad dudes.

They use the resources they take from the bad guys, as well as any bad guys they manage to imprison rather than eliminate, for the fabrication and preparation of toys and presents at their maximum-security toy production facility.

Why do you think Santa picked the North Pole to set up shop? Even if the ELVES snipers wouldn't instantly pick off any escapees (which is only conjecture anyway, as no one's ever escaped), where would they escape to?

Exactly.

Anyway, so then, on Christmas Eve, Santa and eight of his ELVES gear up their Reign-DEER (Delivery Equipped Evasive Reconnaissance) Squadron jets to airdrop toys and food into the formerly unstable hot zones they'd previously gone into to clean up.

So, yeah.

Like I said: I wonder what Santa Claus is up to right now?

I do my dancing before weddings, not afterward

A couple months ago I was in New Hampshire to be in the wedding of one of my best friends from college.

On the morning of the wedding, he, myself, and one of our other college BFFs broke out into an impromptu dance party in our tuxes outside the church to DJ Kool's "Let Me Clear My Throat," which we had bumping while we waited for the rest of the wedding party to arrive.

New Hampshire is pretty much just like Kentucky from what I could tell (except with different accents), so I'm not sure if the handful of random people who drove by the church and decided to slow down and honk at us were encouraging us or if they were looking to take us out to a woodshed somewhere.

Either way, no one actually pulled all the way up the driveway to the church during our half-cocked reenactment of Step Up.

What I do know is that whatever their intent, if they had approached us, they'd have totally gotten served.

The Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa... Wait. I had to work today. Where the crap is my mail???

Rejoice, for Columbus Day is upon us!

Well, those of you who get the day off work might rejoice, but others of you who get to be stuck at work might not.

At my job, it’s what we call a "non-processing day." And that, of course, means that for some reason, our company isn’t closed when it would make sense for it to be.

It means that we have to go to work, but that we aren’t able to do our regular jobs because some of the other companies and government entities that affect what we do are fortunate enough to be closed.

So, instead of a regular workday, and—conversely—instead of getting to hang out in our pajamas all day watching Judge Judy, we file paperwork, we catch up on projects we’re working on, or if we’re extra lucky, our supervisors assign us extra non-processing day projects to prevent us from surfing the Internet all day.

While I generally like the pace and the peace of non-processing days—when I’m not getting slapped with busywork, of course—I would much rather prefer extra days off from work altogether.

Especially Columbus Day.

According to one lady in my department, back in the day it used to be the kind of federal holiday that required most businesses to be closed, so, like, no one in the entire country had to work.

I’m pretty sure that's not entirely true, but at least according to my own personal childhood memories—albeit faint childhood memories—school was always closed on Columbus Day.

I don’t know if Columbus Day was phased out as the kind of federal holiday that EVERYONE gets off work (if it ever actually existed in that state) because of vague economic reasons that don’t make sense to me—like why daylight savings time lasts roughly only a week now—or if it’s because by acknowledging anything relating to Christopher Columbus in this day and age, you’re somehow being viewed under a broader conclusion jump that paints you as pretty much dipping blankets in smallpox yourself.

I can’t speak to any of that stuff; however, while THIS DUDE is all like, "HEY, LOOK AT ME! I HATE HAVING DAYS OFF WORK! I LIKE WORKING ALL THE TIME (and Columbus was likely a pretty awful guy), SO NO ONE SHOULD BE ABLE TO HAVE THIS DAY OFF AT ALL!", I can speak to what we can do get Columbus Day back off work:

Change the name.

“Heritage Day.”

Boom.

It’s generic. Which is exactly why it should work.

It wouldn't include any taboo, or even borderline questionable words that people might take issue with for various reasons, like "Columbus," "Indians," "Remembrance," "Pride," "Origination," "European Oppression," or "People Were Already Living Here So You Can't Really 'Discover' It."

"Heritage Day" is just ambiguous enough that it allows people of all viewpoints to honor their respective heritages and/or their respective perspectives regarding the derivation of a Western society that provides their current existence. Or they can just celebrate the guilt they feel for simply being alive as a result of how things ultimately played out after Columbus blew up the spot.

"Heritage Day" is also generic enough that it doesn’t provide any sort of positive or negative connotations about anything, so no one should be offended by what hidden agendas are or are not actually behind it.

It's why "Thanksgiving" still works today. A much more directly sketchy history, but who thinks being thankful is bad?

So again: boom.

Let’s make this happen. You contact Congress. I’ll see if the judicial system wants in. Especially Judge Judy.

Happy Heritage Day!

(Unless "Heritage Day" is an actual holiday, or at least a Hallmark Holiday of some sort, of course. I didn't bother to look it up. But if it is, please disregard this post.)

At least that one British dude gives Billy Mays shout-outs in all the new OxiClean ads

Every time I happen to catch some TV station slip up and let an old Billy Mays commercial run, I get instantly confused.

I mean, my brain tells me that I know he's dead, but my heart won't let go.

"BILLY MAYS IS NOT DEAD!," I yell aloud in an otherwise darkened apartment — save for the light from the TV — as I wonder how he's dropping new material.

It reminds me of the first time I saw the music video for "To Live And Die In LA." It was still pretty early on following 2Pac's death, and it wasn't yet common knowledge that he left behind, like, entire studios full of unreleased music. Plus I was ignorant to how production cycles worked. So, of course, I was just all, "There's a new 2Pac video! He IS still alive!"

That memory prompts a whole inner debate about whether Billy Mays is dead like 2Pac, or if Billy Mays is not dead like 2Pac.

But then I remember that the Billy Mays ad I'm watching is the same Awesome Auger one I saw 80 bazillion times while he was alive, but that I've just not seen it in a really long time.

This is how I get down: The stairs. Up, too.

Shortly after I started working for the financial company I now work for, way, way back, like, a year and a half ago, the people running the company orientation session I went to were promoting an idea of an “elevator speech.”

For roughly the first half of the session — give an hour or so while the other noobs and I were busy assembling jigsaw puzzles — their casual references of this elevator speech concept did more to confuse me than anything.

My first thought was, “I don’t know anything about the inner workings of elevators — except for my relatively limited knowledge of pneumatic vacuum systems, of course, but what does any of that have to do with the world of finance and banking?”

And then my thoughts went all like, “Wait. Do I have to give a speech in an elevator? Will everyone stay on for all floors during my speech? Or will I have to deal with people constantly getting on and off while I’m orating? Because that could get distracting.”

But then as the orientation instructors went on about this elevator speech idea, they started mentioning stuff about how we would all need to be able to describe our jobs to strangers.

I’m not quite sure why they wanted us to tell strangers about our jobs. I don’t know about you, but I grew up being told not to talk to strangers.

Then I asked myself what telling strangers stuff about my job had to do with elevators, because I really wanted to know. It still didn’t make sense to me.

All I could think about was how I don’t usually take elevators if I have the option to take the stairs. Well, unless I have to go up like 30 stories or something, because then, even as a stairwell regular, I’d probably get all sweaty and out of breath and stuff, and that’s not fun for anyone.

I understand that there are some legitimate needs for elevators. I also understand that they can simply make things easier even if you don’t truly need to use them, and I further understand that’s probably why most people use them. However, sometimes I just prefer to do my own thing, so it’s the stairs for me.

You may not like the stairs yourself, but if you were ever to consider taking them, I promise there are, like, millions of reasons to do so. Okay, “millions” might be a stretch. But I did come up with four:

• Hip hop calves. Even if you’re not walking up a ton of flights of stairs, walking up one is better exercise than none. I don’t have a degree in kinesiology or pulmonology or anything, but I’d say it probably builds leg strength and endurance. And if you’re awesome, you can skip every other stair for a more intense workout.
• 28 Floors Later. You know how many germs circulate within elevators? Yeah, neither do I. But I just have to assume those boxes are veritable Petri dishes during cold and flu season. Well, maybe not, but that just seems like a reasonable guess to me. At the very least, I’m sure the buttons are all germy or something.
• Peace and quiet. Who really wants to talk to people? Especially in the morning? And that’s when you deal with most people on an elevator. Everyone comes in to work all tired and then you’re faced with the decision of either standing around awkwardly trying to avoid eye contact so as not to have to speak with anyone, or giving in to the feeling of obligation to make small talk about what you bought at the grocery store last night or how your mailman keeps delivering your mail to your next door neighbor.
• I don’t mean to brag. If the company you work for is like mine, then you have a yearly fire drill, which may include turning off the elevators to force a more realistic exit. But if your company's like mine, then you know they also take forever to turn the elevators back on. So, the more accustomed to walking up stairs you are, the less winded you’ll be at the end of the drill when you walk back into the building and up the stairs. Then you can be the person walking around telling everyone who’s breathing heavily, “Oh, y’know, I take the stairs ALL THE TIME. Because I’m awesome. So, yeah, that’s why I’m not all, like, tired and out of breath like everyone else and stuff.”

I have to admit that I’m not completely opposed to taking elevators, and I do happen to do so on occasion. However, if and when I do, no one should expect me to deliver any speeches while I’m on one.

However, all bets on public speaking are off if they ever build some escalators at my job.

Well, if it's good enough to get broke off a proper chunk, I'll take a small piece of some of that funky stuff.

It's 1983, it's 12:30 a.m., it's raining, and you're taking a shortcut home through some alley outside a new wave dance club where you can hear the bassline from Soft Cell's "Tainted Love" emanating from out of the broken men's bathroom window.

Aside from the rain and the fact that you hate that song, you feel good. You feel like you could fly and like nothing bad can happen. You just saw "Trading Places" as a second date with a woman you met a few weeks ago. You feel comfortable in this city; you've been living here for three years after traveling back here from the present day version of the same city.

Apparently you have some sort of time machine. That's cool, I guess, but I wish I would've known so I could've convinced you to let me travel back to the 1960s and remove the laugh track from The Flintstones. C'mon: it was a cartoon. I mean seriously — a laugh track on a cartoon?

Anyway, you're on your way home from your date in this dark alley with crappy music being thrown your way, so you bust out the iPod you brought back with you and fire up some old school Dr. Dre & Snoop Dogg.

Well, it was still like nine years from being released, but it was old school to you. You gotta have your jams. And you hate '80s music. For that reason alone, I still never understood why you chose to go back there.

Oh, yeah, so you're going about your business, being all, "...like this, that, and this and uh, it's like that, this, and that and uh, it's like this!" when — BOOM! — a crew of bikers pulls up from both sides of the alley. You stop and survey the bikers as they step off their motorcycles and form a circle around you.

One biker approaches you, insisting that you have something they want.

Despite assuming he was referring to something modern you brought back with you, like, probably the George Foreman grill you'd been bragging about to all of the 1983 people, you tell him you don't know what he's talking about.

He repeats that you do, and tells you that you will turn it over to them or face the consequences.

"Oh, really?" you ask. "The consequences?"

"Really," the biker retorts, mimicking your tone, like one of those punk little elementary school bully kids would do. "Steep consequences."

So you mean mug him, taking one those quick steps toward him like you're going to punch him, but don't raise anything more than your shoulders.

Dude flinches and you start laughing, so he takes a swing at you.

Apparently you were prepared, though, because you side-stepped it. You proved to be prepared for his next two punches as well, as you side-stepped those, too.

You grab him by the throat and make a point of looking him in the eyes: “That’s three strikes.”

Barely able to breathe, let alone talk, the biker lets out a wispy “I hate baseball,” before mustering the strength to pull a knife out of his belt and take one of those improbable swings at your stomach that bad guys always seem to be able to do when it looks like the good guy's in control.

You let go of his neck and jump back, causing him to miss yet again. You back up and ready yourself in some sort of martial art stance.

“That wasn’t a baseball reference,” you inform him in one of those Jack Bauer angry whispers. “I was talking about the three-strikes justice philosophy.”

Dude, also: why didn’t you ever tell me you knew karate or jiu-jitsu or whatever? Because I’d totally have asked you for some lessons and tips or something.

Anyway, so then this biker guy rushes at you with the knife over his head, except not really.

And by “not really,” I mean you just sweep his legs out from under him before he can get close. Dude gets knocked out when his head hits the ground during the fall.

The second you go to grab his knife, the rest of the bikers charge in at you.

At that point, you just go on some sort of crazy, parkour-fueled Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon display of beatdownsmanship, jumping off the alley walls and knocking out multiple bikers with single spin kicks, and all sorts of other cool stuntman tricks/martial artistry.

With the whole biker posse laid out in the alley, one last bike pulls up and some big tall menacing looking dude gets off. He pulls out a gun and shoots you before walking up to you, standing over you, and telling you "...so just chill 'til the next episode."

Yeah, I still haven’t figured out how he knew the words to “Nuthin' But A 'G' Thang.”

And now you’re just waking up from your coma, 27 years older.

Oh, and that chick you were dating, strangely enough, ended up marrying the biker dude who shot you. She never heard from you again and figured you weren’t into her, so one night she was drowning her sorrows over you at a bar that the big biker dude frequented.

So, yeah, they’ve got, like, grandkids together now or something.