When I first came out to my mom, she repeatedly expressed concern for my safety, as if the villagers were waiting outside my door with torches and pitchforks.

"Lots of people don't like the gays, you know," she said, referring to "the gays" as their own species. "Why would you want to put yourself in danger like that?"

Like any experienced Jewish son, I quickly disregarded my mother's concern as paranoia. This is a woman who would triple-lock her bedroom door living in a convent (probably to ward off any lesbian nuns). When I became a lawyer, she suggested I change my last name and pretend to be gentile, because "law firms might not like the Jews." I informed her that in fact many of the most prominent law firms had Jewish names, but my mother wrote that off to an "attempt to be politically correct." According to her, those Jews were probably just figureheads. Apparently the Pope is the real mastermind behind the American legal system.

But despite the results of loaded polling and a few bad apples, I don't think most people really care where I put my penis (though perhaps I should care more). Sure, there are still some intolerant people out there, but people will always find a reason to dislike you if they feel like it. If it's not my sexuality it might be my taste for ketchup on pasta. Personally, I cannot stand people who use correct punctuation in e-mails. They make the rest of us look plain lazy.

By the time I came out to my mother I had been out of the closet for the better part of a decade, and in all that time I never once felt physically endangered because of my sexuality. Ok, a bunch of frat boys did yell "fag" at me from a passing car once, but that epitaph seemed motivated more by a general desire to insult someone than a direct reference to my sexuality. Though I'm not the most masculine guy in the world, most straight guys have horrible gaydar, and cannot accurately determine another guy's sexuality, especially from two hundred feet away. Despite their tendency to call each other "fag" and "homo," straight guys generally don't like to think anyone is actually gay, probably because that would mean that they could be also. I had a college roommate who, after I came out to him, insisted that I "prove" to him that I was gay, even though the VCR was always set to record The Golden Girls and my CD collection spanned Liza's career from rise to meltdown. I offered him a blow job as proof; he politely declined, but my earnestness was enough to convince him that I was telling the truth.

Although my mother's concern for my well-being was misplaced, it was not completely irrational. It's not the hostile straights she should have warned me against, who are easily dismissed and avoided. No, had my mother known better, she would have warned me about the hostile gays, who run the homosexual social network with a latex fist.

The act of exiting the closet involves more than just fessing up to your sexual orientation. It also includes reentering a world of behavior that had been previously discarded at the playground gates. For a certain type of gay, coming out of the closet is a license to tease, taunt, and torment with impunity. And it's not just the heavy, bald, and/or old who suffer as a result of this mass regression. Something as small as wearing last season's man clogs can destroy an entire evening. The gay gene exists in conjunction with the teenage girl gene.

Of course, the homosexuals don't have a monopoloy on superficiality. There's certainly no America's Next Top Electrical Engineer, or Make Me A Supernerd, and there's a growing number of Botoxed, retoxed, and detoxed women out there who may not be biodegradable anymore. But its the homosexuals who have turned a character flaw into a pathology.

I knew I had entered unfriendly territory the first time I went to a gay bar. Naively, I decided to go alone, hoping that people would be friendly and welcome me with open arms. Sort of like a gay Cheers, without the bad lighting and all the mahogany.

"Oh, hey everyone, it's Jonah! He just came out of the closet! Let's give him a big cheer!" At which point they would lift me on their shoulders and perhaps do a hora, depending on the Jew to gentile ratio.

The reality was slightly different. No one cheered when I entered, there were no horas in sight, and everybody neither knew my name nor cared to. Instead I found a crowd of men standing self-consciously around a dance floor, eyeing each other with looks that were equal parts suspicious, derisive, and sexual. Each time someone caught another person's gaze, the first person would quickly look away -- no no, I'm not interested in you, I was actually looking at your friend, you know, the hotter one. It was a junior high school dance, except everyone had a drink, a cigarette, and a penis.

I downed my first vodka cranberry quickly. It tasted curiously like Robitussin, and I wondered if the bar had the same vodka supplier as CVS. I ordered another one, and downed that one as well. I wasn't trying to get drunk -- having a drink in front of my face just gave me something to look at, because whenever I looked up I inevitably saw someone who was better dressed, better coifed, or better looking than me. Were my ears always this pointy? Is my right eye bigger than my left? Is that a third nipple? How did I let myself get to this point at all? I felt the birth of a new psychosis coming over me; pathological self-consciousness. Coming out was supposed to decrease my therapy bills, not the other way around.

The second vodka cranberry hit me quickly -- I have the bladder of a munchkin -- and I abandoned my safe corner stool to venture to the bathroom.

Several guys stood in front of the bathroom, carefully judging every person coming in and going out. They reminded me of the old Muppets who sit in the balcony and make fun of the various goings-on below them, except they were wearing Diesel jeans and two hundred dollar t-shirts. They were also significantly less urbane than their felt counterparts.

"Hey did you see the butt on him? Do you think he needs the jaws of life to get him out of a car?"
"That hair looks better on my dog."
"I've seen smaller love handles on Dom DeLuise."

Ten years ago, these same guys were being stuffed in lockers and hung from flagpoles. Watching them disparage everyone who crossed their path, part of me wished their high school tormentors would swing by and give a command performance.

Fortunately, I entered the bathroom behind a group of heavyset men (heavyset by gay standards, average by straight ones) who attracted their attention, and the evil Muppets did not notice me. Only then did I realize that using the facilities might be more complicated than I expected. The men's room consisted of a long troth with a mirror above it tilted downward, the goal presumably to give its users the opportunity to urinate and window shop at the same time. Fortunately I was sufficiently tipsy by that point that I didn't notice the gaggle of men staring at me, or more precisely, at it. But I was not so tipsy as to hang around for one moment longer than I needed to.

Unfortunately, although I escaped unscathed when I went into the bathroom, I wasn't so lucky on the way out.

"What do we think of the hat?," referring to the wool ski cap I was wearing that night to keep my ears warm in the chilly Boston night. I didn't know that a five dollar hat could also be a fashion statement.

"It could work, if his face wasn't so chunky." No one had called me "chunky" since ninth grade, when I was slightly overweight due to an excess of quarter-pounders and a deficiency of physical activity. Gym class didn't keep my weight down, probably because I hadn't actually participated in gym class since I learned to successfully forge my mother's signature. Luckily my gym teacher wasn't too smart.

"You were mauled by a polar bear?," the coach asked when I handed him a particularly inventive note. "Don't polar bears live in the Arctic?"

"Oh, no. There has been a rash of polar bear attacks on Long Island lately. Damn global warming!"

Unfortunately, during junior year my not-so-smart straight male gym teacher was replaced by a more intelligent lesbian version who didn't take kindly to my increasingly pathetic excuses and was increasingly suspicious of the constant notes.

"You know, I think I'm going to call your mother and check on some of these notes of yours," she told me.

"Oh, ok, yeah, go ahead," I said, calling her bluff. "But don't call after 1pm. That's when she has -- what's it called again -- chemotherapy? And after that she's usually vomiting most of the night, but if I hold the phone up to her ear she might be able to talk in between heaves."

My mother's imaginary cancer aside, I decided to kick it up a notch, ditch the freak accident route, and instead develop a physical ailment that essentially prevented me from participating in all but the most innocuous physical activities, most of which involved sitting stationary for prolonged periods of time. Fortunately I had a very sympathetic pediatrician who backed me up, probably because he knew my parents were insane and was always two steps from calling child protective services.

Looking back, I should have participated in more gym classes. I might have developed a thicker skin if I had.

"Yeah, he sure is chubby," Muppet #2 replied. Again, no one had called me "chubby" since high school, when John Leclark told me I had "chubby hair." I'm still not sure what that meant.

"His head is actually much larger than the rest of his body," he continued, taking a sip of a clear drink. "I'm surprised he doesn't tip over in a stiff wind."

"And did you check out the shoes? Can we say payless, suffer more?"

Well, that was it. I may have been newly out of the closet, but I knew that a shoe insult was akin to a bitch slap, and required a reply. I stopped dead in front of them.

"You know I can hear you, right?" I said to Muppet #1. I chose to address him because he was smaller than me, and I thought I could take him if it came to blows. Though at that time in my life I was so out-of-shape that Punky Brewster probably could have beat me up. But there's no shame in that. She was one scrappy lesbian.

It didn't come to blows. It didn't even come to words, really. They both stared at me for a minute, and then Muppet #2 said:

"So?"

And that was that. I stood there for another moment, considering whether to escalate the situation, and decided against it. There were already enough drama queens under this roof, and one more might have exceeded the building's capacity.

But there was another reason to let it go -- it just wasn't worth it. Standing directly in front of them, I felt not anger, but pity. In their $200 t-shirts and jeans three sizes too small, these guys had become caricatures of themselves. They had queer-eyed themselves to death, and in the process, forgotten the dictates of general human decency. And for that, I felt bad for them. Perhaps feeling bad for them was actually the greatest revenge of all.

A few minutes later, I looked up from my third vodka cranberry -- the drinks were tasting better with every passing moment, the miracle of alcohol -- and saw them still standing there, except now Muppet #2, the taller, more aesthetically pleasing one of the pair, had made a new friend, and Muppet #1 was now left to fend for himself. Something told me this was not a new experience for him. Muppet #1 was still scanning the room for victims, but now he had no one to share his fabulous misery with. All those insults, gone to waste in his head.

It was then that I made a resolution, never to become a caricature of myself. I promised that night to be kind to everyone, regardless of race, ethnicity, age, weight -- I even promised to be kind to those that others wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole, like lepers, or Republicans. Not out of pity, but solidarity. Together we could take back the night from the evil Muppets and their ilk. I promised to be the saint of every gay bar I'd go to for the rest of my life. I would treat every individual with the dignity and respect that I expect to be treated with myself.

But only if they're not bald. Even saints have limits.

When I die, I want a destination funeral. I would rather have a destination wedding, but it doesn't look like I'll be allowed to get married in this lifetime, so I'm going to have to settle for a destination funeral. I don't think Republicans can outlaw that, though I suppose they can try. Anything can be outlawed if enough people make a stink over it. Just ask Anita Bryant.

This isn't the first time I've planned my post-death activities. When I was 15, I decided I wanted to be frozen when I died. Not like Lenin, though; frozen heads are so 1964. And not stuck in some mausoleum with a bunch of gawking tourists. No, I wanted to be frozen and sat on my couch with a remote control in my hand. Of course, the remote control would automatically change the channel every so often to make sure I didn't get bored. Sports-related channels would be blocked, except for swim meets. Death is no match for a well-fitting pair of Speedos.

But before anyone goes planning any interventions, let me be clear -- barring unforeseen circumstances, my destination funeral won't happen for several decades. I have a lot of living left to do, and several tasks I'd like to accomplish before I go. Read War and Peace. See the pyramids. Figure out why the Golden Girls spin-off failed so miserably. And even if I never accomplish any of these tasks, I'm not planning to go anywhere until gay marriage is legalized in Texas, so everyone has plenty of time to prepare.

Still, we all have to go sometime, so when 2073 rolls around, and I've had my fill of pool boys, sponge baths, and oatmeal, I want to be ready.

The biggest question, of course, is where to have it. Somewhere warm would be nice for the guests. Maybe Disneyworld. I went to a wedding in Disneyworld once, it was surprisingly fun. Mickey and Minnie cut the cake and then they did the watoosie with the bride and groom. No one can be unhappy in Disneyworld, not even during a funeral. Maybe they could shoot my body out of Space Mountain. Still, I think getting the Disney people to agree to a destination funeral would take a lot of convincing, unless I can persuade them that my body is animatronic. So Disneyworld is probably out.

Even so, it would surely be pleasant for my guests to get away for a weekend to a lovely tropical spot, like Hawaii. Of course, Hawaii could be expensive, but you only die once. And they wouldn't have to feel bad about taking a trip. There's always a bit of guilt when you take days off from work for happy occasions, like a vacation, or a Bette Midler concert. You're out of the office, enjoying your day, singing along to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, while your colleagues are toiling away, covering for you, seething with jealousy. No one would seethe with jealousy over a funeral. Well, maybe they would if it was in Hawaii, but expressing that sentiment would be in very poor taste. Gee, they might think, I wish my friend had just died so I could go to Hawaii, but they would never actually say that. At least not the polite ones.

I also want people to hook up at my funeral. What's the point of a vacation without a little nookie? Because I have more female friends than male ones, and because women generally live longer than men, I realize there's a good possibility that the guest list will be XX-heavy (although, the way they're going, some of my male friends might be women by then). I suppose if there are some lesbians on the guest list they could hook up with each other, but for the straight widows it's probably too late for them to switch teams at that point. They need some options too. Maybe I'll hire a few male prostitutes, just for them.

Another question is when and where to register. I think I'll pre-register; all gifts must be received between now and my 75th birthday. That will give people plenty of time to plan. Plus I can register for really expensive shit, maybe set up some kind of savings plans for the gifts. So instead of registering for bed sheets and fondue sets, I can register for trips to Barbados and Mercedes. All they have to do is save a few dollars a day for forty years - walk to work instead of taking the subway, buy generic detergent instead of a name-brand, send little Johnnie to state school instead of Yale. Little sacrifices, big payoffs. For me at least.

Of course, the fear is that people will procrastinate and not buy anything until it's clear that I'm on my way out. It's difficult to yell at someone for buying you a crock-pot when you're 94 years old and hooked up to a respirator. So I plan to drop subtle hints of my eventual demise over the coming years.

"I heard that Cuba is re-building its nuclear arsenal. You think we can avoid obliteration twice?"

"How about that Ebola virus? No telling when that little bugger might hit. I'm feeling a bit feverish myself."

"Is it a bad sign when you can see your own kidneys?"

If none of that works, I'll just wear a black t-shirt with a skull and crossbones and an arrow pointing towards my head.

Then there's the requisite "DJ or band" decision. DJs are more middle-class, though a band is always risky. "Wind Beneath My Wings" (the funeral's theme song, along with "Margaritaville") can really be butchered in the wrong hands. Although perhaps by the time my funeral comes around music as we know it will be obsolete. I bet Cher will still be around, though. Maybe I can pre-book her. I hear she gives a free toilet scrubber with each performance.

I expect that the sensationalism of the event will draw spectators and press, and there will be people clamoring to get on the guest list. A destination funeral? How unique and inventive! What genius came up with that unique and inventive idea? He must be quite a unique and inventive fellow! Maybe there should be a bouncer to keep out the undesirables, e.g., guys who pop their polo collar, and people who don't own a television set. Not owning a television set doesn't say "I'm intellectual" - it says "I'm boring." And polo collars are made to point down. If you want to rebel against society, do it the old-fashioned way - get fucked in a public restroom, or vote for Ralph Nader.

I've taken online life expectancy tests to help me estimate the date of my destination funeral. I don't think they are accurate. They ask questions like, do you smoke, and do you wear suntan lotion. I don't smoke, and I always wear suntan lotion. I've seen too many yellow-teethed, leathery-skinned queens at gay bars and Long Island diners to do otherwise. And I always eat my vegetables. I'm particularly partial to zucchini, the most sophisticated of the phallic squashes. According to these online tests I'm going to live to be 117 years old. Which would be nice, but given that I have at least two panic attacks a day and often lose feeling in my extremities, unlikely.

I need a personalized life expectancy test instead, with questions like, how many times a day do you masturbate (twice), and do you dry heave when you call your mom (yes). Other factors that should be considered in my personalized test:

Have you ever lived in New York City? Yes. Like a Liza Minnelli therapy session, New York is not for the faint of heart. When I first moved to New York, I went out with a guy who asked me if he could inject saline solution into my testicles. I politely declined, at which point he told me I would never last in New York. Apparently you can't make it in New York unless you're the type of person who enjoys having salt water injected into his balls. Minus six years.

Do you drink laundry detergent? Yes, in a fashion. I have a compulsive biting habit. When I was little I used to bite myself, my sister, and other family members. As I got older I realized that biting people could be construed as offensive behavior. So I started biting inanimate objects. Now I bite my pillow, blanket, old t-shirts -- anything within twelve inches of my mouth when I'm sleeping (which might account for my lack of boyfriend). I've probably swallowed several gallons of detergent by now. That can't be healthy, although my stomach acid probably smells lemony-fresh at this point. Minus three years.

Do you keep clean? Yes. I live in a super antiseptic home. Now, that sounds like a good thing, but it's not in the long run. My home is so clean I haven't been exposed to a germ in decades. Eventually a superbug will come along and my immune system won't be ready for it. I'd move into a plastic bubble, but I'm claustrophobic. Minus two years.

That's already eleven years off. I suppose I have a few things going for me though. I never kick puppies, I give up my seat on the subway for old people (as long as they are sufficiently decrepit), and once I even helped a lady carry a baby stroller down a flight of stairs. Granted, I was doing it to impress a cute guy holding the door, but good karma is good karma. Plus two years. I watch a significant amount of reality television, which puts my body into a sort of hibernation state during which I do not age. Plus five months. I never drink from a bottle when the safety cap is already popped and I wasn't the one who popped it. Plus three months. I'm a very selfish lover; I pretty much just lay there like a tuna. Less strain on my heart. Plus one year. So it's not all bad news for me.

Optimally, this would be a surprise destination funeral and I wouldn't have to plan anything. But for that to happen I'd need a boyfriend to plan it, and that's looking more and more doubtful with each passing year. My hairline has steadily been receding since I was 25. It's now about half an inch from gay death. Gay death occurs when you no longer resemble an Abercrombie & Fitch model -- you are not actually dead, but you might as well be. While gay death is directly correlated to age (every gay man over 40 is technically dead) some gays were born dead. You might be suffering from gay death if you:

Have a waistline over 32 inches.
Can go online without being solicited for prostitution.
Shop at Sears.
Haven't needed a haircut since the 70s.
Remember the 70s.

This is not an exhaustive list. If you think you may be suffering from gay death, please visit the nearest Jenny Craig or Hair Club for Men. No one besides a trained specialist or any 19 year old twink can accurately diagnosis gay death. The only cure for gay death is actual death.

But if I am partnered when I die, I think my partner should assume some of this responsibility. After all, a tacky funeral reflects poorly on him - this is the guy you spent the last forty years of your life with? So I think I'll leave some details open at this point, like hair, make-up, party favors, selection of a Cher impersonator (or Cher herself, sans toilet scrubber). Relationships are all about compromise.

I'm not looking forward to death, and if I could live forever, I would. I'm fascinated by too many unanswerable mysteries of life, like what's the sound of one hand clapping, and how in the world did Michael Jackson procreate. But if all these people are going to get together to celebrate my life one day, I want them to enjoy themselves. Your funeral is the last memory people have of you. It's your last chance to make a good impression. I've spent my whole life building up a reputation as a good host. Why spoil it just before the finish line?

Good morning, thank you for coming to Bernie Goldfarb's funeral. I am your host, Bernie Goldfarb.

And before all of you rush the dais to check the coffin, I am actually dead. That's me in there, all two hundred eighty pounds of me. You're not going to find a picture of me standing next to Elvis on the front page of the Enquirer, caught on line at the Tuscaloosa 7-11. Seriously, what kind of person fakes his own death only to be discovered buying an orange slurpee? If I was going to fake my own death, trust me, you'd never find me. I'd be vacuum-sucked and stapled to within an inch of my life. Sadly, I am not on the receiving end of a Hoover right now. I'm lying in that box, probably wearing some god-awful suit Sylvia picked out for me as her final revenge.

Still, since there are several lawyers in the audience, I realize you might need proof. So go ahead and check. I'll wait. I've got time.

[Pause for mourners to check the coffin.]

Satisfied? Good. How did I look? Bloated, I'm sure, but then again, is that any different from how I looked before? Let's not kid ourselves people, I was a tub. And it wasn't like John Goodman-fat, where the weight is in all the right places. No one voted me sexiest fat man alive. Hell, even if I wasn't fat I'd still be pretty ugly. Not that Syl was Miss America. She wasn't even Miss Fat Jewess Harpy America. Our relationship was based on mutual unattraction. Oh, Syl. I kid because I detest. But we'll get back to that in a moment.

I've asked my business partner Ira to read this, because I know that no matter what it says, he'll say it. Ira has no qualms about hurting people's feelings, and might be slightly sociopathic. When we represented that corporation accused of killing hundreds of people with laced aspirin (and by the way, contrary to what I said in open court, they did do it -- trust me, I shredded the documents myself), he didn't lose a night's sleep. Even when we cross-examined that six-year-old girl who testified that she watched her mother's skin peel off and her eyeballs pop out of her head. Ira grilled that kid to death. In fact, I think I saw him crack a smile during her testimony. Though that might have been gas.

And no matter what I say here, Ira, you have my deepest gratitude for reading my eulogy. Because frankly, I don't trust the rest of you jokers to deliver a proper memorial. Most of my family members are dumb as bricks -- I swear my grandparents must have been first cousins -- and those of you who are not dumb as bricks are smart enough to realize that I didn't like you. As for my friends, our friendship was mostly based on silent disrespect and implied animosity. You were just waiting for me to kick off, so you could pretend that you actually liked me. "Oh Bernie, what a terrific guy," you'd say to each other, knowing full well that I was terrific at nothing, except maybe making money and collecting Civil War memorabilia (which, according to my will, should be buried with me). But, after I'm dead, you get to be all pompous and self-serving, and I won't be around to call you out on it, nor would anyone else. Improper to speak ill of the dead, they'd say. That really burns my biscuits. Why should my legacy as a bastard be ruined by pointless etiquette?

So I've written my own eulogy to ensure that you don't memorialize me through empty and misleading cliches like, I hope he knew what meant to all of us. I knew exactly what I meant to all of you, which is how I ended up in this box.

And before any of you run for the door, or Ira throws this speech in the incinerator along with all the heathen corpses (atheists, Catholics, etc.), be warned. Anyone who does not sit through this eulogy will not receive a red penny of my estate, which you all know was relatively sizable, thanks to years of profiting off of other people's misery. Of course, you have no idea whether I actually left you anything. Judging from my miserly personality, you probably expect that I tried to take it with me. Frankly, the Egyptians had the right idea in that regard. I considered requiring that my secretary be buried along with me, just in case I need a cup of coffee or a foot rub on the way to hell. Of course, in thirty years she never got my coffee right, but I would so enjoy berating her for eternity. I also considered demolishing my home and turning it into a nuclear waste facility, just for kicks. So it is highly unlikely that any of you will walk out of here with anything. Actually, considering the rising costs of gasoline, in all likelihood today is actually a net loss for you. And I specifically chose a funeral home that does not validate parking.

But are you really willing to take that chance? What if I had a moment of generosity in the end, and left everything to my one-testicled nephew Leon? How about my mother's miniature unicorn collection that you've had your eyes on for the past twenty years, Millie? Maybe I decided to finally rid my family of that hideous legacy and pass it on to you. And Fred, you could definitely use my Hooters frequent customer reward points. If you leave now, you'll get zippo. Not even enough to get you a free basket of nachos and a lap dance. He who dies first laughs last.

In all honesty, though, most of you really have nothing to worry about today. Two of the major sources for my life's constant disappointments -- my parents -- died at a relatively young age in that terrible fertilizer explosion, which was a major disappointment in and of itself, seeing as I never got the opportunity to put them in a moderately sub-par nursing home. The quality of nursing homes should be based on the quality of the parenting. The Cleavers would be fed daily and taken for regular walks around a lush garden filled with roses and pomegranate petals. Hitler's parents would be strapped to crucifixes and subjected to repeating loops of Celine Dion's world tour. My parents would have fallen somewhere in the middle; they'd be fed daily, but never brand-name products, and they'd only get enough exercise to prevent their muscles from atrophying. Though the quality of their nursing home would have been a sliding scale. The longer they lived, the lower the standard of the home. If they had lived till 90, they probably would have ended up in one of the homes featured on 60 Minutes (which I considered more as advertisements than cautionary tales). That's not as cruel as it sounds, since by then they wouldn't have known the difference between a whirlpool and a bed pan. It wouldn't have come to that, though. Eating generic oatmeal would have killed my mother long before.

And I'm not going to waste my time listing all of the ways in which each of you has disappointed me through the years. We'd be here way too long for that -- I could spend four hours on my plumber alone -- and the room is only reserved until 11. I may be selfish, but I'm not a monster. Other people need to be buried today too, and as nice as the mortician may seem, he'd sell his mother down the river for another corpse. Business is business.

Besides, I don't even remember most of the little disappointments. One or two stick out in my memory, more for their anecdotal quality than for any particular impact they had on my life. Like when Syl's brother Curtis mispronounced my name as "Goldfart" during his wedding toast. "I'm sorry, it was just an accident," he said, with a slight chuckle. Sure, Curtis. So was the malfunctioning diaphragm that led to your existence. It's like I said during dinner last Thanksgiving -- Syl's whole side of the family should be sterilized. I'm no fan of the Nazis, but they were on to something with the eugenics idea. Maybe we could get a forced sterilization law passed in this country. Yet another reason to vote Republican.

Then when my daughter April got married -- her name another disappointment, but a necessary compromise to my harpy of a wife, who wanted to name her "Harmony" -- her brilliant ex-husband Mark actually did something intelligent, and persuaded her to sign a pre-nup, thereby forcing me to support her if she cheated on him, which, being her mother's daughter, she inevitably did. He probably took one look at Syl and figured whorishness might run in the family. Not that I really blame her for cheating on Mark. She was blessed with big tits and a small IQ. We had to special order her first brassiere from Sweden. When she was 15 she asked for a breast reduction, but I refused, being of the firm belief that IQ is inversely proportional to breast size. I liked having a stupid daughter with big breasts; it -- or more precisely, they -- provided me with a much-needed source of pride. They made up for my son's uncomfortably small penis, which was an extreme letdown, and I contend to this day, the number one reason for his violent felony record. Guys with big dicks just don't hold up Dairy Queens. Plus, I thought April would get me a discount to whatever strip club she worked at. Although I only would have gone on her nights off. I didn't want to see my daughter taking it off for a bunch of horny Asian businessmen. That's just gross.

But really, I didn't bring you all here to disparage you. Nothing I could say today would change the fact that my wife was a shrew, or that my son couldn't satisfy a fruit fly. The real reason I'm talking to you today is to answer the one question that is on all of your minds. The pink elephant in the room. Something you all wanted to know, but never dared to ask, probably because I would have sued you for slander if you had.

Why in the world was Bernie such an asshole?

I wish I had a complex psychological explanation for you, something stemming from an emotionally or physically abusive childhood, perhaps. Maybe my parents sold me into African slavery at a tender age -- a sort of reverse affirmative action for the politically correct age -- or maybe they gave my favorite teddy bear to a poor and undeserving homeless child. But despite their shitty death, my parents weren't all that bad. Sure, they weren't the sharpest tacks in the bunch, but stupidity is not a crime (not yet, anyway -- vote Republican!). In fact, I probably caused more psychological damage to them than vice versa. And contrary to the e-mail chain that went around the firm last summer, I am not the spawn of Satan. If I was, none of you would still be here, having each met a painful and terrible demise. I'm particularly partial to flaying myself.

No, there was nothing in my past that led to my esteemed position as town prick. Sure, I was a lawyer, but being a lawyer was an effect, not a cause. So why did associates vomit at the sight of my number on their caller ID? Why did I consistently tip 2% or less? Why did I repeatedly bring home dying puppies for my children? Well, here's the long-awaited answer.

Because I enjoyed it.

Yes, that's it, it's that simple. After all those years of psychoanalysis you've invested in to determine why I treated you the way I did, that is what it comes down to -- treating you like crap gave me the jollies. The Philadelphia psychiatric community owes me big time. I put half of their kids through college with the agony I caused. Not to mention the pharmaceutical industry. The year of my first divorce, sales of Prozac exceeded the GDP of Liberia. Now that I'm dead, any of you with stock in the pharmaceutical industry should sell. Those companies are in for a major hit. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Of course, there is still the question of why I enjoyed torturing you all. Since it wasn't environmental, it must have been genetic. There must be an asshole gene. And why shouldn't there be? There's a homosexual gene, at least according to those bleeding heart liberals. Why shouldn't there be an asshole gene too? There's an easy way to tell. Someone run out and get a vial of Dick Cheney's blood. I think W. wears one around his neck.

This could be a monumental discovery, too. If there is an asshole gene, that means assholes might be eradicated. Or at least banished. That's what I always said they should do with the homosexuals. Put all of them on some faraway island together, so they can screw each other in peace. It can be a nice island, I don't care, as long as they don't have oil, or any other precious resource. The United States doesn't negotiate with homosexuals.

No one ever bought into my homosexual exile idea -- more evidence for my theory that all of you are actually queers, with the exception of my small-dicked son, who couldn't make it as a gay -- but I have a feeling that my asshole exile idea would get more support. Think of it. A world without assholes. A world of polite people, politely giving up their seats for the elderly on the subway, politely over tipping, politely voting Democrat. Sounds like my own personal hell. I suppose I'll find that out soon enough.

Maybe it'll happen. Of course, if it does, the banished assholes would probably form an army and conquer the wusses who banished them in the first place, thereby mixing assholes and wusses and starting all over again. It will be one long, unending cycle of peace and violence, until someone presses the wrong button and the only assholes or wusses left are radioactive. Until that day though, at least you can comfort yourselves knowing that I'm in this box, and not roaming the streets looking for kittens to hang and liberals to punch. This is one less asshole you'll have to kick around.

So I was born an asshole, and I died an asshole. That's it. Don't look for deeper meaning, because there is none. There's no disintegrating sled in my fireplace.

If that was all I had to tell you, though, you'd be entitled to kick my coffin for making you come today. Nothing I've said so far was truly a surprise. I've just confirmed what you already suspected. And personally, I've enjoyed kicking you while I'm down. But I want to give you your money's worth. (Ira, you did collect admission from everyone, right? Make sure my grandmother paid her share. 108 year olds are notoriously shifty.)

So here comes the big finish.

Everyone here assumes I died of natural causes. Makes sense. As previously established, I was a tub. The only reason I never hired a prostitute is that I'd rather spend my money on food. Even the best fucks only last a few minutes, but a side of bacon can last a whole week. If Miss Piggy turned tricks, that would have been the best of both worlds.

But you're wrong about my so-called "natural" death. It wasn't my time to go, even if you all wished it was. In fact, I probably could have lasted several more decades, at least. It's amazing how many years one can survive purely on bitterness and recrimination (and a five pound sirloin daily).

Which brings me back to Syl. How are you doing, Syl? Enjoying the merry widow routine? You must look fabulous today. You're probably beaming. Not that I blame you. I'd be the same way if our roles were reversed. In fact, I'd probably be drunk, and not the depressed, my life is over kind of drunk. More like the celebrate good times, KC and the Sunshine Band, kind of drunk. You were never much of a drinker, though. You stuck to the pills; as you always said, pills are "much less messy, and don't leave any morning-after breath." You were such a sucker for appearances, which begs the question of your fashion sense. But I'm not going to get into that can of track pants. This is my eulogy, not yours.

And I suppose Leon is sitting next to you, consoling you as we speak. How's that one testicle, Leon? Leon lost the other one in a tragic boating accident when he was six. Tragic for him, hilarious for me. Though I think the impact on his life has been relatively minimal. I doubt most women notice. They're probably paying much more attention to his snaggle-tooth. Or his humongous nostrils. He is still far more attractive than his father, though, who met an untimely death at the receiving end of a pitchfork and an army of angry villagers.

Syl and Leon -- such a lovely pair. They rank up there with Adolph and Eva, Sid and Nancy, and Bill and Hillary as people I'd most like to meet pushing boulders up a hill in hell. Which will happen soon enough. Because, you see, they murdered me.

Oh, don't look so shocked. Is this really another surprise? Someone was bound to do it eventually. If it hadn't been them, it would have been someone else I pissed off in my daily rampage. I recently caught the paperboy shooting an unloaded BB gun at my car. My secretary bought herself an extra sharp letter opener for Christmas. And just last week I found the mail room staff constructing a crude mannequin out of UPS boxes with my face stapled to the head, which they promptly hung from a rafter on the ceiling. It's only a small step from effigy to actual corpse.

So really you should all be thanking Syl and Leon for taking the fall here, because another week and it might have been you. Still, murder is murder. However unfair it might seem, killing an asshole is still illegal. Unless Syl could prove that I beat her, but no one would believe that. I was way too fat and lazy, and she is too mean herself. A jury would never buy that Syl suffered from Battered Woman's Syndrome, unless that term referred to pancake batter.

And there's no need to deny it, guys. It's all caught on video, which my lawyer delivered directly to the authorities, and which is probably circulating around YouTube as we speak. About a month ago I overheard you talking about it in the living room and decided to install miniature cameras in every room of the house. Here's a tip: when you're planning to murder someone, don't plan it with them in the house. I was watching Rachel Ray at the time, so you probably thought I was too busy masturbating to overhear anything. You were wrong. Lucky for me, she had a guest host on that day. The Naked Chef. I had no interest in him, culinary or otherwise.

Of course, you're wondering why I didn't try to stop them. Well, first of all, I never thought Leon would have the ball to go through with it. All he had to do was buy the strychnine, but that seemed like too much of a responsibility for a person who always carries around an extra pair of underwear, just in case. And anyway, like I said, I figured one of you would kill me eventually, and poisoning seemed like the cleanest way to go. I sure as hell didn't want to be on the receiving end of that letter opener. If my secretary was as inept at killing people at she was at everything else, I would have been hacked more times than a sturgeon by the time she nicked a major artery.

Plus, I thought this situation held a certain poetic justice. I sure didn't want to go before Syl, but I knew that it was a strong possibility, given her iron-clad living will. I tried to build loopholes into it (do not resuscitate in case of brain damage, coma, or involuntary smothering), but she was too quick for that. This way, I might be gone, but Syl's on her way out as well. And her remaining days will be spent in some filthy lesbo lockdown. Of course, she probably won't be that popular. Lesbians have their standards too.

My only regret is that you didn't murder me in Texas. The average lag time between conviction and execution there is four days, and I hear the current governor is trying to get that reduced as well. Eventually he intends to turn the defendant's seat into an electric chair, so that the moment the jury reads the verdict, the judge can just press a button and be done with it. That's my kind of state. Speaking of which, I do hope the electric chair is still around by the time they get around to frying you, Syl. I can't think of a better final punishment for you than an involuntary perm.

Whew. I feel so much better having gotten all of that off my plus-sized chest. Police are posted at every exit, so don't try to run, Syl. Not that you could run if you tried, given that you haven't seen your own feet since the Carter Administration. It doesn't matter much to me whether you try to run, Leon. Hopefully someone on the brigade is a crack shot, but it would be no great disappointment if you got away. In fact, I always kind of felt bad for you. Life is tough enough with two balls.

And Syl, I'm sure I'll see you soon, thanks to the Supreme Court's disregard of international norms of decency. But until then, I'll be resting in peace, probably tormented by dozens of little red men with pitchforks. No matter. It's still better than sleeping with you.

As for the rest of you, your initial inclination was correct. You're not getting squat. I'm leaving it all to Leona Helmsley's dog -- that bitch deserves it. Except I'm leaving twenty thousand dollars for my daughter's breast reduction, or my son's penis enlargement. You guys can fight over it. I'd try to strike a deal if I were you, half a breast for three inches. That way, everyone's a winner. Especially that new Dairy Queen by the truck stop.

As a general matter, my parents fully supported the "us versus them" tenet of Judaism. Paranoia, perhaps, but not altogether irrational paranoia. As many marginalized populations can attest -- gays, African-Americans, fans of David Hasselhoff -- centuries of persecution can be frustrating. Personally, I think people were more likely to persecute my parents for their fashion taste than for their religion (mirrors belong on walls, not on clothing), but who am I to begrudge anyone their bitterness?

In homogenous communities, this isolationist mentality often does not pose an obstacle to a child's social development; a Martian is only weird to non-Martians. I spent the better part of my adolescence in Long Island, where Jews rule with an iron fist. Of course, more of them spend their Friday nights in the Roosevelt Field mall than in temple, but a Jew at the Gap is still a Jew.

But until I was six, we lived in Kinderhook, New York, a small upstate hamlet of about 20,000 people, 19,996 of whom were gentiles. We might as well have been Martians.

"Mom, where are my horns?" I asked my mother upon returning home from my first day of kindergarten.

"Horns? What are you talking about?"

"I told the other kids that I'm Jewish, and they asked me why I didn't have horns," I said, despondently. It didn't bother me that the other kids thought I had horns. It bothered me that after just one day in school I was already a disappointment. When my mother told me Jews don't actually have horns, I was even more distraught. What if the teacher expected me to have horns also? It's one thing to disappoint your colleagues; it's a whole other thing to disappoint authority figures. I tried pasting carrots to the top of my head, but they kept falling off. Besides, it's difficult to play hide-and-go-seek with vegetables stuck to your hair.

Thanks to my tactless classmates -- and yes, even toddlers can have tact, if trained properly -- I learned much about what a Jewish person is supposed to be during that fateful year. In between pick-up sticks and nap time, I discovered that Jewish people are cheap, greedy, overly ambitious, and have big noses. My parents had great difficulty dissuading me from these stereotypes, primarily because, by the age of four, I already fit most of them. When my kindergarten teacher asked us to write about our hero, I was torn between Miss Piggy and Gordon Gekko. My piggy bank had a pad lock on it. And when my grandmother showed up empty handed at my sixth birthday party, I kicked her out of the house and demanded she return "with check, plus interest."

By far, the most difficult time of year was Christmas. The rest of the year, I skillfully managed to hide my religion, mostly through selective silence and vigorous head-nodding during religious conversations, of which there were more than a few. There's a stray loop of the Bible Belt lurking in upstate New York. But when Christmas came around, silence and head-nodding were insufficient covers.

"So where is everyone going for Christmas?," the teacher asked, never questioning whether everyone in the room celebrated Christmas. Although she couldn't really be blamed for that. The odds were on her side. Indeed, with all the Christmas-themed television shows, songs, and movies, along with the extensive and somewhat over-the-top decorations on all of our neighbors homes -- I maintain to this day that singing plastic reindeer are not the most appropriate way to commemorate the birth of the Lord -- I wondered whether my parents had lied to me, and we were actually the only Jews on the planet. Perhaps it was just a cult of four.

As she went around the room, every student's answer seemed to be followed by an exclamation point, to accentuate their excitement.

"I'm going to my grandma's house! She makes the best egg nog!"

"I'm going to my uncle's! We sing carols by the fire and eat candy canes!"

"I'm going to my godparents' home! They don't have any of their own kids, so they give the best gifts!"

But as it got closer to my turn, I realized my answer -- "I'm going to the closest Chinese restaurant" -- neither called for nor deserved an exclamation point. Instead, that answer would probably get the same response as the stunning confession that I did not eat bacon.

"Excuse me, can I go to the bathroom?," I asked. This was not an uncommon request coming from me. The bathroom was -- still is -- my refuge. It's the only place I feel I can truly be myself.

Huddled in the bathroom stall, I realized that if I was going to survive this Christmas, I needed to actually experience the holiday first-hand. The problem was, I didn't know how to do that. I still wasn't quite sure who this Jesus guy was. All I could gather from the bits and pieces I overheard in class was that he was a good swimmer. There was a church down the block, and I could try to sneak away and take in a show or two, but I still didn't fully trust the gentiles. I didn't trust anyone who could make a meal out of Miss Piggy.

Then it hit me. Of course! I'd go directly to the source. The reason that the holiday existed. The object of everyone's worship. The focal point for Christmas, and indeed, for Christians themselves.

Santa Clause. I had to meet Santa Clause.

The following Saturday, my mother took me to her nail salon for her weekly manicure. (Note to parents: if you really want to prevent your son from being a homosexual, don't expose him to nail polish remover at a young age. The smell of acetone still gives me a tingle.) Fortunately, the salon was in the mall, which also housed a makeshift "Christmas Village." The entire presentation consisted of a large inflatable candy cane, some fake snow, and a folding chair for Santa, painted red. Although I didn't have much experience with Christmas, I suspected that this was a pretty lame attempt at Christmas spirit. Still, beggars can't be choosers.

"Mom, can I sit on Santa's lap?," I asked her as we left the salon, fully expecting an outright rejection. I was prepared for a prolonged debate, for which I had mentally compiled several reasons for allowing me to converse with Santa.

"I was thinking of getting you something velvet for your birthday."

"I want to ask him if his beard is naturally curly or perm'ed."

"It's a secret mission to spy on the gentiles. I think they're up to something, and Santa is their leader."

But my mother must have been feeling generous that day, because she didn't put up a fight. Either that, or she had to wait a few minutes for her nails to dry before driving home.

"Ok. But only for a minute." Apparently limiting my exposure to Santa to a minute would prevent my foreskin from growing back.

We waited on line for what felt like an interminable amount of time. I was intensely afraid that someone would realize I was not Christian and rat me out. There was a two-year-old in a baby carriage behind us who looked awfully shifty. What was the punishment for a Jewish child sitting on Santa's lap? Surely I'd be required to at least reimburse him for his time. Even though I saved every penny I found in the couch cushions, I wasn't sure it would be enough.

Finally, we made it to the front of the line. It was my turn, the moment I'd been waiting for, but I hesitated. He was quite imposing, sitting on what appeared from afar to be a red folding chair but now seemed more like a throne, with his enormous stuffed belly jutting out from an understuffed chest. I felt his eyes bore into my soul -- I know you're not a gentile, Jonah, and I'm going to expose you as the fraud you are! He was my judge, jury, and, in the worst case scenario, executioner.

But I was not giving up without a fight. Thanks to repeated viewings of Bambi, I had already learned at a young age that authority figures thrive on fear. I let go of my mother's hand, shuffled up to him, and gently placed myself on his lap. His legs were much thinner than the thick velvet pants let on. They shifted under the weight. I wondered briefly whether Santa was on a diet, but decided against asking him. I was already skating on thin ice.

"What's your name, young man?" Despite my anxiety, I liked him already. He didn't call me "little boy." Children should be treated like adults at all possible times. Except when it comes to politicians. Then adults should be treated like children.

"Jonah," I said, meekly. I lightly felt his coat with my fingers. I liked the texture. It was soft, like our dog's fur, but it didn't make me sneeze. I wondered whether we could shave the dog and replace his fur with the Santa suit. That would at least make him easier to find if he ever ran away. Then again, it was probably better to keep the dog the way he was, before red dogs were added to the list of Jewish stereotypes.

"Nice to meet you, Jonah," he said. At this point in the encounter, most children are bouncing on Santa's knee, rattling off a list of undeserved gifts they wanted in return for not smothering their baby sisters in their sleep the previous year. But I didn't say anything. I felt every word could be used against me later. Better to keep silent and be thought a fraud than to speak and remove all doubt.

Santa must have suspected something was amiss, though.

"What's wrong, Jonah?"

I considered lying, and telling him that I had some bad clams for dinner, or that English was my second language. I knew a few words of Yiddish, and could probably wing it well enough. But I have no patience, either now or then, for insincerity. A virtue for most people, although a vice for attorneys.

"I'm not supposed to believe in you," I replied, never looking him in the eye, afraid he could read my mind. I wasn't sure what Santa's powers actually were, but I knew he could tell good children from bad children, which made me suspect that he had some kind of telepathic abilities. Which was much cooler than anything I thought Jesus could do.

"Oh? Why not?," he asked.

"Because I'm Jewish," I replied. His forehead crinkled, and his eyes lost their trademark twinkle. I realized then that Santa was not going to expose me, or hand me over to the authorities. No, Santa wasn't angry at me. Instead, he felt sorry for me. And his pity was worse than his condemnation.

I stifled a tear, and started to remove my distasteful self from his glorious presence. But before I could go, he stopped me, and pulled me closer to him.
"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Ok," I said, curious about where this was going. Ordinarily, when a grown man asks a five-year-old child sitting on his lap if he can tell him a secret, there is cause for concern. But different rules apply to Santa. He leaned in and cupped his hand over my ear. His breath smelled vaguely like sour cream and onion potato chips -- my favorite kind -- which made me like him even more.

"I'm Jewish," he whispered in my ear, with a smile.

I was astounded. Santa was Jewish? Could this be? I was convinced he was pulling my leg. It was a trick. Maybe playing practical jokes on Jews was just another Christmas tradition.

"What, you don't believe me?," he asked. "Ok, take a look at this."

Santa tilted his head down and lifted up his hat. There, under his pointed Santa cap with a pom pom on the end of it, stood a yamulka.

It was true. Santa was Jewish. Beard, velvet suit, ho ho ho and all.

Driving home, I pondered what Santa's confession meant, both for me and for the world. Suddenly, the house of cards that my classmates -- indeed, that every gentile -- had created folded in on itself. Now I pitied them, not vice versa. The man they all worshiped, who exercised ultimate control over their fate each Christmas, was one of us. He was a kindred spirit. He was Bar Mitzvah'ed, just like I would be. He had a taste for ketchup on pasta, just like me. And growing up with a Jewish mother like mine, it's no wonder he was so empathetic.

I briefly considered outing Santa to the world. I would reveal the truth to everyone, and be an international celebrity, or villain, as the case may be. There would be a big investigation, with teams of FBI agents storming the North Pole and searching for evidence of Santa's religion. The toy factory would be shut down in the interim, forcing the elves out of work and creating mass hysteria in the Arctic. Then, when nothing else could be found, Mrs. Clause would be questioned on Santa's nether-regions. Eventually, Santa would be forced to de-pants on national television.

But I decided against it. I didn't want Santa humiliated like that, and I didn't think I could handle the paparazzi and first grade at the same time. So I never shared Santa's true religion with my classmates, my family, or anyone else. It was just our secret, our shared bond. And even though he never brought me a Christmas gift, I didn't mind. He had already given me more than he knew.

Of course, I don't believe in Santa Clause anymore. I'm far too jaded to think that there's an omniscient man living in the North Pole who spends 364 days a year overseeing an elf toy factory, and one day a year hauled through the sky by a group of flying reindeer. Besides the fact that he would have a serious union problem on his hands with those elves, reindeer are notoriously stupid animals. I doubt they could find their way from Newark to Hoboken with a map and a flashlight.

Still, every Christmas eve I leave a plate of rugaleh and a glass of borscht by the fireplace. Just in case Santa ever stops by, and needs a nosh.

The fact that everyone can improve their ability to be funny, without any troubles, is pretty unbelievable, but surely possible. Before we begin, I shall tell you how psychologists have explained why people find some things amusing and funny. Every time when we learn something new, the mind builds a brand new route from one neuron cell to the other one.

That route is what we call a synapse and it works like this: After we think about plums, and if we know that plums are food, our brain will make a path that will connect the brain cells which have the things we know about those two terms. So, in the future, when you think about food there is a great possibility that you will start thinking about plums. You are probably wondering what does this all have to do with humor. It's pretty simple, really - humor actually works this way!

It all starts with someone telling you a short and common story. This is what stand-up comedians call a setup. Now, you are supposed to think about this story in a certain way. Your brain should now be creating routes from the setup, that you have recently heard to the most suiting punch-line. A completely different version of the punch-line, that you have not thought of, is what will make you laugh. And in case, you did not get this, the following example will help you out.

The Setup:
What is the most satisfying thing next to being shot at and missed?
The Punch-line:
An income tax refund.

How did you feel after hearing the setup? I am positive you didn't think of the same punch-line as I did. It is really natural to think differently than others, and our brain is to blame. As I said, the punch-line was totally different than you expected. This is in fact the main principle of the way humor works.

The main thing is good setup. The greatest comedians will usually tell you a setup which will make you think of a number of different possible punch-lines. The more you think your punch-line is the most fitting one, the more will the actual punch-line make you laugh. In case you have already heard the joke, it will probably not be as funny, because your brain already knows the punch-line, therefore it won't create any new routes.

Now, you should try making up a simple story and tell it to a few people to see what kind of punch-lines can they think of. It is important that you always tell the most unexpected one, so be sure to find out how other people think.

Ah yes, the temp; we've all held the title or been acquainted with this person at some point. These breed of workers are best known for their high tolerance for disrespect and canine style obedience to superiors. Since they are temps their state of mind tells them that everybody in the company is their superior. Did I mention they are always cheerful? Like some sort of jovial cyborg that's programmed to be overdressed and face to the pavement drunk at happy hours. Temps are so ripe and jolly for two reasons: (1) most of the times they are fresh out of high school or broke college students, so any work that births a paycheck is feel good work or (2) they've been absent from a job for so long that they will literally (insert something humanly impossible here). This is why the temp is a perfect tool to help make your stay in the office a bit more tolerable.

Ch-ch-check the scenario: It's Monday morning, you're staggering to the caffeine machine, faded Lacoste polo half ironed and last night's 3AM binger has overstayed its visit in your stomach. All you're fiending for now is a 3 hour vacation in dreamland. You're inside voice is telling you "It's Monday and you have a stack of worthless paperwork to handle so no visits to the sandman for you". Since you're first class tired you will be submissive to anyone, but this is not the time to listen to the tiny dictator inside your head. Instead, find a solution to your resolution. Luckily for you the answer so happens to be sitting two cubes away. The temp; the source of everlasting youth, whose hair is glistening from too much Vidal Sassoon and whose cologne smells of bi-sexual. Then you tell yourself bi-sexual is not a scent, but if it did have an odor then that would be the fragrance. Anyways, deceiving the temp is a simple idea, however, delegating your workload is not as simple as it seems. You just don't tread over and start Hitler'ing orders. No sir-eeeeee; the approach must be perfect as to set up for a beautiful landing.

Approaching a temp is very similar to approaching a pretty female. Confidence is key and being timid is your downfall. Be sure to create warm eye contact before you draw your pistols. Gentle eye contact before an approach is like saying "I'm harmless, my aura is hot orange and my game is ice cold" without having to speak the actual words. Now walk...no, scratch that...glide over to the temp. Glide, glide, bounce, twirl and POUNCE. Okay, wrong desk. Let's just walk. So stroll on over to the temp, put extra emphasis on a "special project" (which is really your regular day's work), stress the fact that there is talk of downsizing within the company and be very vague. This way you instill fear of unemployment, give him a chance to lower that risk and your vagueness will always keep him on a leash. The scenario should go like this:

You: Hi, good morning temp.

Temp: Good morning sir/mam. How was your...

You: Man, just stressin' over this meeting with the uppers.

Temp: Meeting?

You: Yeah, and on top of that they want me to find somebody to complete this special project. Like, how do they expect me to get my work done, find time to assign someone to this project and, on top of that, worry about getting laid off?

Temp: Laid off?

You: Don't worry about it. You'll land on your feet. It's just this special project. I know it's important, but so is my work. I don't want to spend half my day rearranging people's schedules so I can fit this project in and get it turned in by the end of the week. Those damn communists.

Being territorial is par for the course for many animals, but sometimes, as funny animal videos illustrate, it's surprising just which animals get the instinct, or just whom they're willing to chase off. In these videos, we have a couple animals that have staked out a claim on their yard and are fearless in their defense.

In the funny animal videos tortoises aren't exactly what you think of when you need a guard animal, but "The Killer Tortoise" sure knows how to defend its territory. Time and time again, this persistent critter comes back for more as it tries to chase off a cat several times its own size. The cat makes it even funnier as it pounces, trots off, and then nonchalantly lays down a short ways away, only to have the whole scene repeated.

Some animals are braver than you'd think and others are much less so than you'd expect. After wandering into one family's backyard, a young black bear was chased up a tree by the family's cat in "Guard Kitty". The cat patiently waited at the bottom of the tree, while the bear held on for dear life.

Animals can be sneaky sometimes, but even then they can be caught, often with humorous results.
This funny animal video, "The Fridge Bandit", shows one daring desperado caught on camera. A raccoon wanders in and heads straight to a mini-fridge, easily opens the door, and proceeds to ransack the contents for some late night snacks. You can't help but think that this raccoon must make this trip fairly often - after all, it knows precisely where to go with any searching around for the food stash.

Cats and muffins don't normally go together in most people's heads, but that doesn't stop one kitten from running off with a small plastic baggie full of muffins in "Muffin Thief". The baggie is bigger than the kitten's head but that doesn't stop it from biting in and dragging the bag off, while trying to sneak past its owners to a secret feeding spot.

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Kids are always whining about how unfair life is. When I was growing up, I was told that "fair is a place where men go to throw cow pats to win prizes". I've also heard "fare is what people pay to ride the bus". Either way, the point is that life just isn't fair; at least not in the way we'd like it to be.

We obviously gauge what we consider fair by how things affect us personally. It's normal to feel that you've been dealt a raw hand when you don't get the raise or promotion you've worked so hard for. It's understandable for anyone who has suffered a debilitating life event to feel as if someone or something is out to get him. And we know such happenings as Hurricane Katrina, the 2004 Thailand tsunami, and the massive earthquake the Earth released on China earlier this year are definitely not "fair".

Yet, there's a difference between how children and adults define fairness. If a kid doesn't get what he wants, no matter what that thing is, the situation is declared unfair. Little Billy didn't get that third ice cream cone - ding, ding, ding, unfair! Polly doesn't get to play with her friend Betty's new doll - come on people! Unfair! Cindy didn't get a new car for her sweet sixteen - alert the authorities! Unlike children however, most adults realize that fairness requires more than our mere existence and desire to stack the deck in our favor.

In his book, Nine things you simply must do to succeed in love and life: A psychologist probes the mystery of why some lives really work and others don't, Dr. Henry Cloud indicates that people shouldn't "play fair". Now, before we all go off and rail about how unfair it is to others not to be fair, or, even worse, take the suggestion at face value and just start taking everything we want regardless of how doing so would affect other people, let's look at what Cloud means by "playing fair".

Cloud actually believes that we should be more than fair. Kind of like, if we make sure that we do unto others better than we want others to do unto us, we'll trigger some sort of Karmic reaction that will lead to a better life for us. Ok, I'm exaggerating a bit, but you get my meaning.

Now, I have an incredibly rigid sense of fairness. I've always tried to make sure that the people around me get more than they are required to give in friendships, business transactions, etc. But, all that my rigid sense of fairness has earned me is a head full of grey hairs, most of which I swear are caused by people who frustrate the bejesus out of me with their ability to take advantage of other people. And it's that darn fairness rigidity that leaves me open-mouthed most of the time, thinking "what the devil did I do to deserve this/that?"

Something else I was always told when I was growing up? "You will receive your reward in heaven." In other words, don't expect it here.

Driving to pick up my son from a friend's house this afternoon, I saw a group of men gathered in a yard. These men had fashioned a couple of small ramps out of plywood and some other odds and ends. The ramps were facing each other. At the time I was driving by, the men appeared to be standing around discussing how to utilize their creations.

I saw this and I was reminded that wherever two or more are gathered... there's bound to be trouble.

Men, especially when gathered in groups of two or more, have an almost childlike ability to create chaos. I was reminded of this universal truth because each of the men in the group I witnessed today had assumed his own version of the man stance. The man stance is a physical positioning of the body a man assumes that he apparently thinks makes him look more intelligent, better looking, or like an important contributor to the task at hand. Although the man stance varies according to the individual man, there's no doubt that it signals impending doom.

Any woman who has witnessed such a gathering of men can attest to the fact that they should never be allowed to gather in groups to do man stuff. When they do, someone is bound to get hurt or something is going to get broken. Why is it that during this mine-is-bigger-than-yours contest, men are immediately drained of any sense that they may have had before coming into contact with another man/men? It's like there is some sort of inverse correlation between the amount of testosterone in any given area and the amount of intelligence being employed.

So, back to the group of men gathered in the yard.

I imagined that one of those men was going to be brainless enough to ride those ramps in some manner that was likely to prove disastrous. I had a friend, years ago, who, whenever he said the words "watch this" he ended up in the hospital. The words "watch this" were only uttered in the presence of other men and they always preceded his doing something completely stupid like back flips off a springboard (During the back flip incident, my friend was showing off for some cheerleader friends at a local university). Add alcohol to the man-stuff-and-stance soup and the inverse correlation I've already mentioned becomes increasingly proportionate to the amount of alcohol that has already been ingested.

I'll bet at least one testosterone Tarzan in that yard got hurt and I'll bet a group of wives and girlfriends are sitting around at this very moment shaking their heads and thinking "he/they did what?!"

Sigh. I look at my son and wonder if he will ever really mature past his current age of ten.

What an extraordinary sense of freedom I had this morning after quitting my job. No thought went into my decision. The President has taught me that too much thinking can lead to indecisiveness. After turning in my precious name tag, I said farewell to my co-workers and exited the downtown clinic for the final time.

My job was secure, but it left me unfulfilled like Chinese food. I felt an immense weight lifting off my shoulders while walking to the car, and I rode a wave of euphoria all the way home.

I was still basking in my new found freedom when I entered my house. My wife was in the bathroom, and I could hear the shower running.

After grabbing a Corona from the fridge, I flopped on the couch to watch some TV. Carlito's Way was just starting on HBO. Life was good.

I was an hour and four beers into the movie when Mary made her appearance from the bathroom. I often wonder what takes women so long to accomplish in that room. I can take care of business in twenty minutes, but Mary spends over an hour in there every morning. I could shave, shit, shower, masturbate, nod out from opiate indulgence, and come back to life in less time.

After thirty years of marriage, you would think that I would have given some thought to how my wife was going to respond to my early retirement. The details of life always elude me.

Mary seemed surprised to see me as she exited the bathroom. "You're home," she said flatly. "What happened?"

I gently placed my beer on the end table, and began to juggle answers in my head while watching Carlito threaten to kill Benny Blanco. I apprised her of the good news, but my wife's response was not very cordial.

"Are you out of your mind," she screamed. "What kind of idiot quits their job in the middle of a recession?"

That idiot would be me. By this time, my ebullient feeling is beginning to wane, but my quick response mechanism remains intact.

"George Bush says this is just an economic slowdown," I explained. "I still have a stimulus check coming."

"George Bush doesn't have these bills," she responded while pointing at the stack of unopened letters on the kitchen table. "How are you planning on paying those?"

Mary was starting to put a damper on my enthusiasm, and her tone of voice had taken on some elevation. I thought about asking her to bring me another beer, but my self preservation instinct kicked in. My mind was racing faster than my brother could run from Mr. Stimple, our seventh grade pedophile gym teacher.

"I could send Kenneth Copeland a thousand dollar check, and wait for my hundred fold return," I offered.

I didn't mean to pick on Kenneth Copeland. You could substitute the name of any TV word faith preacher who promises financial gain to the folks who will mail in their tithes. There's Frederick Price, Joyce Meyer, Benny Hinn, Creflo Dollar, (You gotta love that name) and many others. Their Prosperity Theology preys on the poorest people while they live extravagant lifestyles with private jets and huge homes. They make God an investment banker.

"What's wrong with you?" Mary screamed, shattering me from my reverie. She had managed to close in on my personal space, but wasn't blocking the TV as Carlito was being set up by his old friend Pachanga.

"You better have a plan to get out of this," she said.

Her eyes were starting to turn red at the corners, and her hands had found a solid resting place on her hips. I consider my wife the most beautiful woman in the world, and when she gets angry it turns me on like a freak at a parade. This is a paradox because making a black woman angry can be life threatening.

"After the movie is over, we should go to bed for a little while," I suggested. Sex is the solution to any problem unless it's fungal.

"Have you lost your mind," she bellowed, while poking an extremely attractive finger into my chest. Her eyes have closed to slits.

"How about going to the casino?" I asked, while trying to squeeze her breast. That was my final attempt to save the day.

She slapped my hand away. "You better find another job real quick," she said, and headed for the bedroom.

I wondered if there were any Benzos left in the kitchen drawer. I could have made some special tea and followed her to the bedroom, but sometimes you need to give a woman private time.

Carlito got shot at the train station, and I spent the afternoon on the computer at Careerbuilder.

I'm a sucker for those "As Seen On TV" kitchen gadgets.

Show me a woman in a dated hairdo and a pantsuit, waving her hand over a seventy-five-piece plastic monogrammed food packaging and storage system, and my pulse starts to race.
Show me the whole family frolicking (is that still a word?) through the meadow with the dog and the handy dandy monogrammed food packaging carrying case on wheels with the drink holder and solar radio, and I'm diving for my credit card.

Tell me that for just an additional dollar, I can get a complete set of stainless steel knives guaranteed to cut steel and to outlive three generations, and it is no longer a want - no longer a need - it has become an I must have this or I will die - forget braces for Junior, Mamma needs a food storage system.

My husband tried to block the channel after I ordered him thirty-seven button-me-easy kits that promise to replace your button in thirty seconds without the need for needles or thread. He said it would have been a good idea, if most of his shirts had buttons.

It happens again yesterday. Just when I've barely recovered from the ramifications of ordering a lifetime supply of under-the-bed sweater organizers that emit a lilac scent - I see her white teeth and that familiar pantsuit, and I'm under her spell again. This time is different. This gadget is the king daddy of all gadgets - the Air Sucker 2000 - breaking all records in high tech kitchen gadgetry. Put your food in the bag, slide the bag through the sealer and it sucks all the air out of the bag and keeps it fresh for the rest of your life - just as fresh as the day you put it in. We're thinking of using it on Great Uncle Fred. You can seal pork chops, chicken, steak, salad, soup, and even a pint of your dog's blood should he ever need a transfusion. This would have been a handy thing to have when Uncle Skeeter cut off his toe with the weed whacker and we needed something to carry it in.

This is revolutionary. This will save us millions of dollars in wasted food. This, I have to have. I decide to order three - just in case they stop making them. "What are you doing?" my husband asks in an accusing tone as I'm reciting my credit card number to Susie who swears the Air Sucker 2000 changed her life. How does he do that? I have to yell for help four times when I super glue my foot into my new shoe (long story). It takes ten minutes for him to come to my aid when I get my hair caught in the drain (even longer story). We have a dead squirrel on the front porch for three days and he doesn't even notice. Pick up the phone to try and place a tiny little credit card order and it's like I blew a dog whistle.

I tell Susie to please hold, roll my eyes, and explain to my husband, while trying to be patient, that this is one of those necessary purchases. "You do NOT need that," he says, gritting his teeth. He should really learn to handle stress more effectively. "Yes. I do." "Like you needed the battery operated Bug-Be-Gone for the pool?" He can be quite sarcastic when he wants to be. "Hey, you said yourself that was good idea," I point out. "We don't have a pool!" he growls. I hang up the phone before Susie can call 911 to report domestic violence and follow my husband to the kitchen where he's standing with his arms crossed, wearing that look he gets when he's about to win an argument. Uh-oh.

"Open that cabinet," he barks. "Come on. Open it. And tell me what you see." I don't appreciate his tone. "Let's see," I murmur. "There's the green pepper spiraler....the vegetable blender with the pasta attachment...the six-speed juicer with the sleeve to hold the morning paper...oh, here's that cute serving tray with the ceramic pigs in bikinis on pool floats...and the pasta colander that turns into a centerpiece...and I'm not really sure exactly what this thing is..." My voice trails off as I crawl deeper into the cabinet. "What's that behind the silver-plated cake stand that sings happy birthday?" he asks while I drag out a dust-covered contraption and read the words on the side: Air Sucker 2000.

Suddenly it comes rushing back - November, two years ago. I still remember the day it came in the mail. I was so excited. I was convinced that this revolutionary item would change my life. I never could figure out how it worked. It was missing three pieces, wouldn't work on any speed but high, made an awful screeching noise, blew a fuse, and was wider than my counter top. I wrapped one piece of chicken (which is still in my freezer, thank you very much) and decided it wasn't worth the effort.

Okay, okay, so maybe my husband has a point. He's still a little mad. It's probably better that I don't tell him there are three more Air Suckers in the basement.

When I was a little boy, my dad was busy working three jobs to support his family. He worked as a fireman, on his days off he would repair boats down by the riverside and in the evenings, he would deliver home fuel.

It was hard for me, my brother and sister to understand why he worked all these jobs. Was it because he loved us so much, or because he didn't want to hear our mother complain about how my sister smacked my brother across the back of the head with a shovel? Whichever it was, it was always a treat to have Dad home on one of those infrequent evenings off and come into our rooms to check on us at bedtime.

I can still remember the crack of light from the hallway as Dad would open the door to our room. We would pretend we were asleep, but we could tell it was him from the mixed smell of smoke, heating oil and seaweed.

One of us would always stir and say, "Hi, Dad" as he tried to sneak out unobserved. He would whisper for us to go back to sleep, but the damage had been done and we would sit up in bed and ask him to tell us a bedtime story. By then, our sister had joined us.

Now, Dad was what we call, by today's standards, as a "manly-man." Today, he would probably be a contestant on "American Gladiators", or be the headliner at a monster car rally. So, he wasn't very well versed in the art of bedtime stories, which was fine with us, because he would make up his own. He would ask us which one we would like to hear and we'd say something like, "The Three Bears" and this is the story he would tell:

"Once upon a time," he'd start, "there were three bears. A momma bear, a poppa bear and a baby bear. They lived in a modern, modest three bedroom cave just under the El. Yes, they were the Chicago Bears. One night, Momma Bear was cooking up a pot of fettuccini." (Dad would provide the sound effects with his stories. Like here, he would make a bubbling noise.) "Poppa Bear," Dad continued, "said, 'this stuff is too hot. Let's go down to the projects, while this is cooling, and annoy some tourists.' So, they hopped into their car, a Stutz Bearcat, and headed out." (Sound effect of an old car cranking up and pulling away)

"While they were out, a cute little golden-haired angel, played by Priscilla Lane, appeared at their front door. She knocked." (Knocking noises) "When no one answered, she went in. She walked past the fettuccini and headed to the liquor cabinet, where she made herself a Harvey Wallbanger." (Ice cube clinking in a glass and liquid being poured) "She became extremely tired and headed upstairs to the bedroom. She skipped the preliminaries and fell asleep in Baby Bear's bed."

"Meanwhile, the Bear family came home." (Dad would make the sound of tires screeching and the car crashing.) "Momma Bear was driving. They went into the cave and Poppa Bear noticed immediately that someone had hit his liquor cabinet and he began to cry. Poppa Bear was very sensitive about his booze."

"Baby Bear stood at the top of the stairs and yelled down, 'Hey, Pop, there's a cute looking chic in my bed. Is possession still nine points of the law?'

"With that, Goldilocks woke up and screamed." (Scream - like I had to tell you.) "She had never seen a little bear with a grin like that on his face before. Quickly, she jumped up and dove through the window." (Glass crashing)

"The Three Bears chased her through the woods. Okay, so there are no woods in Chicago, this is where your imaginations are going to have to come in."

"Goldilocks came upon a hunter who had just stopped the big, bad wolf from eating Little Red Riding Hood. Goldilocks yelled, 'You've got to help me! These three bears are after me.' Without another word, the hunter emptied his shotgun into the trio." (Shotgun going off)

"Goldilocks, the hunter and Little Red Riding Hood went into business together and opened up an S&H Green Stamp Redemption Store and lived happily ever after."

Dad would tuck us all in and, on his way out, he would turn around, smile and quietly close the door. A few seconds would pass and we would giggle ourselves to sleep as we could hear Mom, in the background, telling Dad how my brother glued my sister to a tree.

Havelock Ellis once said, "Dancing is the loftiest, the most moving, the most beautiful of the arts, because it is no mere translation or abstraction from life; it is life itself."

That said, I'm betting my moolah the following dance moves, collected from various points in a 30 yr old guy's life aren't exactly what you'd call art nor would anyone want to get caught doing it.

The Macarena - The mere fact that 2 old guys were dancing (well not dancing as much as... swaying) in the video should have been an omen but this song became the second longest running #1 and best selling debut single of all time - in fact it holds the distinction of being the #1 greatest hit wonder of all time. Beat that William Hung.

The Chicken Dance - the 2nd worst thing to happen to parties (the first one, the clown/mascot). As a kid I would dread the moment I'd hear accordions blaring over the speakers and my mother forcing me to dance this with the other kids. Torture. But then again, it'd be slightly acceptable for kids to dance to the chicken tune, but adults? I rest my case.

The MC Hammer Dance - there's a reason why MC Hammer isn't as popular now as he was in the 90s. The Hammer Pants? The golden sparkle shirt? Or maybe the Hammer Dance? No matter how annoying the MC Hammer Dance was, it was horribly cute when it was Cameron Diaz dancing it (unless you're a dead ringer for Cameron Diaz, I suggest we leave this un...danced ).

Country Line Dancing - back in the late 70s, life went back to normal for most people when line dancing died a natural death. However, like a phoenix it rose from the ashes of its former self and was brought back to life by no other than Billy Ray Cyrus' Achy Breaky Heart! Doesn't it make you cringe, remembering back then how fun it was to line dance? (or wasn't it!?)

The Robot - Although I say you shouldn't be caught doing this, there are a few talented others who can do the robot with the precision only a real robot can have - and make money while doing it - or 15 minutes of fame! If there's one dance move I can be ambivalent about, this would be it. Just make sure you can pull it off.

History has a habit of repeating itself - in a few years, we might have another Macarena or another chicken dance to torture our kids with. So keep your eyes peeled; you'll never know what dance move might be created to make you the laughingstock of your next reunion or potential blackmail material.

In today's materialistic world, where the pressure of work is simply unbelievable and the cut throat competition at every level always posses a threat to those seeking some spare time to relax, phrases such as 'laughter is the best medicine' or 'one can always do with a good laugh or two' are too often heard. This has given rise to various set of arguments and an array of laughing clubs all over the world. However, it can be said that an individual does not really require all such 'elaborate' set ups to amuse himself. If only he or she just keeps a tab on what is going on around, it's guaranteed that every now and then he or she can pick up a situation or an incident or a sight that will surely bring a smile to his or her face.

One can again always argue that considering the jet speed life one requires to lead in order to succeed in today's scenario, it is almost next to impossible for anyone to keep a tab on anything else other than the market economies or the changes in one's company policies maybe! However, there is no reason for them to feel dejected or worried about missing out on the chances to amuse themselves because the galleries of funny images on the internet ensures that if someone wants to do it, the reason to smile is always just a mere couple of clicks away. These archives of funny images contain hundreds of snaps taken by both professional photographers as well as amateurs like you and me and range from circumstances that had prevailed thousands of miles away on the other side of the globe to certain moments which have been captured at places and situations that can be just a few blocks away from your apartment. The pictures may be of objects which are in odd shape or state or maybe of children in the act of doing something and ending up doing something entirely different or normal people caught in abnormal circumstances or even comments made by somebody in the form of a cartoon. In other words these series of funny images try and bring to our notice what we tend to neglect and overlook in our daily life and prove the point that seeds of humor are all around you and someone seeking a chance to relax by enjoying some good amusements and laughter can always go for these. What's more is the fact that these galleries of funny images are further categorized under a variety of broad heads such as daily humor, humor at office, humor involving pets, humor concerning children, sports situations, etc. among various others. Thus irrespective of the taste an individual has got in terms of humor, be it slapstick or screwball, dry or sarcastic, satirical or situational, these funny images definitely promises to fulfill and even more!

We all know it's taboo to pick your nose, but does that stop us? In public maybe, but it's a different story when we are out of sight. At least, we THINK we're out of sight!

Here are 10 reasons why it's a bad idea to pick your nose!

1. It's not ripe. Your mother told you not to pick things that aren't ripe. If it is ripe, please go to the Tropical Diseases section.

2. You don't know where your fingers have been. Remember you stroked the cat 10 minutes ago? And she licked your finger? So Cute! But you really don't want to know what a cat does with it's tongue...

3. We are constantly under surveillance by cctv cameras, by low orbit satellite, by police anti-crime cameras, by news helicopters, by traffic webcams, by your kids digital camera. The chances are excellent that your surreptitious act of personal cleansing will probably air on the 9 o'clock news, and on Google Earths new hi--def close--ups!

4. If your girlfriend caught you doing it, it may ruin the friendship. Even though she does it too, she will never admit it, and rather dump you than lose her spotless reputation.

5. The incriminating evidence is not always that easy to get rid of. Especially if you happen to be in a lift and it suddenly stops on a floor when least expected.

6. In the car it's a no no. All you need is to hit a large pothole, and you could take out a few sinuses and maybe perform an impromptu frontal lobotomy.

7. In certain tribal cultures, this act may be seen as an invitation to marriage, or as a sign of aggression, resulting in a fight to the death. You got to be careful who sees you!

8. You may have some wet super glue on your finger. This could put you on a sticky wicket. However, you could always become a prophet. Call yourself Nostrildamus.

9. If you have big fingers, you could stretch the nostrils. On the bright side though, you could get a job with the police dog tracking unit as a bloodhound.

10. Never, never stick your finger in your nose if you have just chopped up those little devil chillies, or worked with curry powder, or just put some itching powder in your buddy's T-Shirt. You may not live to regret it!

"A sense of humor can help you overlook the unattractive, tolerate the unpleasant, cope with the unexpected, and smile through the unbearable," says Reb Moshe Waldoks.

It is well documented that humor served to be a life line for numerous Holocaust survivors. The tradition continues. Waldoks, one of North America's leading teachers of Jewish cultural, spiritual and ritual renewal, has co-edited 2 humor books, and was featured in a 1994 documentary about children of Holocaust survivors involved in humor.

Other sensitive situations, such as loss, crisis, illness, death, disaster, or disability also benefit from the proper use of humor. Not knowing how to respond to this type of humor can elevate the already high levels of stress and tension surrounding these circumstances. Inappropriate humor can be hurtful and isolate, which is opposite of the true intent.

Here are seven guidelines for the effective use of humor in sensitive situations:

#1) Understand that humor comes with a pecking order. It is the person who is adversely affected who sets the tone and grants permission for humor.

#2) It is generally acceptable for those who are close to the person, and have shared in their experience to join in and poke fun at the situation. Those who aren't ...shouldn't.

#3) With a trauma or crisis, a period of time is often needed to allow for emotional distancing and healing to occur, before victims are able or ready to experience humor. Look for cues and test their mood to check for "play-mode." If your attempt to use humor fails, stop.

#4) Humor, perceived to be an attempt to discount, distract, or ignore a situation which is distressing to the person experiencing it, generally won't be well received without acknowledging the situation first.

#5) Always acknowledge the true feelings with empathy before introducing humor. That must have been embarrassing. I bet you felt disappointed. I wish your day was going smoother.

#6) Begin by using self-effacing humor to poke fun at the "situation," and not at the person. (Reminds me of a time when.....) Propose a different perspective - One day we'll laugh about this. Would this be funny if it happened to someone else? What if...... happened instead?

#7) Suggest an activity involving humor, such as watching a comedy.

Lois McElravy, Lessons from Lois, works with individuals and organizations who want to learn how to effectively use humor, so they can handle the demands and pressures of work and home, maintain a flexible perspective, develop creative solutions, produce positive outcomes, and have more fun.

Learning to laugh and "hangin' on with humor" rescued Lois from the distress and despair surrounding her daily life, and initiated her recovery from a brain injury. Her universal message offers hope, motivates participants to be faithful to do the small things, and conquer their challenges one day at a time.