Beer Commercials

If I were to throw out the phrase "entertaining commercials," most likely the list of commercials that would not come to mind include anything about life insurance, Wilford Brimley and his "diabeetus," and 5-Hour Energy (seriously, there are webcam videos of lonely people lip-synching to teen-pop songs in their bedroom on YouTube that are of higher quality than the crap the marketing team at 5-Hour Energy pushes onto the airwaves). What might come to mind are beer commercials. Typically they're funny, they're catchy, they inject sex appeal, and they don't make you sprint for the "mute" button.

That said, beer commercials have the credibility of a toddler who has chocolate smeared all over his face but swears he has no idea what happened to that last fudgesicle. Regardless of the brand of beer, these 30-second spots relentlessly flaunt one heckuva nonstop ice-cold, thirst-quenching, perfect-weathered, sweat-free, big-bosomed, velvet-rope-bypassing, rowdy-yet-controlled, happy-go-lucky night among responsible friends and a universal designated driver who would just loooove to have another glass of water while he watches his friends move in closer on the gleefully welcoming posse of ladies.

Speaking of absence of credibility, what's the deal with the ubiquitous hot chick sitting by herself at the bar in these ads? What bar is that, and how did that girl end up happily sitting alone? What ridiculously gorgeous girl squeezes herself into vacuum-sealed skinny jeans and a frilly halter top and spends an hour on the perfect hair curl so that she can grab a cab to the local watering hole to sit solo at the bar and talk to the equally ridiculously gorgeous female bartender? I like how this girl in the commercial always acts initially stunned when a guy talks to her or bumps into her as if, "Oh my, there are guys here, too? And someone actually wants to introduce himself to me?" Put that same girl in that same situation in a real bar, and I'll give her 60 seconds before a wolf pack of guys pounces her with lame come-ons and drink offers. (I would say just four seconds, but the other 56 rightfully allow for the surrounding guys to process the confusion before them and wait to see if her missing boyfriend or band of 17 girlfriends returns from a bathroom trip.)

The advertisers have also conveniently omitted a few things. For example, where are the drunk people? Well, they're not there yet. Ever noticed how everyone in the commercial is on their first beer? You can tell by the wit and levelheadedness of each character. Everyone is wearing that sober, symmetrical grin that can't possibly avoid askewness after a downed six-pack. All clothes are still fully buttoned, and no one is texting an ex in a dimly lit corner of the room. There's no annoying loud-talker or a girl screaming, "Ooh, that's my song!" as the voice of Gwen Stefani poops out of the speakers. No threats of fighting, bottle-breaking, or vomiting.

Just once I want to see a beer commercial where someone's utterly hammered out of his mind. The commercial starts with a dude crushing a beer can against his forehead in anger as he calls his date "a worthless slut" in the kitchen, while the camera pans over to the living room where a shirtless fat guy pounds a beer in between air guitar solos to AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" and Greek-lettered girls hold hands as they slur their way though sorority chants. Suddenly the Bud Light logo appears, followed by the slogan "Here We Go" -- just before a final cut to an old neighbor walking across the lawn with a bat, screaming obscenities.

Yeah, that's a beer I'd buy. For its honesty, if nothing else.

Waffle House

When you're a kid who just wants cake-batter waffles and an entire plate of bacon, Waffle House is a dream. Its quirks and filth are to an extent charming. Kind of like how your own quirks and filth as a kid are to an extent charming. But as you grow out of your quirky, filthy childhood lifestyle, the charm of it all quickly wanes. As does the charm of Waffle House.

What I've realized since childhood is everything about the Waffle House experience is demoralizing. No one there working or eating is happy. The atmosphere is as exciting as a Phil Collins album cover. Seriously, there is not one remotely happy person in a Waffle House right now. If anyone is smiling, it's probably because they're drunk. Then again, if they're in Waffle House, it's probably because they're drunk. Even if you enjoy Waffle House food, you're likely marginally miserable while sitting in that booth.

It doesn't help that Waffle House hasn't updated its decor since its inception. This is purposeful, of course, since it's supposed to exude a certain throwback affinity, like several diners do. Except most of those diners aim for a '50s sock-hop/poodle-skirt/neon-lights era. Waffle House is trapped in some '50s/'70s nonsensical limbo, where paper diner hats, indistinct lamp fixtures, and a compilation of unnatural yellow and beige hues conjoin to create this culmination of grotesque interior design. And the plateware in each location is obviously the original set used since that location's grand opening as every plate shows scars from hundreds of thousands of late-night intoxicated attempts to knife through waffles and chunked 'n' smothered hash browns.

I would guess that Waffle House prides itself in its open-air kitchen that allows the customers to watch the preparation of their food and leaves nothing to hide. But is it just me, or is Waffle House the last restaurant to whose kitchen practices you'd want full exposure? The disheveled cook gloveless-ly handling dinner orders while bellyaching to his coworkers about his need for a smoke break hardly enhances my assurance of a quality, sanitary meal. I'd quite honestly rather have no idea how the food is prepared and instead be perfectly fine with not knowing the culinary secrets to that greasy platter of trans fats.

The lone prerequisite for its cooks and servers at Waffle House, I'm most certain, is not experience in cooking or serving but simply ownership of at least one tattoo. And the tattoo has to be on a body part visible to the customer -- the forearm, the bicep, the neck -- somewhere that inked tribute to Mom is in plain view to the untrained patron eye. Waffle House is the place where tattoos go to retire. I've seen more Mighty Mouse tattoos in Waffle House than episodes of Mighty Mouse. There's also something greatly chilling and unsettling about seeing the cook flipping your omelet with tattooed weaponry. At what point in that guy's life did he think embedding a sketch of a scorpion wrapped around a dagger into his forearm was not only a good immediate decision but a decision that most assuredly would not affect any future employment?

And let's not forget the Waffle House jukebox, which showcases a music selection worse than that of a high school talent show. I mean, how many songs with "Waffle House" in the title does a jukebox need?

Funnily enough, all of this seems to work because Waffle Houses are never not crowded. The parking lots are always full, whether it's 3:00 PM or 3:00 AM, so what do I know? Well, one thing: I know I like my waffles with butter and syrup -- hold the quirks and filth.

Gas Stations

Gas stations have to be a germaphobe's second worst nightmare (shaking Courtney Love's hand of course being first). Between the oil-splattered blacktop, the dried-grease-coated rotating hot dog grill, and those bacteria petting zoos commonly referred to as gas pump handles, every square inch of a gas station's property is a festering Petri dish of undiscovered diseases. Have you ever seen someone cleaning a gas station restroom? Me neither. Someone pushing an already dirty, wet mop around the floor doesn't count. That janitorial tool is likely adding to the tile floor's stockpile of purulent infections that end in "-itis."

Let's be honest, wearing anything shy of a hazmat suit at a gas station is an outright gamble with a communicable rash.

And then there are the puddles. The murky, rainbow-colored, seemingly omnipresent puddles. They're by the gas pumps, in the parking lots, along the sidewalks, in the mulch below the pointless boxwood shrubs... creating this obstacle course of small, flowing streams and stagnant pools that await your white running shoes' misstep should you venture inside to claim that 5-liter Big Gulp fountain drink for 79 cents. The individual components of these puddled amalgams are inconsistent and unknown. Is that water down there? Is it oil? Maybe antifreeze? Or spilled coffee? Urine? Vomit? Toxic waste? Afterbirth? All I know is my personal primary objective of each gas station visit, besides aiming for the "perfect pump" on a round dollar figure, is to avoid all surrounding droplets or collections of liquid on the ground, no matter the cost or awkward stance while pumping gas. And, believe me, I've pumped gas in some awkward, shameless stances. One foot flat while the other is on toes; two feet propped on the pump's side with my back leaning against the car; both feet tiptoeing while straddling the hose like no straight man should comfortably position himself. But I drive away in puddle-free shoes, man -- no dirt, no spots, no chlamydia.

Another thing about gas stations that irritates me is that stupid little "9" on the gas station signs. You see that? That forgotten "9" standing behind the price per gallon at a fraction of the height of its numerical counterparts? Yeah, gas stations are still doing that -- tacking on .9 cents to each gallon of gas. And we've let them continue that crap, just surrendering and accepting it without question. That may have made more sense when the gas cost a quarter (though still bastardly), but now it's just inordinately egregious. Look, oil companies, you're already hosing me with each fill-up -- how about letting me keep my 9/10 of a penny per gallon of fuel, huh?

Readers: call your congressmen and tell them you want that miniscule "9" dropped from the prices! ...No? They won't do that? Well, what about enforcing clean toilets?

Clubs

Let's open up with some brutal honesty: I'm a worthless dancer, which is actually a bit odd considering I can beatbox (no, seriously) and several years ago won a freestyle battle competition at a Busta Rhymes concert (no, seriously); yet somehow the rhythm just doesn't transfer from my head and mouth to my hips and lifeless limbs. There are worse dancers out there, but I absolutely do my share in reinforcing that white-male stereotype. Suffice it to say, I dance like Helen Keller jump-roped. So I typically do everyone and my ego a favor and stay off the dance floor. But like NCAA rulings suggest, there are exceptions to every self-mandated rule. If the situation, music, and cleavage are right, sure, ol' Claude might cut a rug or two.

But rare exceptions aside, I stay away from clubs. It's not my scene and I'm mostly uncomfortable there. My inability to dance well is a large contributor to that, but it doesn't help that I'm not tall enough to be noticed, I don't own any skin-tight T-shirts slathered with dragons and tigers and indecipherable cursive, and my body is free of barbed wire tattoos around my biceps. Call me old-fashioned, but I far prefer to sit down with someone and, you know, talk.

If you haven't been to a club in years, even decades, nothing has changed. While modernity is always at the forefront of all visual and aural aspects of and within clubs, the fundamentals remain the same. It's still a meat market with nearly everyone in competition with their counterparts. There are still lights and effects, vibrant-colored drinks, and fire marshal-disapproved crowd capacities. The guys are still overplaying their hand, the girls are still flaunting fashion that's hot now but mockable in 10 years, and the DJs are still hand-picking the bottom of the barrel of Billboard's Top 100 and then remixing the crap out of it until its level of stupidity matches that of the increasingly intoxicated club-goers who have been busy equally dumbing themselves down by way of sugary mixed drinks and shots christened after various sexual positions.

The sociology you can study in clubs supersedes what any college course offers. As more of the sit-back-and-watch-the-night-unfold type myself, I take great, great pleasure in observing the predictable uniformity in roles all men and all women automatically assume upon receiving the literal stamp of approval from the bouncer. Without hesitation, we men go on the prowl with tongues hanging, eager to nudge any other male bystanders so as to point out any remotely sensual sights and build instant camaraderie with each other around our shared appreciation for the female body and those who parade it well. This is when we men are at our lowest and most vulnerable point; it's embarrassing. And women know this, which is why they, also without hesitation, taunt and tease anyone breathing and dance with each other in impenetrable, hip-locked groups, acting like attention is the last thing they want -- until 17 guys give it to them, and then it's all smiles, poses, and whatever it takes to get more attention and hopefully a night of endless free drinks.

Ah, clubs... if they weren't so pathetic and clichéd, they'd be funny. ...Actually, no, they're still pretty funny anyway.

Gyms

Everyone has their comfort zone, a location where his/her mind sifts through the daily garbage and life's weighty decisions. It is in this comfort zone where the brain is in its wheelhouse and fires the most level-headed cerebral neurons. For some, this zone is a serene, ambient coffee shop; for others, it's behind the wheel on a country road; for others still, it's in the confines of three tiled walls and a shower curtain. My most thorough mind-scraping is performed in a gym with barbells in hand or on a treadmill.

I have yet to pinpoint what about the gym is so desirable, especially when a third of my attendance requires an inner pep talk or some sort of post-workout gastronomical negotiation with myself. But I love it. It could very well be the riddance of the day's amassed perspiration and frustration; or the pleasure in knowing that my entire hour-plus workout just negated the caloric damage of that fun-size Baby Ruth I polished off after lunch; or maybe it's the giggly towel-snapping I do with "the boys" in the steam room.

Whatever the reason, I leverage the good vibes flowing through the fitness to knock out some serious, gut-wrenching conflicts and mankind quandaries. Like, just the other day, between sets of bicep curls, I contemplated effective means to reduce the national deficit, which opened up a swirling rabbit hole of the ramifications of China one day deciding to suddenly stop loaning to the U.S. federal government and start collecting, which somehow led to me deciding to frugally purchase Christmas gift-wrapping supplies at Big Lots rather than Walmart. I mean, that's at least eight bucks saved. Now, that’s conflict resolution!

An undeniable common denominator among all gyms worldwide is the repeating personality traits among the clientele. Every gym has its predictable, standard characters -- it's a sitcom waiting to be written:

• The guy who works out all the time and yet shows no visible signs of change in his three-year gym tenure.


• The aimless wanderer who aimlessly wanders around with a towel over his shoulder but with no intention of ever using the towel because he only aimlessly wanders around.


• The girl who actually applies more makeup prior to her cardio class and uses a water bottle with layers of dried lipstick around the opening.


• The older gents who prefer their sports conversations to only occur in the openness of the locker room. While naked. And facing each other.


• The meathead who groans and grunts obnoxiously, uncomfortably, and utterly unnecessarily loud with each muscle exertion as if those of us around him are on the brink of witnessing a scientific breakthrough in the first male-birthed child.


• The boney, wiry guy whose entire dresser drawer of gym attire consists of Under Armour.


• The guy who appears to be flirting with himself in every mirror, in every stance and flexed position imaginable.


• The curvaceous female who saunters the gym like it's a Paris runway in totally nonfunctional skin-tight sweat pants.


• The dude who bench-pressed the day before yesterday, bench-pressed again yesterday, and today is on an ab-crunch machi--oh, nope, never mind, he was just waiting for a bench press to be freed up.

The list is truly endless. Yet somehow fairly universal. It's as if standard gym protocol mandates that each fitness center has this many weights, that many machines, and these people. Trust me, I used to work part-time at a gym myself -- you couldn't dream of more impeccable people-watching. It's like a fountain of youth for your self-confidence.

Oh, and that back-to-back musical one-two punch courtesy of Ace of Base and Nickelback you hear over the gym speakers? It's no accident. Someone actually requested that radio station. What kind of sick world do we live in?

The Middle Finger

It's crude. It's controversial. It's a collection of connected phalanges.

The inappropriateness of the middle finger has always miffed me. It's befuddling to me that just saying "middle finger" almost feels risqué. It's the only body part I can think of that can be exposed at all times with no thought or offense, until it's in one particular position. One moment it's a high-five constituent; then, at the blink of an eye, it's a literal digital F-bomb. A right-angle formation changes everything.

It's ridiculous enough that people -- well, Western civilization -- find it offensive. But when TV stations blur it out -- actually go through the editing trouble to blur out a finger based on its posture and solitude -- something seems preposterously awry. Purely because someone at some point in history assigned vulgar meaning to that finger once it is elevated to a certain level and distances itself by a socially agreeable measurement of space from its appendaged counterparts, that regular ol' finger becomes lewd, distasteful, and demanding of censorship. So, it's blurred out. A finger. A finger is blurred out. A series of knuckles and a single nail plate are completely, fleetingly blurred from our vision. Then the finger returns to normal resting stage, and the blur is removed.

We know what the finger looks like -- we just saw it before and after the blurred image. And we know what is happening behind the blur. We can actually make this same signal with our own middle finger. Yet they blur it out.

It's a finger, people. It has gotten to the point where you have a better chance at watching a TV show where a chick gets topless than that chick gives someone the middle finger.

So, what about the thumb, huh? How does the thumb get away with it, being all upright and okay -- literally "okay." What is so darn special about the thumb that it is not only welcomed when vertical and singularized but encouraged? I mean, who doesn't like a thumbs-up? Would you rather be on the receiving end of an upright thumb or an upright middle finger? Exactly. But why?

I wonder what it was like to be the first recipient of a middle finger. Something (probably the speedball I did intravenously at lunch) tells me it was introduced in an old western town circa late 19th century around high noon. I imagine the conversation immediately following went something like this:


Flipper-Offer: "I think you're on my horse, buddy."

Horse Thief: "Yep, 'cause I’m stealing it!"

[Flipper-Offer flips Horse Thief off]

Horse Thief: "Wait, what was that?"

Flipper-Offer: "That was my middle finger."

Horse Thief: "Saw that. But why?"

Flipper-Offer: "That's me saying, 'Screw you.' You know, 'Up yours' for stealing my horse."

Horse Thief: "So, why didn't you just say that?"

Flipper-Offer: "I don't know. That's just what I do."

Horse Thief: "Alright. Well, see ya later."


The whole premise of a finger being insulting is just silly. I know I'm supposed to be indignantly appalled when someone singles out his/her middle finger and flashes it in my general direction, but I can't. To me it's the hand signal equivalent of calling me a "honky": Am I supposed to be offended? I guess, but why am I laughing so loudly?

Laundry

I'd make a terrible housewife.

I can't cook; I survive on frozen waffles, frozen pizzas, frozen vegetables that I detest but only buy because it makes me feel better about myself knowing that I could totally eat them at any moment of my choosing -- really, whatever is 5-for-$10 in the frozen food aisle that week.

I can't sew or stitch -- although I'm pretty incredible at cutting sleeves off of T-shirts. It's an organic gift for Kentuckians, a skill naturally developed somewhere around the time you learn how to drive a four-wheeler and learn that there's a huge difference between a kitty cat and a polecat -- usually just before your fifth birthday. But if I needed to reattach the sleeves to that shirt, thread and a needle would do me no good. Honestly, I'd probably just reach for a stapler.

And I certainly can't do laundry worth a lick. I wish I was kidding.

I think I'm just a bit daunted by the unreasonable complexity with laundry. Some clothes must be washed in hot water and dried with a low, tumble dry. Some clothes insist on being washed with "like colors" in cold water on a gentle cycle and dried with medium heat for only a few minutes. Some clothes can't handle any heat. Some clothes require dry cleaning, whatever that is. Some clothes must be washed inside out, while others can only rub against their own kind. (So prejudiced.)

I know a lot of people who run laundry like it's an art form. They intimately know and respect their laundry's cyclic demands. They build different piles, they run different water temperatures, they dry with machines and hangers and racks. They segregate -- sorry, separate -- by colors, fearful of the intermingling of the blacks, whites, and... hot pinks. (So, so prejudiced.)

I envy those people. I worry for their social lives, but I envy those people. Their trends and tips are admirable, but I decline to implement them in my own life. Instead, week after week, I dump the entire basket into the washer. Same settings: normal cycle, cold water. Because I'm a normal guy who enjoys some refreshing, cold water. Even though cold water probably couldn't take the marinara sauce off the kitchen countertop, much less from within my dress shirt's polyester fabric.

Controlling your laundry is tough. It's rolling around, flipping and flopping inside those machines, and all you can do is stand helplessly, hoping for the best. Have you ever actually tried to shrink clothes? It never works. Maybe you bought some clothes that are too baggy or one size too large. Or maybe you finally stopped buying your weekly groceries from Costco and ended up shedding a few pounds -- hey, good job! Either way, those clothes just need a little shrinkage. Unfortunately, it appears the only clothes that actually shrink are the ones you like just the way they are. The excellently aged T-shirt you can’t part ways with, the low-rise boot jeans that cost $160 at the outlet mall, the black pleather club pants that perfectly hug the buttocks with each pelvic thrust to the club remix of the other club remix of that Kylie Minogue song you love -- these are always the clothes that will shrink at the first five-degree upward rise in temperature. But those XXL sweatpants aren't shriveling anytime soon, buddy. Better hope they have a reliable drawstring.

Yep, I'm pretty much useless on the domestic scene. Unless I have a Swiffer pad in hand. Seriously, I will Swiffer circles around you. Dust-free circles.

TV Cameras

There are three things that commonly make even the most astute person go nutty publicly: drugs, alcohol, and TV cameras. It doesn't matter how cool and controlled you perceive or portray yourself to be, overindulgence of either one will likely produce overexposure of yourself. In either case, regrets wait for you in the morning -- if not immediately.

Go to any sporting event and you'll encounter countless people falling prey to their immediate desires to be on TV or the Jumbotron, only to wind up waving unnaturally excitably, kissing someone sloppily, dancing in a crazed, frenetic fashion that resembles the most explosive seizure, or any number of acts that humans weren't designed to do in front of 20,000 in attendance, much less 90,000,000 cable subscribers.

What is it about TV cameras that makes us humans flip our flippin' lids? What compels us to momentarily shed all dignity and act eight years old again?

TV cameras serve as a reminder that we not only demand attention from others, but that we demand attention from ourselves. We look for our reflection in windows, we adore mirrors, and we even try to momentarily catch an enchanted glimpse of ourselves on the security camera monitor in department stores. Sure, you could brush it off as mere curiosity, but what's to be curious about? It's we. We're looking at us. And unless you have amnesia, or Christ just rubbed dirt and saliva in your once blind eye, there's nothing new to see here -- it's the same ugly mug we have always had and self-affirmed in a different mirror 12 minutes ago. I think we have a pretty good idea what we look like, people.

There appears to be an inherent fascination with seeing -- or simply knowing others are seeing -- a projection of ourselves. We will literally go out of our way -- yes, push far heavier strangers -- to get caught on tape if even for a split second just to wag an index finger upward and ambiguously yet adamantly assert to all viewers that something somewhere is indisputably number one, or just to wave and exclaim another inane "Hi, Mom!" to a mike-less TV camera. (Has Mom ever happened to be tuning in at that moment? And if so, has she ever blushed with pride and affection at the muted sight of her half-painted, beer-guzzling son saying hello?)

All that said, while I don't understand the whole premise of screaming and flinging your arms around upon spotting yourself on "the big screen" at the aforementioned sporting event, I'm amazed -- honestly bewildered -- that more people don't flip the ol' middle finger, mouth profanities, or flash their goods at the TV camera. I mean, you'd think that at least one person would consider in that moment, "If I'm gonna be an idiot in this solitary televised opportunity, screw it, I'm going all out." Then, boom, free boobs.

Something to aim for, folks.

Nutrition Facts

It's hard to imagine an era where food products were packaged sans the now ubiquitous nutrition facts label. But it occurred. I can't recall much about that time in history, but it occurred alright. I can only assume that before nutrition facts graced the grocery aisles everyone was happily wrapping all foods with bacon before deep frying every morsel.

But, oh, those nutrition facts changed everything. Now it's all about the calories. Those stupid little calories. And fat grams. Gotta watch the fat grams. But eat more protein. Yes, can't forget about the protein. But watch your calories with that protein -- and, for God's sake, easy on the fat grams!

I think we all try to act like we know more about the nutrition facts label than we honestly do, dissecting its percentaged contents with a meticulous eye. But what do we really know? Well, that the meat lovers' pizza we assumed was terrible for us is actually lethally terrible for us, and that the salad topped with dressing we decided to eat instead was only about two shreds of lettuce and a baby tomato less lethal than that pizza.

For all the additional detail and helpful insight that little nutrition facts white box has provided, it sure has generated an equal amount of gastronomic paranoia. I'm internally sweating over the saturated fat content of every spoonful of ice cream I shove in my mouth simply because I've seen the insanely large percentage per serving in the nutrition facts (even though I'm not completely clear on what saturated fat is, but the combination of "saturated" and "fat" together makes me think of Kirstie Alley in a wet T-shirt contest, so I know it can’t be good for me), and I know I, like all other persons in human history, have never limited myself to the suggested serving size since, you know, we eat ice cream out of bowls and not shot glasses. And in my frantic, unsettled state of mind and feeble attempt to counterbalance the self-administered physiological destruction wrought by ingestion of cocoa and cream, I convince myself how strong my bones beneath all that saturated fat will be thanks to the phenomenal amount of calcium I'm consuming in that pint of double chocolate Moose Tracks. This is how I "enjoy" a cold, refreshing dessert courtesy of the nutrition facts.

I am entirely obsessed with this white label with black stripes, vague food words, and generic percentages. I get really pumped when the food I'm consuming contains a lot of vitamin C, even though when comparing a day of high vitamin C intake against a day of low vitamin C intake, I detect zero difference in how I feel or behave. Regardless, I know vitamins are essential for life -- probably in part because "vitamins" sounds like "vital" (essential) and "vitality" (life) -- so I look to the nutrition facts. I live and breathe by the nutrition facts.

Not always a good thing, though. Example: there's a lot of hoopla suddenly around antioxidants and something called omega-3, as if enough of either one creates a force field of immunity from cancer and heart disease; thing is, neither can be found in the nutrition facts. And I'm so programmed now to look at nutrition facts that if a nutrient isn't listed somewhere within that rectangular label of dietary greatest hits, I just don’t worry about it. I mean, I figure if something in the food is important enough to brag about, it would find its way into the confines of that precious nutrition facts block. So instead I focus my attention on stuffing my face with foods high in magnesium, a nutritional element of which I know diddley-poo but can only assume is imperative to sustaining immaculate health since, when present, it's listed alongside the nutrition facts' "good guys" like iron and riboflavin -- you know, just below the bastardized fat and cholesterol grams section.

Sure, the nutrition facts take out almost all the fun in eating, but without it, we'd probably continue to naively eat deep-fried bacon. ...Well, wait -- deep-fried bacon has a lot of protein, right?

Textbooks

Look out, sleazy used-car salesman jerk face, there's a new swindler in town. And he sells textbooks.

Allow me to explain with some reader participation: Examine a textbook and compare your findings to that of a regular book. [SPOILER ALERT: Answers ensue, so please do not read further unless you've completed your book comparison.] Most likely there is a cover, there are pages, there are words -- perhaps even pictures if you're lucky -- on those pages, and, well, that's about it. So, where does the price gap between that $24.95 regular hardcover history book and the $89.95 textbook that covers virtually the same material and timeline earn its justification? That's what I'd like to know.

Yet anyone who has been a student on one end of a textbook transaction knows the madness doesn't end there.

While the textbook prices are outrageous, the buyback cash offers bookstores extend to desperate students are arguably even more outrageous. Buy an economics book for $120 and sell it back to that bookstore four months later for $8. Here's a better idea, student: keep the economics book and read it again, primarily focusing on the chapter about profit gains and losses. You're welcome.

Fortunately in this tech-savvy age, students can try maximizing their textbooks' resale value on the net. Amazon, eBay, Craigslist, and a plethora of other sites allow customers to sell and buy directly to and from each other. It's a win-win for students -- but a loss-loss for textbook companies.

But, of course, they're fixing that.

Apparently in recent years, textbook companies have weaseled a new factor into the mix: access codes supplementary to new textbooks that "unlock" additional material online. Obviously if that material is desired -- or, worse, required -- a used textbook without the access code may as well be a baby booster. Since when do you need a Game Genie code to tap into the secret treasures behind a textbook's material? Isn't that what the textbook is for?

If there was ever a time Congress should involve itself in the marketplace, textbook vending is it. Seriously, lawmakers, step away from verbally barbecuing the steroids-jacked ballplayers for a second and help a few college students out with this colossal dilemma. It's not really an issue where the consumers can boycott and say, "We don't need your textbooks," because actually, yes, they do need those textbooks.

Teachers/Professors (since I know you frequently refer to this peer-reviewed, scholarly blog), I implore you to stand your ground and consider the ridiculousness imparted by these textbook companies. Why update your class curriculum around a new textbook version every year or even every other year? Wastefulness aside, how much sense does that make with the basic truths and logicality within your class lessons? How many updates since the first edition of your chosen textbook have been made to the botanical process of photosynthesis? Or to the assassination date of Abraham Lincoln? Or to the calculations of a circumference? Or to the published works of any dead author? Is that new, colorful flowchart in the 17th edition really worth asking your students to purchase a brand new textbook? Be thrifty, man, they're college students. They need the money for booze and regrettable tattoos.

In college I had a math professor who did his part in refusing to exacerbate this problem: he wrote his own textbook. "Yeah, but lots of professors do that -- and those are the same textbooks that sell for $100." Sorry, let me clarify: he wrote his own textbook independently. In pencil. And ran his own copies of his pencil-written textbook on standard printer paper and sold it out of the college bookstore for $10. Even copyrighted the darn thing. Now that's a problem-solver. Which is fitting for a math professor.

Obviously, I'm not proposing every employed teacher/professor grab a sketch pad and a mechanical Bic and draft his/her own textbook, but I think every teacher/professor -- like every textbook publisher, bookstore owner, and congressman -- should look at the insane, exponential price-gouging behind a stack of continuously reversioned textbook pages, priced like they're turkey sandwiches at an airport, and think to themselves, "Do students and parents really deserve this?" like my math professor did.

Your move, everyone else.