Vampire Briefs

Those Brits! To make up for the BP oil spill, Our Friends Across the Pond have created a new line of men's underwear "inspired by Robert Pattinson", the Twilight Saga's dreamy teen vampire. According to the Manchester Guardian, UK clothier Marks and Spencer "designed the underwear to be worn under the tight, skinny jeans favo(u)red by Mr Pattinson."

But is this the sole selling point for this exciting new product? Just taking a wild stab here, but my guess is that the bulk of Mr Pattinson's fan base is tween girls and they are not major purchases of male underwear.

Let's take another tack. Vampires are immortal. It only makes sense that their briefs and tee shirts should be deathless as well. Jerry Seinfeld once noted that men never throw their underwear away. They continue to wear it until it becomes "tiny little underwear molecules that drift away in the breeze." In fact, I was still wearing the same undergarments that my mother so laboriously sewed name tags onto for Boy Scout Camp when I was in college, and I wasn't alone.

There you have it, men. Buy Robert Pattinson underwear. You will not only impress your tween daughter, but you can respond to your wife's pleas of, "When are you going to scrap that threadbare pair of briefs?" with "These are no ordinary briefs, my dear. They are vampire briefs! Bwah-ha-ha!"

Top Secret GaGa

Forty years ago, I was a young Army Lieutenant stationed at Camp Humphreys, Korea. "The Hump" was home to "real" Army units like my 802d Engineer Battalion, the 156th Aviation Company, the 4/44 Air Defense Artillery Battalion, the 502d Quartermaster Company, the 714th MP Company, etc. Off in their own private corner, ensconced in masonry buildings (Rumor had it they were air-conditioned as opposed to our oven-like Quonset huts), bristling with antennae and radar dishes was a unit of the Army Security Agency, electronically eavesdropping across the DMZ into North Korea.

Those guys were so secretive that they didn't even have a swell unit number like 802d or 4/44.

The ASA guys kept to their little luxurious corner of the base and didn't mix with us common folk. That Top Secret clearance has its advantages. We would occeasionally see them smoking and joking in civilian clothes looking clean and well-fed when we pulled into the base covered with mud and grime after days of cold C rations in the field. What manner of superior mortals were they?

Tuesday's "Daily Show" provided the answer. Jon Stewart revealed that the Army Intelligence guy who released thousands of classified documents from Afghanistan did so by inserting a blank disc into his computer labeled "Lady GaGa" and copying the documents onto it while humming Ms GaGa's greatest hits for cover. "Oh, I'm just doing my Top Secret job here while bopping along to the Lady, sir. There's nothing unusual going on at all."

How the Army has changed in 40 years. If one of those ASA guys had claimed he was listening to Lady GaGa's 1970 equivalent (say Tiny Tim) while on Top Secret duty, he'd be on the next plane to the stockade and a dishonorable discharge. A 1970s-era officer would question how anyone could listen to Lady GaGa for the hours it took to download those thousands of documents. "Son, I fully comply with "Don't ask; Don't tell", but is there something you want to get off your chest?"

One of the recurring bits on the old TV show "MASH" was Corporal Klinger's dresing in women's clothing in a vain attempt to be transferred out of Korea. I didn't think of that ploy when I was there. I wonder whether several hours of Tiny Tim would have worked though.

A Common Sense Solution

Leave it to Glenn Beck to come up with a common sense solution to our national woes.

In a recent show, Glenn noted that approximately 50% of all Americans do not pay Federal Income Tax. "These are the people who should be in the military protecting us in Afghanistan and Iraq!"

Makes sense to me, Glenn-Bo. Those parasite who don't pay taxes should contribute blood, sweat, and tears instead. Let's take a look at who those tax-shirking leeches really are:

1. Children under the age of 13. That's 20% of the American populace right there. Let's get them out of school and into the military! Our property taxes will go down. Kids can really fight, too. Remember those back seat battles between Tiffany, Josh, and Britney while driving on vacation?

2. Seniors over 65. Other than Wal-Mart greeters, that 15% of the population isn't working and contributing taxes. With the exemption that they get for being 65, they usually avoid being taxed on their interest income, too. Plus they get an extra exemption if they are blind. Draft them all! The Taliban won't last a month against an elderly , blind US Army.

3. Illegal Aliens. This 10% of the populace is necessarily paid tax-free "under the table". Few illegals say, "You are paying me so well for this sweatshop job that I want to pay taxes to support the community services that I can't take advantage of. Sure, the IRS will figure out that something is amiss when they get taxes from someone who is not supposed to be here, but that's a chance I'm willing to take." As a side benefit, Glenn and his Fox News crowd are always complaining that these illegal aliens can't even speak English. Well, put them in the Army and they'll pick up a complete vocabulary of four-letter English expletives in no time!

4. Really rich guys. During his divorce proceedings, billionaire Frank McCourt, owner of the LA Dodgers revealed that he hasn't paid Federal taxes in five years. "Only the little people pay taxes", indeed. It may be tough getting the really rich into the military, unless, of course, they get a "show up if you feel like ti" slot in the Texas Air National Guard like G.W. Bush did.

Thanks, Glenn, for simultaneously solving our budget deficit and national security problems. Now can you take a look at that oil spill?

Expletive Deleted

What makes a good expletive? It need not necessarily be scatological, anti-religious, or sexual. It must be monosyllabic and easily convertible to a noun, verb, adjective, or adverb. Most important, it has the same meaning to all who hear it.

I propose a new expletive for local baseball fans - "Lidge" as inspired by the Phillies closer. Sunday, the Phils overcame the heat and humidity plus a 90 minute rain delay to take a one run lead into the ninth inning. Enter Brad Lidge. He proceeded to load the bases with two walks and a hit before finally striking out the final batter. The process took 25 agonizing minutes.

I was listening to the game on the radio while walking the dog during this ordeal. The dog's ears turned red as I expounded:

"You piece of Lidge"
"Way to Lidge up that situation"
"Throw a Lidge-ing strike for Lidge's sake"

Now had the dog not been a Phillies fan and suffered with me through Lidge's travails over the past two years, these expletives would be meaningless. In fact, several dogs that we walked past scarcely turned an ear to my rant. Obviously, they were Yankee fans.

Paging Noah Webster... we have a new addition to your dictionary, Phillies Fan Edition.

Bieber 2040

Teen stars of the past are in the news and not in a good way.

There's the Gary Coleman mess, Cory Haim or Cory Feldman (I never ccoulkd get those two straight), Danny Bonaduce, and, of course, Lindsay Lohan. The question is wich current Teen Stars are likely to appear on a future police blotter. Will Taylor Swift turn into the Britney Spears of 2008 what with instant marriages, two babies in rapid succession, head shaving, and rehab? Will Miley Cyrus become the Amy Winehouse of 2012?

I am sure of one thing. Justin Bieber will never go off the deep end. First of all, he's Canadian. Our Neighbors to the North are invariably polite and well-grounded. Theer's that unfortunate tendency to end sentences with "Eh?" and that infatuation with hockey, but when Canadians become famous, they don't go insane. Take Dan Ackroyd, Mike Myers, and (shuddr) Celine Dion, for example. Second, he's not a product of The Disney Star Making Assembly Line. Look what happened to Britney Spears and Cristina Aguilera when they escaped The Realm of the Mouse. Third, Justin has that Dick Clark, Bob Costas "forever young" look going for him. He will be fifty years old and will still be carded by bartenders and, probably, drug dealers. How much trouble can he get into looking like a 14 year old for the rest of his life?

Passing by Supercuts the other day, I noticed a poster on its door advertising "Bieber Bingo", a radio station contest of some sort. A better Justin-related contest idea might be "Bieber 2040" wherein fans sketch what Justin will look like in thirty years.

My entry would be a current photo of Donald Trump. By 2040, Justin's signature combover will be baldness-disguising necessity and The Donald has that look down pat. I will surely win First Prize in "Bieber 2040". How I long for a backstage pass to a Justin concert.

Resident Scholar

Corporate and governmental bureaucracies place great stock in job titles. After all, a Senior Correspondent has it all over a plain Correspondent (even if every Correspondent is Senior like on the "Daily Show"). Throw in a few magic terms like "Global", "Multimedia", "Sustainability", or "Champion" and you've got a business card that will surely win you a free lunch in the weekly drawing from the fishbowl at Chili's. Who can resist a Senior Global Multimedia Sustainability Champion?

Sometimes, less is more, even regarding job titles. NPR interviewed the man holding the title of "Resident Scholar" at the Federal Reserve this morning. Radio being "The Theater of the Mind", I attempted to visualize what a Resident Scholar would look like. Would he wear an academic robe and a mortarboard hat to work each day? Would he proudly don a necktie in his "house colors" like the Gryffindors at Hogwart's? As a "resident", would he sleep in a cozy little nook carved out among the money bags in a Federal Reserve vault to be available 24 / 7 for scholarly consultation? After his grueling residency, can he be accredited as a Scholar in Private Practice, like a medical doctor?

I contend that with job titles, less is actually less. If I'm the Chili's manager running the weekly business card drawing, I would give that free lunch to the Senior Global Multimedia Sustainability Champion with the $100 hair cut dressed in corporate casual rather than the Resident Scholar in the rumpled cap and gown. If he were a Senior Resident Scholar, it might be a different story.

Elvis vs. Calista

Successful TV infomercials immediately grab your attention. The camera pans to an adorable little old lady. "I had fallen and I couldn't get up. The neighbor's pet boa constrictor eyed my helpless body hungrily and began slithering over the fence. I screamed but no one heard me. Then I remembered my First Alert bracelet. EMTs were there in no time. They shot that pesky snake dead and soon had me speeding away in an ambulance. It's the best $19.99 I ever spent. If you have your credit card ready and call now, First Alert will add a set of Ginsu knives to your order!"

Successful newspaper ads use headlines and photos to grab your attention. "Don't End Up Like Elvis" appeared over a photo of the Las Vegas era "Fat Elvis". Doctor Lars Flotsam (as opposed to his partner Dr Jetsam) of the prestigious Gastroenterological Clinic in Elsinore, Denmark (where the ghosts of murdered Kings and melancholy Princes roam) revealed that, contrary to the urban myth, Elvis Presley did not have a 40 pound colon when he died.

"He had something much worse!" (A 60 pound semi-colon? A 70 pound exclamation point? Punctuation gone wild will get you every time.) "Elvis's colon was packed with old, decayed food particles. It was swollen to three times its normal diameter." Elvis was not alone in suffering from this. Out of 248 autopsies performed by the good Doctor Flotsam, only 28 colons were found to be free from hardened decay. (Bear in mind that these were Danish colons. A lifetime of breakfast pastries and Danish ham dinners might have something to do with it.)

Doctor Flotsam notes that those with plugged colons found their stomachs distended to twice their normal size. Even Elvis's best sequined jump suit couldn't disguise that.

Fortunately for us all, Doctor Flotsam re-discovered an ancient Danish remedy - a seed called Psyllium with plenty of soluble fiber. "It reduces constipation rate from 62% to 19%!" (Imagine a world where 62% of the populace is constipated, cranky, and irritable. Would you want to live in it?). "It reduces abdominal mass from a whopping 42% to just 17%!" (By comparison, Calista Flockhart comes in at 19% abdominal mass. Post Psyllium, she'd be considered a tad overweight.)

The newspaper ad ends with a "Special Opportunity." Readers of the ad can obtain a risk-free supply of this wonder product at a "priority discount price" if they hurry because, of course, "supplies are limited."

It's a tough choice. Do I want to end up a bloated wreck like Elvis or a wraith like Calista? Maybe I should take only half the recommended dosage.

The Little Old Sausage Maker

Bismarck said that you don't want to see how sausages or laws are created. Right on, Otto!

In 2005, Dick Cheney convened a panel of experts to craft The Energy Policy Act. To encourage drilling off America's coasts, it exempted deep-water operations from paying royalties to the government and from that tedious environmental analysis. After all, what could possibly go wrong drilling 10,000 feet below a 5,000 foot deep sea bed? "Drill, baby, drill", indeed. Naturally, the 2005 Energy Policy Act became law.

Then came the Deepwater Horizon disaster. Congressional Democrats are pushing a bill that requires environmental analysis before deep-water drilling, adds royalties, bans companies with poor safety records (like BP) from obtaining off-shore leases, and creates new standards for blowout preventers. This is not exactly locking the barn door after the horse has run off, but is certainly making sure there's a lock there should anyone decide to use it.

Republicans accuse the Democratic majority of acting in haste before the true causes of the rig explosion are known. The American Petroleum Institute said that the bill "would threaten American jobs, the nation's economy, and its energy security." If well-funded lobbying and filibuster threats can delay bill passage past the upcoming elections, there's a good chance that it will never become law.

Clearly, what we need to prevent future deep-water drilling disasters is that little old sausage-maker Dick Cheney to switch sides on the issue. He can get anything passed into law. We need to convince him that his mountain of Halliburton stock would be worth a lot more if the new law required all environmental assessments be done by Halliburton and all blowout preventers carry the Halliburton seal of approval. Suddenly, the bill would be creating jobs, boosting the economy, and improving our energy security.

Regardless of how it is made, the critical question is who gets the sausage after the law is passed.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

I celebrated the Bicentennial Summer of 1976 by driving 40 miles north on Route 309 to Tamaqua each and every day. I had to be at the job site before 7 AM to debrief the night shift and get the day shift going. I quickly learned that a 5:30 AM departure was necessary to beat the traffic on weekdays what with the rush to LCCC and even on Saturdays to beat the funseekers headed to the Poconos. But on Sundays, blessed Sundays, the road was empty. I could speed north in solitude.

There was little solitude in Bethlehem yesterday at 5:30 AM. Players began lining up at the casino at that time for the 8:00 AM official start of table games. By 8:30, all sixty one tables were full. Hundreds of gamblers passed up forty winks on a Sunday morning to play blackjack and craps.

Back in 1976, my incentive to spend Sunday morning speeding up Route 309 listening to religious and public service programming on the radio as opposed to a leisurely breakfast with the comic and sports pages was simple. I needed my job. One wonders what pull a roulette wheel can exert to draw people to a casino from a comfortable bed and that second cup of coffee in the early morning hours.

Of course, table gaming is new and exciting and Bethlehem is a lot closer than Atlantic City or Las Vegas. Still, I've grown to cherish lazy Sunday mornings. I'll wait until a more civilized hour to try my luck at the tables.

Lake Wobegone Reconsidered

In this time of chaos, don't we yearn for Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegone "where the women are strong, the men are beautiful and all the children are above average"? Lake Wobegone actually exists! In the Magical World of TV Snack Food commercials, that is.

After "Today" scared us this morning with reports on escalating casualties in Afghanistan, the latest on the ecological disaster in the Gulf, Mel Gibson's rants, and a live concert by Enrique Iglesias, two commercials showed us The Real America. The first opened with a Mom entering her kitchen on a sunny morning to find her 8 year old son having dressed himself, prepared his own breakfast, packed his own lunch, and headed out to the school bus with a cheery, "I made a surprise for you, Mom". She opens a paper bag to find that he made her a Jif peanut butter sandwich with an enscribed heart.

In the Magical World of TV Snack Food Commercials (and Lake Wobegone, no doubt), kids are entirely self-sufficient and even thoughtful unlike the Real World of dragging the kid out of bed and attempting to squeeze breakfast, minimum personal hygiene, getting dressed, finding school books, and packing some sort of lunch before the school bus gives up and pulls away.

The next commercial was even more fantastic. Two sisters, aged about 10 and 6, return home after school and head directly for the cookie jar. The older finds only one Keebler cookie in the jar and holds it just out of the reach of the younger. In the Real World, of course, Big Sister would hold it until Little Sister was standing in a puddle of drool and then proceed to gulp it down followed by the requisite screams, threats, and tears. In the Magical World (and probably Lake Wobegone as well), Big Sister ponders her options and gives it to Little Sis. The Keebler Elves reward her selflessness by depositing another cookie in the jar.

Actually, I'm not sure that I would want to live in The Magical World of Commercials or Lake Wobegone. Those thoughtful kids freak me out. It would be cool to have an elf in the house to replenish the cookie supply though.

The Macungie Atrocity

Macungie is one of those town names that brings a smile to your face. Like Poughkeepsie or Walla Walla, it just sounds funny. Humans may continue to chuckle, but the mere mention of Macungie brings shudders of fear to our canine companions.

Last week, a Macungie woman left Max, her chocolate lab, in her car parked outside a strip mall for about an hour in 90 degree weather. The woman claimed that she had "forgotten" that Max was in the car. Maybe it was a really big vehicle. Maybe Ms Macungie has really poor eyesight that she would miss an 80 pound, panting dog lolling around her car. "Typical human", our doggie friends would say.

The woman heard her car horn being sounded several times during that hour, but "noticed nothing amiss". Apparently, car horns go off by themselves in Macungie. Finally, she went outside and saw Max seated in the driver's seat honking the horn. Even in Macungie, a dog behind the steering wheel honking the horn is worthy of notice.

Max was freed from the sweltering vehicle, given water, wetted down, and transported to the vet. He is none the worse for wear now.

Some good may have come from this incident. Dogs communicate with each other in ways that we humans cannot comprehend - butt sniffing, urine deposits, barking. Surely, word of the Macungie Atrocity has spread through the Lehigh Valley Canine Grapevine by now. I know that when my dog misbehaves this week, he immediately comes back in line when I shout, "Macungie!" It's like Colonel Klink threatening to send Sergeant Schultz to the Eastern Front in "Hogan's Heroes". Straighten up, or I'll send you to the worst place imaginable!

Timing

Hotel mogul Leona Helmsley, the "Queen of Mean", famously said, "Only little people pay taxes". Frank McCourt, billionaire owner of the Los Angeles Dodgers hasn't paid Federal taxes in five years. Incorporate yourself in the Netherlands Antilles. Do all your banking through Switzerland. Establish trust funds for your household pets. You, too, can make millions and keep it away from Uncle Sam.

George Steinbrenner, owner of the NY Yankees, died yesterday. If his portrayal on "Seinfeld" is accurate, Steinbrenner was not a subtle man. Putting a chain saw to George Costanza's nap-accomodating desk in the Yankees' offices is typical reckless Steinbrenner. Not counting the Joe Torre and Joe Girardi tenures, going through 14 managerial changes in 12 years shows Steinbrenner's impulsiveness.

But "The Boss" had impeccable timing. He invested $200,000 in the Yankees back in 1973. Today, they are worth $1.1 billion. That's timing. By dying in 2010, the only year since 1914 with no Federal Estate Tax, Steinbrenner saved a whopping 45% of his estate from going to the IRS. Disregarding exemptions and arcane tax rules, that's about $450 million more to his heirs than if he held on until 2011. That's really good timing.

One wonders whether impulsive, reckless George Steinbrenner would have been one to stand still long enough for "estate planners" to plot ways around the tax laws. Then, typical of his impeccable timing, his time runs out in the one year that saves his heirs $450 million and Uncle Sam can't do a thing about it.

Timing is everything.

A Modest Proposal

Conservative commentators reject extension of long-term unemployment benefits on the basis that "There are jobs out there. You just have to relocate and accept a temporary position at lower wages." And who wouldn't uproot their family for a temp job at minimum wage and no benefits?

Actually, migrant workers and illegal aliens do exactly that. Replacing migrants and illegals in our lettuce fields with unemployed "real" Americans solves the Immigration Problem and keeps the Unemployment Compensation System solvent in one fell swoop. I'm surprised Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity haven't recommended it.

For those of us beyond our lettuce picking years, I submit a modest proposal fully in tune with the great spirit of American entrepreneurship that made this country great - Start your very own NCAA Division 1 basketball team. The NCAA's new TV contract is worth $10.3 billion over 14 years. There are currently 300 or so NCAA Division 1 basketball teams. Assuming that each draws an equal share of the TV revenues, that's roughly $2 million per team per year. Granted, your team will have to pay a coach, award scholarships to players, and find a place to play, but that has got to leave you $1 million per year free and clear.

Try clearing $1 million per year selling Avon or Amway. NCAA Division 1 basketball is the way to go!

TheTwilight Election

The "Twilight" phenomenon has proven to be a bonanza for bookstores, movie theaters, and even Burger King. Now, politicians are climbing on the bandwagon.

The Pittsburgh area branch of Organizing for America descended on the long lines outside cineplexes showing the movie with voter registration materials. Nearly 300 eligible voters registered. There was no word on whether the new voters were predominantly vampire-loving members of Team Edward ("He's had 100 years to learn to love.") or werewolf fans from Team Jacob ("You can pet him.") It could have an effect on the upcoming Pennsylvania governor's race. Should Tom Corbett get even more pale and purchase those funky yellowish contact lenses to appeal to Team Edward fans? Should Dan Onerato appear bare-chested at campaign stops to energize the Team Jacob base?

This is the danger of universal suffrage. Candidates must appeal to all potential voters, even 18 year old girls pining for a "love that cannot be". This can lead to problematical questions from the floor during town meetings:

"Mr Corbett, how do you stand on table gaming in PA casinos, and, more important, as Attorney General, is Bella's promise to the Volturi to become a vampire legally binding?"

"Mr Onerato, as governor, would you support imposition of tolls on I-80 as a means to replenish the Highway Fund and, more important, would you promise not to criminally pursue the Cullen family since they limit themselves to animal blood?

What Really Happened

News Item - "Lindsay Lohan sported a colorful manicure in court Tuesday that included obscene messages on each of her middle fingers. Lohan was sentenced to 90 days in jail and 90 days in rehab by the judge. Lohan's lawyer later resigned from the case."

What really happened? Here's one scenario:

Lawyer: "Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay. Telling the judge to @#%^ off with your fingernails may not be the best way to get a lighter sentence."

LL: "But that alcohol-detecting ankle bracelet that she made me wear made me look like I had "cankles". Plus, it didn't come in designer colors."

Lawyer: "The judge was already pissed at you for traipsing off to Cannes instead of attending a mandatory hearing here in L.A."

LL: "Hey, I would have made it back for the hearing, but the dog really did eat my passport."

Lawyer: "The dog ate my (fill in the blank) excuse stops working by the 6th grade, Lindsay. Come on, what's the real reason for this self-destructive behavior? It's not like you married Kevin Federline, dropped two kids in rapid succession, and shaved your head. Are you trying to out-Britney Britney? Even after all that, her career is back on track."

LL: "You figured it out! This whole deal is part of a plan to get my career back to the top. What makes a successful movie in the summer of 2010? It's got to be a sequel. Twilight 2, Toy Story 3, and Shrek 3 are hauling in millions. How about "Mean Girls 2 - Ninety Days in the Hole"? I reprise my best-known role, but in a prison instead of a suburban high school. Initially rejected by the "cool" convict clique, I exploit their insecurities, cause them to accept me, catch the eye of the warden's hunky son, and go to the 'Jailhouse Rock'-themed Prom with him. We're thinking of Robert Pattinson for the role."

Lawyer: "Lindsay, I've visited clients in prison. It's not exactly a suburban high school."

LL: "That's why I flitted off to Cannes and did my nails this way! I have to go to prison to see what it's really like. All those drugs and alcohol were getting old anyway. By the way, now that you know my secret, I have to fire you. This way, if you reveal my true reason for going to prison, I can claim that it's all sour grapes."

Lady GaGa for President

The foolishness of Our Founding Fathers is proven by, of all people, Lady GaGa.

Building the hype for the diva's upcoming appearance on the Today Show, Meredith Veiera informed us this morning that Lady Gaga is now #1 in Facebook "friends" having passed the former #1, some guy named Barack Obama. The American public would rather keep up with the comings and goings of a 24 year old "music and fashion icon" rather than the guy with the power to invade a country on the other side of the world based on a false pretext (not that that would ever happen).

The framers of the Constitution saw this coming. Rather than entrust the choice of the President to direct election by the people (I'm not sure what the equivalent of Lady Gaga fans was back in 1787, but they'd probably have picked some fife player in an exotic outfit over George Washington), they established the Electoral College, a sane and sober crew who'd choose the best landholding, wealthy white guy they could find for the highest office in the land.

Frankly, the Electoral College is not democratic. Modern technology allows us to choose our American Idol by popular vote. We should be able to follow Ryan Seacrest's instructions and text our choice for American President the same way! In fact, we should have Presidential Tryouts open to the public at sites across this great land of ours with hilarious videotaped outtakes. The Finalists could then give speeches and show their snappiest salute upon exiting Air Force One before Simon and the rest of the panel. They could be "mentored" by former Presidents. Imagine the tension as the Finalists are whittled down to the Final 3.

The "American Idol" process gave us Carrie Underwood. The Electoral College gave us Warren G. Harding. Which is better?

Of course, if the "American Idol" process were in place today, Lady GaGa would be President.

Steel Cage Death Match

Summer sizzles in Bethlehem, PA. Philadelphia Eagles Training Camp draws thousands each day. Musik (with a k) Fest brings more than 500,000 visitors over its two week run. The Sands Casino regularly sets patronage and wagering records.

Now there is a "new for 2010" reason to visit the Christmas City. Pro wrestling's "WWE Smackdown Tour" is coming to Stabler Arena on 28 August. Why stand under the broiling sun at Eagles Camp watching 300 pound men beat on each other, when you can see the same action seated in air conditioned comfort at Stabler? (And some of the wrestlers wear cool masks). Why bake under a tent at Musik (with a k) Fest watching tattooed local amateurs do the Chicken Dance when you can witness superior choreography performed by tattooed professionals in tights? Why grapple with fellow gamblers for access to the "Wheel of Fortune" slot machine when you can trample fellow patrons in Section 101 to retrieve a wristband tossed into the crowd by WWE Superstar John Cena?

Best of all, the 28 August Smackdown features a Steel Cage Death Match between "The World's Largest Athlete", 7'2" tall, 500 lb The Big Show and "The All-American American" Jack Swagger with Special Guest Referee Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat. Only one man will leave the Steel Cage! The match must end in pin, fall, or submission (or possibly dismemberment). Try duplicating that excitement at a pre-season football camp, a music festival, or a casino!

Sorry to steal your thunder, Eagles, Fest and Sands. If I'm going to Bethlehem this summer, it is for the 'rasslin'.

The Hoagie Defense

Is the Twinkie Defense about to be extended to the Hoagie Defense? Public Defenders nationwide await the outcome.

A man left a Bethlehem bar recently and encountered two men who demanded money. When he refused, they beat him with a tree branch (When tree branches are criminalized, only criminals will have tree branches!) and stole his wallet. The perpetrators were apprehended after they used the victim's credit card to purchase two hoagies and a pack of cigarettes.

One imagines the scene at the Pubic Defenders' Office:

"You've got a tough one here, Perry Mason. Those two had tree bark under their fingernails and the scent of a $5 Foot-Long on their breath. The D.A. thinks he has an open and shut case."

"Not so fast, John Grisham. Remember the famed Twinkie Defense where the malefactor claimed that he committed the crime because he was hopped up on that golden sponge cake with creamy marshmallow filling? The sugar rush made him do it?"

"Sure. Perry. The Twinkie Defense along with the "If the glove won't fit, you can't convict" trick are taught on the first day of Shyster 101 in Law School."

"I'm going for the Hoagie Defense. I'll wait until just before lunch and start whistling that irritating Subway jingle. I'll bring in Defense Exhibit #1, several $5 foot longs.

"Mister Shop Owner, which of these delicious creations did my clients purchase? (At this point, I cleverly waft the aroma of that parmesan / oregano fresh-baked roll filled with chicken teriyaki and all those great toppings toward the jury box.) Was it this piping hot meatball marinara hoagie smothered in melted mozzarella, Mister Shop Owner? Could it have been this moist Italian BMT drenched in extra virgin olive oil? I'll place these delicious hoagies next to the jury box so they can get a good look at them. What a coincidence! I have one fresh and tasty sub for each of the twelve members of the jury. Oh, too bad! It's 30 minutes until lunch time. If this jury doesn't declare my clients innocent really quickly, these sandwiches will become a cold and soggy mess..."

"Brilliant, Perry! You're sure to get an immediate acquittal especially in the Lehigh Valley. Nothing can stand between a Bethlehemite and his junk food. Those guys eat deep-fried Oreos at Musik (with a k) fest.

Sweet Mystery of Life

Among life's mysteries is this. In the days of my youth, bodily aches and pains were assuaged by a good night's rest. After a day spent "breaking rocks in the hot sun", I would arise the next morning refreshed and relatively supple. In my twilight years, I awake stiffer and worse for wear than when I went to bed.

The conundrum is that now I feel infinitely better after swimming 1,000 yards than I did before entering the water. Should I forego slumber for aquatics? Should I rely on 40 laps rather than 40 winks to recover after manual labor? Is a 25 yard long water bed the answer?