I think I’ll go into business for myself, so that I don’t have to work.

I can hear the resounding cries already:  “Owning your own business is HARD WORK!”  “If you’ve never owned your company, you have no idea what you’re talking about!”  “Restrooms are for paying customers only!”  (Oh wait, that’s just the woman at the cash register.  I’m tempted to ask her where the bathrooms are for everyone else.  Maybe behind the dumpster out back?)

I’m doing some sales prospecting today, and in 9 of the 10 places I visited this morning, the owner or manager was out for the day.  In the 10^th place, I’m pretty sure he was there and his front desk staff were lying to me.  Could it be that most of the owners really ARE there, and they’re just lying to me?  But if so, how do they know I’m a salesman?

Maybe it’s the bad haircut.  It not only says, “Here comes a salesman,” it also says, “Here comes an unsuccessful salesman.”  But wait.  Bill Gates has a lousy haircut, and just about anybody would be willing to talk to him.

Maybe it’s the necktie, that old-fashioned old fashion accessory that just screams, “I’m not wearing this necktie to look nice, I’m wearing it to show you that I respect you and respect your possibly antiquated ideas of proper dress in the workplace.”  Hell, as I glance around this Chinese restaurant where I’m eating lunch, I don’t see a single necktie.  Maybe I’ll pull a Jim Halpert and cut it off a few inches below the knot (is that what she said?).  This will tell people I’m forced to wear this noose but I don’t really want to.  Nah, that won’t work.  That will only make me look a little bit insane and will leave my dress shirt more vulnerable to stains from falling kung-pao chicken.

Mabye it’s the irremovable scowl on my face, a visage grown from a month or two of struggling to build a client list in the worst economic crisis of our generation.  “But the economy is starting to pick up,” I insist.  “You can’t hope to sustain and grow if people don’t know you’re here,” I promise.  “I’ll buy an egg roll after if you’ll just let me use your bathroom now,” I plead. 

But my persuasions, sometimes gentle and sometimes not, too often fall on deaf ears.  I’ve had more than one business owner accuse me of being clueless.  “Are you crazy?” one asked.  “What world are you living in where you think businesses have any money to spend right now?”

And then there was the merchant in Charles Town with a very large sign on his front door which read, “Sales persons are welcome if they have called first for pre-approval and have an appointment.”  Yes, I went in anyway.  What the hell?  I asked to make an appointment and he simply pointed to the door.  Kinda rude, very dismissive.  You’d think a florist would have a sunnier way of dealing with people, even the bottom-feeder salesman types.

I know now why my thus far 30 years in the business world have rarely involved sales.  It’s tough.  Long days on the road, going from GPS coordinate to GPS coordinate.  Eating lunch at cheap restaurants because it’s too far to drive home to eat.  Trying to forget that one sale last week which took four visits to complete, and 2 hours of paperwork to submit, all for a commission of $78.  Trying to put a smile onto a face that’s lately peppered with frustration, disappointment and an almost overpowering sense of futility.   

So I’m going to go into business for myself.  And if it truly does require 80-hour work weeks, so be it.  At least I can feel a sense of control over the frustrations that come along. 

But in the meantime, I really gotta use the bathroom.  I guess I’ll have to show my receipt to someone so that I can use the bathrooms for paying customers only.  Good thing, too.  I have shy-bladder-when-peeing-behind-a-dumpster syndrome.  God, it sucks to be me.

As I lay in bed this morning, oversleeping for the first time in a few weeks (and happy to be challenged by the alarm clock 5X/week again), my dreaming mind drifted through a number of small, mostly forgettable vignettes. The only one I can still remember had Shelley and me as owners of a business where every Saturday was Sausage Saturday. I don’t recall what type of business it was. Living in Berkeley County, West Virginia, it could have been anything, and I do mean anything. (shudder)

And I also concocted a great idea for a blog entry. Something about friends. It was funny. But I’ve lost it. I do remember being very relieved to finally find some inspiration to update my blog.

Maybe it’s best I’ve forgotten the topic. Dreams can make the worst ideas seem great. I’ve had dreams where I’ve aced a KILLER stand-up routine, with audience members rolling the floors in laughter. And as I’ve dreamt this, I’ve told myself to remember this wildly wacky material upon waking. But when I wake and ponder it lucidly, it’s dumb. Stupid. Useless. Alas, my great idea for a blog entry was probably not so great to begin with.

So what next? I could do another “dot … dot … dot” entry. “I think with just a little more love, any smoker could finally break the habit … Why don’t we just call those rabid Apple computer users ‘macadamia nuts’ and be done with it already … If Mama Cass had shared part of her sandwich with Karen Carpenter, they’d both be alive today…” You get the idea.

I’ve posted two random thought essays to my blog and, if I may say so, they were pretty funny (even when pondered in an awake state). But I wanted my return to blogging to be a bit more meaty. So I decided to discuss my career goings-on.

Several weeks ago, I began doing “stringer” work for the Journal news in Martinsburg. That’s been a lot of fun. I’ve had opportunity to write articles about horse rescue farms, veterans, festivals and fairs, haunted houses, etc. My favorite assignment was to a woman’s small chocolate factory nestled in Inwood. Got free samples there. But for some reason, this article hasn’t been published yet. I hope she doesn’t think I tried to scam her out of a plate of chocolate bon-bons.

A few weeks ago, I joined the sales staff at the local radio station cluster (hence the ‘glad to be enslaved to the alarm clock’ phenom). It’s a fun job, but I fear it won’t pay much. Still, it’s better than my paycheck over the last six months, which was ZERO (less taxes, social security, medicare – still ZERO).

And THEN, a couple of weeks after joining the radio station and ending my job search activity, I received a call from the search committee hiring for my DREAM JOB. I’d applied for the job prior to joining the radio station. Their decision is, as of this writing, pending. I won’t say much more here, I don’t want to jinx it. Of course, I believe in divine destiny, and I don’t think God can be ‘jinxed,’ but to be safe…

So life is returning to some semblance of normalcy, finally. Even without my recent travails into the working world, I’d still have plenty to be thankful for this week. But it’s nice to have the opportunity to be grateful for the ability to work, earn, take care of those who rely on me and honor my obligations.

And now I’ll close with another random thought: I believe that even the most staunch Calvinist is an Armenian twice in his lifetime – on takeoff and landing. Just ask any Calvinist.

We’re all adults, right?

Good. This means we can handle this essay’s subject matter with maturity and aplomb, if not a few giggles along the way, too.

Today, I write of the blatant public pornography of Martinsburg, West Virginia. A nice little town, one I called home for six years and one I hope to call home again in the next several weeks. But what’s with all the pornographic imagery?

During a recent visit to Martinsburg, I was surprised to find not one, but two overtly obscene images couched in silly drawings. See for yourself – later in this essay I will embed the images. But please resist the temptation to scroll down and view the pictures. Let’s talk first.

One might argue that I am a typical healthy male, whose typical, healthy obsessions would lead a typical healthy male to find sex images in all kinds of things – a lit cigarette, a pair of Hostess snowballs, the centerfold pullout of a Penthouse magazine.

But these two images – one resembling a male appendage, and one so obviously resembling what it resembles I am ashamed to put it into words – can not possibly be mistaken for accidental.

Well, okay, the first image MIGHT well be a coincidence. This is a puppet, for pete’s sake. But just look:

Picture of Mister Punch

This next image, however, may well frighten you, in the way that seeing any ten minutes of a Jerry Springer episode would scare away the worst case of lingering chronic hiccupitis. You may wish to close this essay and come back on an empty stomach. Hide the children, say your prayers. Here goes.

What IS this thing?

Raises the question – WHAT THE HELL WERE THEY THINKING?

This image is taped to the inside window of a vacant kiosk on Winchester Avenue in Martinsburg. It would appear someone or someones were considering opening a hot dog stand in the kiosk. The restaurant never opened. This picture remains. (My guess is the lender got a look at the picture, was spooked away and rejected the loan application.)

How could somebody draw this picture and NOT realize what this resembles? I mean, let’s put it this way, if this hot dog ever passes gas, it will forever do so without making a sound.

Good reader, please feel free to comment and offer your thoughts and suggestions on this picture. Because I am mystified. I’ve seen a lot in my nearly 48 years. Never anything like this. I’m so disturbed, I can’t even digress.

And now, a few notes about why this blog has been so dry of late.

I always thought it would be great to be paid to write funny stuff. Turns out I was. Not directly, but…

In early summer, 2009, I was laid off from my job. It’s taken me a good couple of months to return to any semblance of a skewed look at life. Being unemployed, with the accompanying depression, I’ve simply been in no mood to write funny stuff (or to attempt to write funny stuff).

I’m still unemployed, still depressed by and large. But I’m back, baby! Thanks to a hot dog and his asshole. Mmmmm – easy humor.

This week, I received an email from a fellow alumnus of the St John’s High School (Toledo) class of ‘79. Yes, the class who, in our senior year, declared it the “Year of the Titan,” but fell short on city league sports championships in a number of high profile sports. But what did we know?

Anyway, the email from my fellow alum alerted me to the fact that I was listed among the “lost alumni” of my class.

What? I was lost? How could that be? I’m not lost. I’m living in Austin, Texas. I wasn’t lost when I lived in Toledo and attended my 5th, 10th, 15th and 20th year reunions. I wasn’t lost when I left Toledo for Bucyrus, Ohio, then Lima, Ohio, then Columbia, South Carolina, then Annandale, Virginia, then Falls Church, Virginia, then Martinsburg, West Virginia, then Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, then Hagerstown, Maryland, then back to Martinsburg, West Virginia, and now Austin, Texas. I was never lost. How could SJJ have designated me as lost?

So I called the school and gave them my current information and the following bio update:

Cliff Kurt continues in his now 23-year career with the Better Business Bureau. He served (sometimes with distinction, sometimes without) at the BBB of Toledo, then as president/CEO of the BBB of Lima, Ohio. Following that, he served as president/CEO of the BBB of Columbia, SC, then as Director of Marketing and Training at the BBB’s national offices in Arlington, Virginia. After too many years of a daily three hour commute (each way), Cliff moved to Austin, Texas, where he now serves as Executive Director of the BBB’s consumer education foundation. Pretty good for a guy whose resume lists his greatest education achievement as passing Father Schario’s British Lit class in just enough time to walk with his fellow graduates.

Cliff is proud to be known as the most famous alum of the class of ’79 – due to his lackluster but professional-looking appearance on Wheel of Fortune in April of 1997. Cliff won $2,300 and $25 worth of estrogen therapy. He spent the $2,300 before he received it, and the estrogen therapy made him lactate. But he’s still proud to be the most famous member of the class of ’79.

So this summer, our class will celebrate our 30th year reunion. I don’t feel this old.

Back in the day, I dee-jayed my older brother’s 20th year reunion, and I remember thinking, “These guys (in their late 30’s) are so OLD.” Oh, to be in my late 30’s again.

I don’t think I’ll attend this summer’s reunion. Too many travel plans surrounding my daughter’s graduation and later her wedding, and my own honeymoon with my dear Shelley.

It’s probably a good thing I won’t be in attendance at the reunion. Too many enemies still likely hold animosity towards me:

* Scott, who was one of only two people I ever struck – this during a fistfight at lunchtime in the commons. Neither of us won the fight;
* Bill, the other guy I ever struck – following choir practice in which he got me into trouble with Mr. T. Of course, the next day, his brother pummelled me mercilessly, teaching me an important lesson on the sanctity of family;
* Father John, who I stupidly suggested might not make it into heaven because he didn’t ‘believe’ in the Four Spiritual Laws brochure I showed him that was given to me at a restaurant;
* Father Joe, who probably still smarts from our likely false accusations that he was seen coming out of the Westwood Art Theater in Toledo which was screening “Oriental Blue;”
* Cheryl, from one of the girl’s academies, for the time I pranked her into thinking there WERE waterheads on Spook road;
* Bruce, the Toledo police officer, who arrested me for aggravated menacing while we were filming a short for Comm-Arts class;
* Jeannie, who I often referred to as Bruce, because she had the same red hair and fair skin as officer Bruce;
* Mark, who went on to become a priest (what is it with me and priests? But I digress…), and who I called 15 years after we graduated, out of the blue, and without identifying myself, told him I had to talk to a priest about my having killed a man.

And there were some non-high-school people who won’t be glad to see me return to Toledo anytime soon:

* Bonnie, the loan collector from Ohio Citizens who had to call me too many times when I fell behind on the payments for my Olds Cutlass (but that was one helluva car!);
* Alexandria, the attorney of a prominent credit collection agency, whose staff had to call me too many times to collect on the hospital bill for the birth of my oldest daughter because we didn’t have insurance and daughter spent a week in neo-natal ICU;
* Unnamed Toledo Police Department officers who threatened to arrest a couple of us when we tried to “paint the bridge;”

I could go on, but who needs to revisit trouble. Although I’m starting to see maybe why I move around so much.

Fellow alums, sorry I won’t see you this summer. My best, have a beer on me, and be kind about any stories you might tell without me there to defend myself. Especially you, Scott. Or I’m gonna finish what I started that lunch hour in the commons!

I’d finished swimming a half-mile at the local pool, a great swim in warm, sunny weather. I went to the men’s locker room and changed out, dried up and dressed to go home. As I started toward my car, I reached into the pockets of my shorts and found a $5 bill! “Wow!” I shouted to nobody in particular. But a lady near me saw my exuberance and chuckled.

Yes, I was excited. It was the day before payday and I was down to my last $10. This unexpected find of $5 increased my net worth by 50%. (Shelley will point out this is wrong – my “net worth” is actually much healthier than $10. I have a car that’s paid off and a no-longer chunky 401K IRA; however, her logic doesn’t blog as well as mine. But I digress.)

So I off-handedly told the lady that I’d just found $5 and was happy to increase my net worth by 50%. And I went on my way.

Life didn’t change much when I increased my net worth 50%. I still made the same dinner when I got home and watched the same two episodes of Judge Judy. So, you see, I can honestly say that if I ever get a job at AIG and become the recipient of undeserved multi-million dollar bonuses, I won’t change much.

I was now down to my last $15. No big deal. It’s been worse. I was once down to $1.83, which I had to live on for ten days. It was an interesting exercise, and I blogged it. But that was at a time when I was in the dating pool, and I didn’t want anyone from Yahoo Personals to google me, find my blog, and learn I was dirt broke. So I removed it.

I’m no longer dating, no longer trolling Yahoo Personals. And my babe Shelley – she KNOWS I have bouts of being dirt broke and she still loves me. So I now share with you my original essay on making $1.83 stretch for ten days:

How it came to be that I had to make $1.83 stretch for ten days is not relevant. I suppose it may the more interesting topic, but the occurrence of my occasional blogging does not obligate me to reveal all personal details of my life. Suffice it to say, I beg, that this occurred through no fault of my own – no poor planning, no reckless spending elsewhere.

It’s six days into this experiment and I’ve spent a bit of my $1.83. Today, I’m down to .71 cents. Unless I find another quarter, and I increase my total net worth by 33%. There’s always hope!!!!

Wow – a bad trip down memory lane. I wrote that essay six days into the 10-day experiment, and I survived, of course.

It feels pretty darn good to have $15 in my pocket when payday rolls around. Make that $20. When I got home, I found ANOTHER $5 – this one on the sidewalk around the corner from my apartment door. HEY! I think I’m gonna head down to the crush of people on 6th Street celebrating South by Southwest and look for money.

(Right now, my kids, as they read this, are saying to themselves, “Look for money, look for money, look for money.” Right, kids? LOL)

P.S.: Editor’s note – in an attempt to drive more traffic to my blog, I am now, starting with this entry, including the word “boobs” as a tagword. Those things are good on so many levels!

I received a “certificate of completion” in the mail today. I’d attended a great “train the trainer” seminar sponsored by the folks at MoneyWi$e Consumer Action and Capital One. Not particularly noteworthy for blog purposes, except for the fact of one of the signatures on the certificate. A guy with a long-ish last name signed his name with his first-name initial, and then a mark which I suppose is to pass for his last-name initial.

I had to chuckle – he of the short scribbly signature and I share the same job title – Executive Director. And my signature isn’t any more decipherable, but I get points for at least attempting to spell out Clifford Kurt.

I’m not sure when my poor excuse for penmanship developed. Looking back at some high school work, I used a relatively neat writing style. I suppose my proper penmanship was the product of necessity, as my teachers had to read my writing. (Do teachers actually fully READ their students’ essays? I digress.)

At some point upon joining the work world, when cruddy penmanship was replaced by rampant typos, I no longer needed to rely on the ability to communicate visually. And penmanship became nothing more than mere nostalgia.

These days, the only time I use anything that can be argued as penmanship is when I scribble my name upon a document.

Now here’s the strange part. A few years ago, I came across some old report cards. Very funny. Things like, “Cliff is a very social boy. He would do better in his studies if he applied himself.” (Never mind the fact that I was a solid A student up until the year of my parent’s divorce.) The teacher comments were almost a mirror of some of the job performance reports I’ve received over the years.

But what struck me as most interesting was my father’s signature on the report cards. Back in the day, the student had to show the card to his or her parents, and the FATHER had to sign. Not the MOTHER – the FATHER. The school marms knew who were likely to be the disciplinarians in the homes.

My signature is almost identical to my father’s, including the very kurt way we sign our last name. Freaky, freaky stuff. This would imply to me that there is a penmanship gene in every person. I got my Dad’s.

Imagine if we could isolate that penmanship gene. And then perhaps splice it with what scientists are claiming is the God gene. Then we secretly inject what I now call “KGP Gene 0824” (K for Kurt, G for God, P for penmanship, 0824 for my birthday because I’m vain)… We secretly inject KGP Gene 0824 into all of our world leaders. This would cause them to only sign godly documents. No more declarations of war, no more orders of genocide. No more budgets that benefit the lobbyists at the expense of the people. No laws which violate godly principles. Ah, perchance to dream!

Hey, here’s an idea! I might even secretly inject KGP Gene 0824 into my boss. No more “Cliff is a social boy but one who needs to apply himself” garbage. I might could be onto something here.

SPOILER ALERT: IF YOU ARE A JUDGE WITH THE OLD OPERA HOUSE NEW VOICE PLAY FESTIVAL, PLEASE DO NOT READ FURTHER!

Okay, now down to work. Why are we fascinated with talking animals? Not the parrots and such, although those are wondrous in a frightening “can it read my mind?” sort of way. No, I’m talking about talking dogs, bears, ants, etc., that populate our cartoons and our literature.

Recently, I had cause to write up a humorous sketch and then a short one-act play. In each case, I found myself relying on the talking animal theme.

The comedy sketch was written as an “audition” for a comedy troupe forming here in Austin. I’d been watching a lot of Judge Judy (way too much Judge Judy) and had been thinking it would be funny if her greatness heard a case involving a man suing a bear who had mauled him.

Well, the concept is funny, maybe. Turns out the sketch wasn’t that funny. I didn’t get the gig with the comedy troupe. Now, in all fairness to that sketch, when I submitted it, I did propose to the guy that we form an all-naked comedy troupe.  So maybe it wasn’t the sketch that was unfunny, but the view of my naked body running around on stage that was funny.  But I digress.

The play.  Last night, I sat down to pen a quick, one-act play. I’d had a dream a few nights earlier about my trying to grab an ant in our living room. In my dream, the ant tried to scurry underneath a baseboard at the bottom of a wall. I managed to grab one of its hairy little legs. (Now I KNOW ant legs aren’t hairy, but the one in my dream WAS hairy. Just like my belly is tight and trim in just about all my dreams.)

My play features a wise ant who offers relationship advice to the protagonist.  As  they say, a writer should write what he knows. So, I wrote a play about a guy whose mental acuity is slowly diminishing as he chases an ant around his home.

Is it funny? I’m not sure. I asked a good friend to review it, and he said, “It started out awful, but it picked up speed. By the end, I liked it. It’s just like all your other plays.”  Did he mean my other plays which start out sucky but get good by the end? Probably so.

My friend didn’t read the Judge Judy bear sketch. My girlfriend did, however.  And she read the ant play.  She seemed to like them both, in the same way she “liked” my god-awful poor man’s potato dinner Saturday night.   God bless my dear Shelley. She’s so protective of the fragile artist within me.

Maybe talking animals are just life imitating art. Among my siblings, two of us have taught our dogs to talk. I taught my dog Buckeye to say, “I love you.” That exercise was probably less of a “teach my dog to talk” effort, and more of a means to  hear those words spoken more often than I was hearing them at the time.

And my sister Peg taught HER dog Buddy to say “Redrum.” She was trying to teach him to say “martini.” I guess Buddy’s more of a brandy dog than a gin and vermouth dog.

All this talking animal stuff will, I swear, someday send me over the precipice that is my barely-hanging-on neurologic stability. Until then, I think I’ll sit down with Buddy and Buckeye over a snifter or three of brandy. We’ll invite the talking ant, and fire up some Dr. Phil on the TIVO. And laugh at his mediocre attempts at fixing couples. Until the bear shows up. Then it’s every verbal mammal for himself.

A recent headline on the Drudge Report reads, “Miss World Finalist Loses Hands and Feet.” And I thought to myself, “Wow! Now THAT’S an impressive performance for the talent portion of the competition.”

I clicked to read the article and was sad to read that this wasn’t an elaborate samputation (self-amputation) for purpose of winning the tiara, but a surgical removal to prevent some killer bug from taking her life.

Nothing funny about that after all. But when you think about it, she could, with four very convincing-looking, break-away prosthetics and an unaware audience, certainly blow their minds with an unbelieveable magic trick.

Now, let me digress.

Shame on the liberals who disrespect our country.

Living in a heavily liberal part of Texas, I encounter, on a daily basis, Obama supporters. This is nothing new for me. On my last job, among 20 close work colleagues, I knew of only one fellow conservative.

But I’m shocked and apalled at the willingness of liberals to spew hate speech against President Bush.

Feel free to disagree with his policies. I’ll disagree with Obama’s of course! But when a divergent view on political issues turns into a virtual spitting upon the former leader of our country, this becomes disgraceful.

Yes, I know free speech entitles anyone to make these disparaging remarks, and I find it highly ironic that they spit upon the man who so effectively protected their free speech rights for eight years.

On the evening of Obama’s inauguration, I happened upon a restaurant where an inauguration party was being held. A band, led by Austin singer Leeanne Atherton, was singing songs of celebration and victory. No problem.

But then Ms. Atherton pointed to a pinata hanging from the ceiling, with pictures of President Bush’s face on it, and announced that later that evening, everyone would have a chance at smacking him.

I expressed my displeasure to the manager, he alerted Ms. Atherton to the situation. Instead of quietly removing the pinata, she chose to announce to the crowd that “ONE PERSON HAS TAKEN OFFENSE,” and proceeded to rile the crowd to boos against this one person.

She then said, “I’ll take down the pinata,” and proceeded to growl and bark as she bashed the president’s face. At this point, I left.

In a later conversation I had with Ms. Atherton, she claimed to be a peace-loving person whose political activism dates back to the Vietnam War.

Peace loving? Using hate speech on the bully pulpit of her band’s stage, and encouraging others to violently attack an effigy of our former president is a show of peace? I think not.

Liberals have long been accused of disingenuity, and this is yet another example. Out of one side of a mouth comes accusations of conservatives engaging in hate speech and bigotry, and out of the other side of the mouth comes a tirade of hatred and disrespect.

You will never hear me disrespect President Obama, and if I hear it around me, I will stand up for decency. He’s my president, he’s our president, and he deserves respect.

He, nor any current or former president, deserves to be hung in effigy, the image smacked about violently. Shame on Ms. Atherton and shame on anyone who demeans our great country by disrespecting our leaders.

This morning, I participated in an interesting conversation with some work colleagues about this seeming inability men have of successfully hitting the toilet when we pee.

I excused myself and sat down at my computer and came up with the following:

D x DI – SV/(A/AxPQ)=S%

Where:

D=Diameter of Toilet Bowl

DI=Distance from Subject to Toilet Bowl

SV= Stream Velocity

A=Age

AxPQ=Age Times Prostate Quotient*

S%=Likely Percentage of Success**

* – Prostate Quotient calculates the age of the subject and the likelihood of prostate enlargement, thus affecting the stream velocity

** – Success percentage is defined as the subject’s ability to deposit all specimen into the bowl without any collateral splash

So I created a macros which runs this formula through millions of configurations, and in EACH case, the likely percentage of success hits 17% or less.

The only time I was able to get a higher success percentage was when I modified the equation, adding in a figure for “months dating or married.” In those cases where months dating or married was less than six, the percentage of success hits in the upper 90 percentile range.  Go figure. 

I excitedly shared my findings with my co-workers, prompting one (a woman, of course) to ask, “Why don’t men just sit down.”

Sheesh.  For the same reason we men don’t ask for directions when we’re driving.  Because we can’t think when we’re sitting on our brains.  Any woman will tell you that!

I was so sad. But this was a different sadness. This time, the blues manifested physically, because it actually hurt in 4 of my toes (3 on the right foot, 1 – the ring toe – on the left foot).  And it hurt in my spleen.

I tried the usual home remedies: a Three Stooges marathon (it feels weird to be sad AND laughing); a Kurt Russell film (it feels weird to be sad AND nauseated); a few beers (it feels normal to be sad AND drunk). Nothing beat back the sadness.

Then I saw an advertisement for Cymbalta, an anti-depression medication.

This is totally true. The following is the verbatim text of the advertisement. Read it carefully, especially the disclaimers.

   “Where does depression hurt? Everywhere. Who does depression hurt? Everyone. Depression is emotional. Sadness, loss of interest. And it’s physical, too. Aches, pains, fatigue. Cymbalta can help.
   Cymbalta is a prescription medication that treats emotional and painful physical symptoms of depression.
   Tell your doctor right away if your depression worsens, you have unusual changes in behavior or thoughts of suicide. Anti-depressants can increase these in children, teens or young adults. Cymbalta is not approved for children under 18. People taking thyrozidene or who have uncontrolled glaucoma should not take Cymbalta. Taking it with anside pain relievers, aspirin or blood thinners may increase bleeding risk. Severe liver problems, some fatal, were reported. Signs include abdominal pain and yellowing of the skin or eyes. Talk with your doctor about medications, including those for migraine, to avoid a possible life-threatening condition, about alcohol use, liver disease, or before you reduce or stop taking Cymbalta. Dizziness or fainting may occur upon standing. Side effects include nausea, dry mouth and constipation.
   Ask your doctor about Cymbalta. Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help.”

Upon listening to that ad, I became even more depressed. I couldn’t imagine going on this medication. The fears of side effects alone would send me into a deep spiral of depression, like that time my prom date tossed her baby into the dumpster. But I digress…

So I went down to the black market drug area of East Austin, hoping to score some street Cymbalta.

I asked one hombre, “You got any Cymbalta?” He said, “Si, twenty – I get you simbata, taquerio simbata.” I gave him my $20 bill, and he came back with two breakfast tacos and a miga. What the hell?

I ate the food and felt momentarily better, but I knew this would only kill the sadness temporarily.

So I drove around some more, and finally was able to score some real Cymbalta.

I came home, sat down at my little dining table, and pondered what I was about to do. Looking at the four tablets in front of me, I wondered, “Was I really willing to take medication purchased on the streets? Without being under a doctor’s care and watch?”

I recalled the time I won $25 worth of estrogen therapy as a “lovely parting gift” on Wheel of Fortune (true). How after a few days, the medication made me lactate. But it gave me gloriously shiny fingernails.

What the hey. I downed two of the Cymbalta with some apple juice and waited for the hilarity to return to my life  I should have eaten clown for breakfast. The Cymbalta didn’t do a thing.

After about half an hour, I started feeling a bit odd. Not funny – that would have solved my problem. Just odd.

My fingers were turning yellow. (I secretly cursed that I didn’t know about this phenomenon when I dressed as Homer Simpson for Halloween.) My cirrhosis of the liver started acting up.

Then my stomach started to hurt, badly.  I stood up to go to the bathroom. I got dizzy and almost fainted. By now, the nausea was raging. I wanted to scream, but my mouth was too dry. I let out a raspy yelp, and was afraid my bowels were going to let loose, but they didn’t because, luckily, I was constipated.

Not wanting to let this escalate, I rushed to the hospital. I told the ER doctor what had happened, and showed him the two remaining Cymbalta.

He said, “Son, it’s fine. These aren’t Cymbalta. They’re Advil. You were ripped off.” Stupid drug lords! Selling me fake Cymbalta!

“Gee, thanks, doc. But what about these symptoms?”

“Have you eaten any black market tacos or migas?”

Stupid taqueiro lords…

(Editors Note: The above is almost entirely fabrication, except the verbatim script from the Cymbalta ad, the fact that I won $25 worth of estrogen therapy on Wheel of Fortune, and the fact that any Kurt Russell film would nauseate anyone.)