I'm only human...not!

I did a vanity search on the World Wide Wackfest and made some interesting discoveries: 

1. Contrary to what I might be led to believe by the address on all my utility bills, I do not live in Minnesota. 

2. I am not a human being. 

 OBSERVE: 

According to mantra.com, “Dewey Roth is a private company categorized under Farm Land Leasing and located in Cairo, NE. Current estimates show this company has an annual revenue of $48,000 and employs a staff of approximately 1.” 

 After I gave up trying to figure out whether they rounded up or down to get to “approximately 1,” I started looking around for my articles of incorporation, but to no avail. 

 I’ll admit that I haven’t been feeling like myself lately, but I didn’t think it was this bad.

Almost the Truth to Go

Knowing that the tens of you out there who actually, factually read Almost the Truth feel a little sad at clicking your way to another Web page and leaving the latest installment behind, I have graciously decided to provide a way to keep the grins close to you whether or not you're close to a computer.

It's an amazing invention with which you can read and re-read two years' worth of blog postings without the need of any Internet connection, random access memory, or even battery power.

It's a little thing I like to call a book.

That's right, friends, as of just last night, Almost the Truth: The Blog Archive 2008-2009 is available for purchase at one of two Web addresses:


http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/almost-the-truth-the-blog-archive-2008-2009/8243725

or

http://stores.lulu.com/deweyroth

Now you can have a reason to grin and/or groan at your side, morning, noon, or night. Buy early; buy often. Valentine's Day is coming up. People have birthdays all year round. The 4th of July would be a great time to celebrate the freedom of the press. And you know what? It's never too early to get that Very Special Christmas Present for that Very Special Someone.

The Brave! The Daring! The Shameless!

That journalistic juggernaut of truth and wisdom, Entertainment Weekly, has a feature called "Style Hunter." Every week, there is a page full of answers to reader requests for where to purchase particular pieces of clothing or accessories that were seen in recent television or movie productions.

The following example fills me with wonder and awe...

Who makes Kate Hudson's sunglasses in Nine? - Camilla

For Hudson's glitzy dance number, veteran costume designer Colleen Atwood chose frames by Cutler and Gross London (style 0886), which are available at Selima Optique (212-677-8487; $490). 

 I'm sorry, but...ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!!? 

1. If I were the producer of that movie, concerned with keeping things within a budget, when Colleen Atwood chose those frames, I would have chosen a different designer.

2. How absolutely fearless does a person need to be to think they can charge that much money for a pair of sunglasses?

3. Are those things made strictly out of the rendered hoofs of Argentinian mountain goats who died of natural causes during a full moon in months that have an "R" in them?

I am so totally in the wrong line of work...

Almost the News VI

FBI Digs into Yard of Home with 11 Bodies 

An internal investigation is underway to determine what has caused the apparent shortage of shovels. 

Man Pleads Guilty to Molesting Girl 

Of course, he should have been pleading to a judge. If he wanted to plead to a molesting girl, he should have pleaded for her to stop it. 

Bill Helps Wireless Users Who Switch 

Thanks, Bill. You're a nice guy. 

Judge: Gitmo Trials Need Perspective 

A new court artist is being sought for the trials of Guantanamo Bay detainees. Judge Royce Lamberth has declared that the work of the current artist "has no depth. It's too flat; practically one-dimensional."

High Court Delays Boy's Return to U.S. 

The 9-year-old Brazilian boy waiting to return to his U.S. father will have to wait a little longer. The court can't make a ruling in his case because it's just too stoned.

Learn a little lesson from our friend the Tasmanian Devil

There it was, on Page 4A of the St. Paul Pioneer Press, on the first day of 2010:

Tasmanian Devil Ill Revealed 

WASHINGTON -- Fierce as they are, Tasmanian devils can't beat a contagious cancer that threatens to wipe them out. Now scientists think they've found the disease's origin, a step in the race to save Australia's snarling marsupial. The furry black animals spread a fast-killing cancer when they bite each other's faces. Since the disease's discovery in 1996, their numbers have plummeted by 70 percent. Last spring, Australia listed the devils--made famous by their Looney Tunes cartoon namesake Taz--as an endangered species. The surprise finding, reported in today's edition of the journal Science, has led to development of a test to help diagnose the tumor. 

Forget for a moment how the title of this short article calls into question whether the thing that ails Tasmanian devils was revealed or whether a Tasmanian devil was revealed rather badly. There's a more important turn of phrase to skewer here. Did you notice it? 

Since the disease's discovery in 1996, their numbers have plummeted by 70 percent. 

So...the thing that's killing off the Tasmanian devils isn't cancer...it's the discovery of the disease! Before the scientists stuck their noses into it, things were swimming along just fine, but nooooo...They of the Sacred Lab Coats had to go and make a discovery! Now the TDs are racing toward extinction! 

Put this in the list of Things That Are Worse Than They Were Because Now There's a Name for It...right along with Swine Flu, Attention Deficit Disorder, and Pre-Menstrual Syndrome.

Trust Me, It Was Funny

I've been contemplating what to write about my church's (www.valleycc.org) recent children's dinner theatre adventure, in which I participated as the father of the girl who has a dream about her father being the owner of a camel lot (Get it? Camel Lot? Oh, it only gets better from there.) in Bethlehem on the night of the Very First Christmas.

I could tell you all about the six-year-old shepherd turning to the audience and, in Munchkin exasperation, clearly intoning, "She didn't let me finish my line!"

I could describe the round of applause that the lead pastor received just for walking on stage in a bathrobe.

I could share the perfect sense of joy when the preschoolers were the cast for a nativity scene and Mary REALLY preferred that Joseph hold the baby-doll Jesus. ("Thwack!")

I could attempt to do all those things, but mere words on a page could not imbue to you the feeling that encompassed the room when the only person to totally forget a line in the whole show was also the only one with professional theatre experience.

Yeah...that's right...I absolutely "went up." Didn't have the inkling of a clue as to what words ought to have been springing forth from my mouth. That in itself would have been satisfying enough for the huddled masses (in a neener-neener sort of way), but the thing that lit the fuse to the Bomb of Jocularity was my pre-teen acting partner looking me in the eye, circling her hand, palm up, and leading me on with the first words of my line: "I finally realized..."

The place exploded...but I guess you had to be there.

Love and joy comfort you...

Good Christian men, rejoice!

I went caroling a week and a half ago. The reason I'm finally writing about it now is that it has taken me this long to recover.

This was not a pleasant stroll through the neighborhood with a group of guys and gals, getting invited in for hot chocolate and cookies. No. This was a group of 11 men on a mission to spread good cheer, like it or not.

You've got to understand: When left to their own devices, men carol the way they shop. You know what I mean, don't you? When women shop, it's an opportunity to leisurely examine all the wonderful options available...preferably with a friend or two so that it can also be a social event. But men? When men shop, they've got a list (that they've already checked twice) and they know exactly in which store they are going to purchase the items on said list. In. Out. Done. No browsing, no comparing fine details, and as little time away from the television remote as possible.

Operation Manly Caroling was the same way. We met at the church building, piled into three vehicles, and were off to remind all in our path of the sweet baby Jesus asleep in the hay on a silent night in a little town. We drove to a series of houses, though only the event organizers in the first vehicle knew to whom the houses belonged...and I'm not really sure I didn't just lie by saying that they knew.

There was someone home at only half of the houses. None of them knew we were coming (so, of course, they didn't bake a cake...or cookies...or make hot chocolate). And we actually got chased away from one house with a threat that the police would be called...by the neighbors...when they heard the shotgun blasts that were about to happen if we didn't "get [our] fa-la-las off [his] property."

We should have known it was going to be an interesting night at our very first stop: a nursing home. We strolled in to the sun room with smiles on our faces and a "hope you don't mind if we sing a few Christmas carols" on our lips. And to tell you the truth, it looked like we were immediately having an evangelistic effect, because a woman started praying right away. At least I think she was praying. I know she closed her eyes (rather tightly), turned her head away from us, and intoned, "Oh, God..."

The real clue that we maybe weren't getting off on the right foot was when someone turned up the TV so they could hear "Who Wants to be a Millionaire." An employee turned it back down and started moving the gal closer to the set. Apparently, the quiz show fan wasn't used to getting moved around and yelled, "What are you doing?"

"These men have come to sing some Christmas carols, and so--"

"I don't care what they came to do. Leave me alone and give me back the clicker!"

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

I found a new hero that night. She had bluish hair...and a decent right hook.