On the same day Hostess announced its bankruptcy, more than a few people reacted badly, including a man who fell into a deep depression when he accidentally dropped down a 17 foot hole while repairing a broken water pipe in Mexicali, Mexico.

Meanwhile across town, two sugar junkies—-my sister Roberta and my friend Caryn—– were threatened by their doctors to stop sweets because sugar is so harmful. Caryn, whose blood sugar level shot to over 500, insisted she always kept tabs on her glucose level using the inexpensive Costco testing kit that comes with a leech. Roberta, for whom French dressing is a beverage, was more despondent and tried strangling herself with salt water taffy.

Enter “Project Milkshake,” a four year study by the Oregon Research Institute and the perfect answer for guilt-free sugar indulgence. I discovered this jewel online and proposed that Roberta and Caryn apply to be participants. Scientists and rats are studying how people’s brains respond differently to food and whether, for example, neurons in the visual cortex determine if a corn dog should be eaten or used as an ear wipe. Best of all, participants would be given a chocolate milkshake, possibly several times.

Participants would be offered up to $365 if they completed various “tasks.” Not wanting to discourage Roberta and Caryn, I didn’t mention the various “tasks” included overnight fasts, urine sampling, saliva sampling, body composition testing, and brain scans.  There was also the disclosure that a participant might “experience a feeling of claustrophobia” from three sources: the plastic hood enclosed over the head for an energy use test; the Bod Pod, an upright egg-shaped, human-size device that measured changes in air volume while the participant sat inside, door closed; and finally, the MRIs.

Now many of my friends have shared heart-warming, mutual bonding stories of being rolled into a closed MRI and within a short time demanding to be liberated. I was confident I could put Caryn and Roberta at ease with this procedure by recommending several sure-fire coping devices I’ve used for routine closed-MRI visits: Mack’s Ear Plugs (if Mack wasn’t using them), a dark washcloth over the eyes to keep out magnetic rays, and 300 mg of Valium.

Caryn and Roberta also needed to appreciate that the Bod Pod was a better way to assess body composition than a hydrostatic (underwater) test such as I experienced years ago at an athletic club.

For that opportunity I wore a swimsuit and cap. I believe my swimsuit at the time was smaller than my cap. Mentally geared up, I met the personal trainer/technician who was to conduct the test. He had a whopping migraine, he said, and maybe a fever. I knew, considering his bravery, I had to go through with the test. Ahead of me were stairs leading to the top of a wooden structure that resembled an above-ground well with an attached chair suspended over water, like the Pilgrims’ dunking stool for blasphemers.

Since this was a time—i.e. pre-children—when I believed everything I was told, including the technician’s assertion that he controlled the safety of the test environment, I gamely allowed myself to be lowered into the well filled with warm water while sitting on a chair. (The warm water was sitting on the chair next to me.)

“Take a deep breath,” my captor said, “blow out all the air, and push yourself forward into the water. Sink down and stay down until you hear me bang on the sides.”   He said I’d be doing this several times. Now I was convinced he was hallucinating from his migraine.

When one is under water, holding what little breath is left and realizes this is the closest thing to drowning—waterboarding wasn’t yet approved for athletic clubs—the temptation is to pop up early from the water. So early, in fact, that lungs have been known to message the brain they need air now, and damn the short trip to the surface!

If this were a cartoon, the main character—- probably a cat—–would at this moment be swallowing the entire deep well of water. The “technician,” probably a mouse, would then jump repeatedly on the cat’s back, enabling the cat to eject 20,000 gallons of water back into the well.

Since I was not Sylvester, Felix or Garfield, I presented the passive technician a unique ten minute symphonic composition of fortissimo gasps, coughs, and choking.  When he calmly asked me if I wanted to try again, I vigorously shook my head “no,” which propelled two quarts of water out of my ears.

As it turned out, Roberta and Caryn did not have to be tested for body or brain composition. After further research, I discovered Project Milkshake participants were limited to 14-to-17 year old young women. I also read that some of these adolescent girls were shown pictures of chocolate milkshakes when they were in MRIs, while others were shown pictures of a glass of water. Similarly, some girls received chocolate milkshakes to drink, and others “a tasteless solution.”

On their website Oregon Research Institute reports Project Milkshake has been temporarily suspended after one of the scientists was discovered beaten to unconsciousness, apparently “by participants given a tasteless solution.”

Clearly we have one more scientific study of why sugar is so harmful.

“RON PAUL REVOLUTION- LEGALIZE THE CONSTITUTION LICE”                                                    (www.cafepress.com.au/unclegear.301604000)

I’d tried my utmost not to watch any more Republican debates. But from what my diehard political friends told me, no one, not Brian Williams, Diane Sawyer, or George Stephanopolous asked the candidates about their stand on lice. Yet Ron Paul now proposes granting lice constitutional recognition.

We have no idea how other candidates stand on this issue because the moderators are more interested in softball questions to each candidate, like “What do you think about pulling the troops out of Afghanistan by July for the long 4^th of July weekend and then putting them back in?” and “Is it your view, as it’s been reported, that when a private plane with Kim Kardashian reached 38,000 feet, her left butt cheek exploded?”

Let’s consider the facts:  Head lice have been found in the Judean and Negev deserts in Israel, carbon dated to 9,000 years.  Even the Bible refers to lice as one of the most dreaded Ten Plagues, along with boils and lawyers. In 1864 Louis (“the Louse”) Pasteur won a contest sponsored by the French Academy of Sciences, ridiculing Aristotle’s fourth century view that lice evolve spontaneously. Pasteur’s contribution to Lice Studies would later be supplanted by the myth that he invented the process of heating food to high temperatures, boiling the flavor out of it and immediately chilling it. In reality this process was originated and observed for generations by Jewish grandmothers.

Many, many centuries later, I am sitting at my desk in seventh grade class, when my math teacher, Mr. Byers, talks about the Threat of Lice in our school. He announces he must check everyone’s scalp.

He picks me first.

My head doesn’t itch and I’m sure I’m clean. I’d learned scrupulous hygiene long ago. I wouldn’t even put my head back against the velvety seats at the Moreland Theater, which was probably where my next-door neighbor and classmate Jimmy Krakorn picked up a case of ringworm. For the rest of the school year, Jimmy wore a flesh colored turban everyone knew as “The Ringworm Hat,” and when the hat came off, a white circular patch remained that continued to widen and widen until years later, when Jimmy was a Portland dentist, he was completely bald. I am sure it was from ringworm clearcutting his scalp. Since truth in advertising applies to dentists, I’ve always looked for his ad in the yellow pages and online to see his current photo and an honest caption: “Go to sleep for procedures. Gentle dentistry by The Ringworm Dentist.”

I lived in terror that one day I’d have to wear the Ringworm Hat, so I never scratched my head in case it itched, just rubbed it against a wall somewhere, like a deer growing nubby antlers. I also was careful not to chew my fingernails because that was how my sister acquired another grade school  memento known as pinworms. The worst thing about pinworms is being a parent and having to don a miner’s hat or carry a foot-long flashlight and go spelunking inside your child.

Having beaten ringworm and pinworms, I confidently ruled out lice.

Mr. Byers had just begun examining the nape of my neck using a small cuticle stick to section the hair when he pulled out a hair strand and held it up to the class. “This is what we’re looking for,” he said. He held the hair near my nose and used the cuticle stick to push a tiny white dot clinging to the strand.

“See?” he said triumphantly. “It won’t fall off.”

Like Moses parting the Red Sea, at that moment the class seemed to part, with me on one side and my classmates on the other, even though they were still sitting at their desks. I was ushered out and sent home. In everyone’s mind, I knew I was going to be the Lice Head.

The family doctor checked and concluded I didn’t have lice, ringworm, or pinworms. He said I was molting.

Would it matter that I was exonerated and readmitted to school? To kids, I’d always be the Lice Head. And I knew when I got older I’d have to disclose this information on my college and job applications. I’d have to reveal this to boys I’d be dating.  Insurance companies would eventually deny me medical coverage because they’d find evidence my grade school threw me out because of lice.

Even now I scratch my head over that event. Prudently I stop and rub my scalp against the wall instead.

According to the latest medical information, I should never have been thrown out of school for the alleged infestation. The Centers for Disease Control, National Association of School Nurses and American Academy of Pediatrics say this policy of sending kids home for suspected lice should absolutely be discontinued. In the opinion of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, “Head lice are not a health hazard or sign of poor hygiene.”

Dr.  Richard Pollack, a Harvard Entomologist, Parasitologist and Nit Finder scoffs at the rumor of super-lice.  “Overdiagnosis is a problem. And yes, I recognize there are reports of the lice treatment resistance, the pesticide resistance and the French resistance.”

For parents, the time was never better to get lice. Moms and Dads can now take their kids to lice removal salons with cute names like “LoveBugs,” “Hair Fairies,” “Licenders,” and “Lice Knowing You.” At the salon entire families enjoy hours of fine-tooth combing followed by a shampoos with non-toxic products to assure no lice are harmed. Most lice salons follow the advice of a study published in the Israel Medical Association Journal to use lice-repelling products made with essential oils like citronella, rosemary, eucalyptus and mocha almond fudge.

Lice has finally been redeemed as a childhood plague.  But the stigma remains:  A former staffer of Michelle Bachmann recently disparaged South Carolina Governor Nikki Haley’s endorsement of Mitt Romney because “right now Haley is only slightly more popular than head lice.”

However, Ron Paul, in line with his libertarian views, courageously insists the government’s policy should be hands off lice, and that lice should be a constitutionally protected class.  In the Ron Paul Political Report, Ron Paul’s Freedom Report, the Ron Paul Survival Report, and the Ron Paul Investment Letter, Ron Paul praises the calm and lighthearted attitudes of scientists and doctors facing the absurd hysteria of parents with disgusting lice-infested children. He sets out his vision and the proposed constitutional amendment that protects lice from the time they are embryos.

Answering Republican critics who claim lice pose a threat to all nations, Ron Paul writes in his newsletters: “I would never ever go to war against lice. They just want to cohabit with humans peacefully.”

[Editor’s note: Pressed recently about the proposed lice constitutional amendment and the contents of Ron Paul newsletters with his statements supporting lice, Ron Paul denied direct involvement:

“I didn’t write these statements. I disavow them. That’s it. And if I wrote them, they were taken out of context. When it comes to lice, I am not a racist. Madonna, Shakira, and British Prime Minister David Cameron had lice. So did Al Pacino. But I support all of them to shampoo and fine comb their hearts out to get rid of the damned things.

“And what was that about Israel’s study of essential oils? We should have nothing to do with Israel, oil or no oil.”]

Chris Hansen emerged from a back room just as the suspect was down on all fours trying to escape out the front door by barking and pretending to be a Doberman.  Hansen introduced himself, asked the suspect why he was there and offered a Milkbone. Hansen then produced a suspicious heavy plastic bag confiscated from the man that contained Crayola crayons, a box of prunes and the biography of Steve Jobs. When Hansen said, “You’re free to go,” the suspect tried to commit suicide by swallowing a Gideon Bible.

I flipped on CNN just as the predator insisted he didn’t intend to have sex with an underage girl but wanted a relationship with Chris Hansen. Fortunately, the news on CNN contained no sexual  content, just footage of stampeding people ripping doors off hinges, breaking glass and scrambling across other prostrate bloodied people. Apparently it was members of Congress leaving for their winter break.

People can sure act like animals. Recently in Hoquiam, Washington a man named Jobie Watkins burst into an apartment of his girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend.  Watkins was carrying an animal carcass. The ex-boyfriend asked Watkins “Why are you carrying a weasel?”  Watkins, who was wearing a baseball cap with the name “Dianne Feinstein” on it, retorted “It’s not a weasel, it’s a marten.” Watkins then threw the carcass at the ex-boyfriend’s face and fled.

Both men were factually wrong:  A jury later acquitted Watkins of breaking into a home and throwing a dead mink at another man.  The dead mink was convicted of battery.

Authorities don’t know why Watkins carried the carcass of a dead mink he apparently found along the road.  The same is true for a blonde woman in Burlington, Vermont, who seized a dead raccoon on the road, and in a fit of pique, walked to City Hall and slammed the raccoon against the doors. She left the raccoon weapon on the ground although it eventually disappeared. Police finally identified the woman and charged her with disorderly conduct. The raccoon was charged with hit and run.

I wondered how Gary Bogue would’ve handled these situations involving animal weapons. Bogue is the local animal expert who writes a column on pets, wildlife and environmental issues.   People are always writing him about their sightings, claiming they spotted a great blue heron or a wild pig or a baby tyrannosaurus, and Bogue reports this as fact in his column along with typical stories like a local Beaver Festival or escaped parakeets passing themselves off as brussels sprouts.  [Editor’s note: The word Bogue is Scottish for “carnivore.”]

Bogue should know the difference between a mink, ferret, marten and lewis.  Although minks don’t live in my neighborhood, apparently their weasel cousins do. He claims the long-tailed weasels feed on mice—-“rushing at them and killing them with one bite to the head”—- but considering my garage operates as an extended stay hotel for mice, I trust the weasels aren’t doing their job.

I don’t know why small forest animals have resurrected themselves as weapons. At least our former pets have the decency to stay dead. When we put down our 12 year old standard poodle Nigel last fall, his remains stayed in the sealed little cedar box our vet provided. Once the box was positioned in the kitchen on the cookbook shelf, next to “The Dianne Feinstein Cooking for 1,000 Cookbook,” a family member questioned how one would know that the ashes contained within were Nigel’s, rather than another animal’s cremated at the same time, like a cockatoo.

A friend has an even bigger miniature coffin of dog ashes and has also wondered if it’s her dog inside. The coffin is in her family room on a shelf with photographs and serves as a bookend.

I’ve told her the dogs (or whatever is inside) are better off than if we’d buried them outside in the yard, as we did another dog, four canaries, two lovebirds, one parakeets and two designer rats, where they were technically at the mercy of predators.

Sort of like Chris Hansen.

It’s hard enough for most people to enter a sanctuary and get into the spiritual spirit without visually picturing baby Jesus and the rest of the rubber duckie New Testament figures being sunk by an eager clueless child, who forcibly drowns them in the bathtub. This is clearly not what baptism is all about.

It’s also an example of the continuous contempt that occurs whenever a duck is involved.

The history of duck abuse goes back centuries. We have only to look at the tragic lives of historical ducks like the Ugly Duckling, Ping, and Jemima Puddle-Duck to realize ducks never had a chance. In modern times Disney added to the offensive stereotype of ducks when he created Donald Duck with his explosive temper, acute lisp, excess saliva and semi-intelligible speech. Looney Tunes offered Daffy Duck with his slobbery lisping voice, a black fowl who was by turns greedy, selfish, vain, jealous and malicious, though otherwise a nice guy.

Chinese restaurants, the destination for people who enjoy inconsistent food, often specialize in duck. Before Chinese restaurants became popular thanks to members of the Jewish community looking for clandestine places to sneak non-kosher food, no one had seen a duck on an American menu. Now duck can appear at American Christmas dinners, such as the one I’m planning to attend in honor of Chanukah since one of Chanukah’s eight days falls on Christmas, the Festival of Lights.

Reflecting on man’s continued mistreatment of ducks, I’m loathed to eat duck for dinner on Christmas day. My personal resentment is based on my once owning a pet duckling, and because at Chanukah we should eat only greasy fried food like potato pancakes and doughnuts to remind us of the miracle of low cholesterol readings.

Once duck became acceptable on a menu, duck hunters felt vindicated. Not long ago we read about Supreme Court Justice Anthony Scalia and his buddy Dick Cheney out duck hunting, just three weeks after the Supreme Court agreed to review the Vice President’s appeal in several lawsuits. Faced with public criticism of his duck hunting, Scalia responded, “But I don’t just do duck hunting. I do hunting and fishing. I also enjoy setting leghold traps for cute furry animals.”

(In a related news story, a man duck hunting with his dog, climbed out of his boat to move decoys, leaving his shotgun and dog behind. The dog ended up stepping on the shotgun. The hunter was blasted with 27 pellets of birdshot in the rear. The dog and a duck were being sought for questioning.)

Scalia cannot be entirely faulted for his defense of killing little animals since he attended Yale University, with its respected Department of Ecology, Evolutionary Biology and Petting Zoos. Yale, the home of other jurisprudence greats like Samuel Alito, Clarence Thomas, and Farnum Shitzu, has always required its students to study animal habitats, forestry, and sexuality in cheeses.

Yale, in fact, has recently racked up even more impressive scientific credits in its study of duck sex.  The lead author of a paper and postdoctoral researcher, Patricia Brennan, has used high-speed video to document a male duck’s anatomy during duck mating.  Her conclusion, worthy of a Nobel Prize for Biology nomination, is that the duck’s penis may vary in length from year to year—wasting away after each mating season, then regrowing. Even better for the drakes, their duckhood will regrow longer if other males are around. This is the kind of discovery that is critical to the scientific education of our young, particularly those in junior high and those who are homeschooled until their mid-20s.

It’s bad enough ducks get shot by hunters and eaten. In recent years parents of small children and children of small parents have been admonished not to feed breadcrumbs to ducks in the park because of alleged overpopulation, disease, death and worse. But in truth the elimination of a fundamental American right—feeding breadcrumbs to ducks in the park—will turn ducks into emaciated, malnourished creatures, soon to be found waddling our streets, looking for handouts, homeless. Possibly occupying the front of bank buildings.

And so it goes, this heartless denunciation or disregard for ducks. Recently even a Presidential candidate slandered the American duck. At the last Republican presidential debate, Mitt Romney forcefully declared, “….when it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, typically it’s a duck.”

Leave it to a politician to slam another Animal-American. While it’s true ducks aren’t the most intelligent fowl, and they’re a rapacious bunch, the males jumping on females at every opportunity (“Mommy, why are they doing that? Are they playing?”), ducks have positively enriched our lives, especially when served a l’Orange.

Whatever the number, I am not pleased that once again Hollywood has ignored an animal that has given so much to mankind. I’m not talking about other animals who’ve starred in innumerable movies—snakes, lizards, tarantulas, ants, apes, fish, bears, dogs, deer, lions, mice, cockatoos. Even mules have starred in films (Francis the Talking Mule, Francis Joins the Navy, Francis Runs for Congress).

The animal most neglected by studios is the cow.

The only movie I recall that featured a cow or steer in a leading role was the 1991 film, City Slickers, about forbidden love on cattle drives, in this case between Billy Crystal ( the dude) and Jack Palance ( a heifer). A motherless calf named Norman stole the show, bonding to Crystal’s character, moving into Crystal’s home and ultimately, in the film’s heart-warming end, made into prime rib.

What is it about cows that discourage Hollywood from seeking more scripts with a cow in the lead? Consider that California, the movie capitol, is also is America’s number one milk producing state.  The state of Wisconsin has pitifully proclaimed itself “The Dairy State” in its futile attempt to snatch the title. They even selected a Cow of the Year, a red and white Holstein, chosen for its milk production (52,000 pounds in one year), outstanding showing performance, and best resemblance to Governor Scott Walker.

In one way or another most of us have had a cow in our lives. My earliest cow experience was a field trip our kindergarten class took to Alpenrose Dairy in my Portland, Oregon hometown. In a fragrant barn I watched cows being milked by hand, which seemed morally wrong. The later invention of the milking machine was even more depraved. At a minimum each cow should’ve been provided with a hospital gown.

A few years later I heard the hushed-up story of a UFO that landed in a field at a farm, causing suspended motion in the cows, who neither moved, mooed or expelled methane. The farmer and his wife, watching from the safety of their kitchen window, looked on in horror. When they reported their observations to the U.S. Air Force, they were advised soberly that either a weather balloon had landed in the field, causing mass bovine hysteria, or cows were panicked by a layer of swamp gas festooned with colorful lights that was able to make 90 degree turns and accelerate to 57,000 mph.

As I got older, cows always got a bad rap. In school we learned about Mrs. O’Leary’s cow who kicked over a kerosene lamp that started the Chicago fire, a myth that unfortunately wasn’t discovered until thousands of cattle were falsely imprisoned for playing with matches and committing arson.  In college art classes I discovered the artist Chagall always painted colorful cows flying around or carrying a parasol to protect them from cows flying above them. The flying cow symbolism, long debated by art historians and doctoral students, was finally explained in 1965 by Chagall in a rare interview as both his embrace of life and the fulfillment of a contract he had with Borden’s Dairy.

In recent years cows have suffered another indignity—replaced by artificial hand painted cows made of fiberglass that appear in parades, parks, lawns, business centers, state fairs— even Walt Disney World. In Pleasanton, California, a 690-pound Scottish-designed fiberglass milking cow rode in the town’s holiday parade after being detained by Customs agents in New York, subjected to poking, prodding, an invasive scan of x-rays, and force-fed a Nathan’s hot dog with onions and mustard. This would never occur with real cows—their anatomy makes body surveillance difficult and their passivity makes them less effective as terrorists.

Admittedly, the fiberglass cows do have value:  “The Incredible Milking Cow,” an interactive educational cow, can be ordered from Marquis Enterprises of New Hampshire for $7150 to teach children the art of milking. The “Moo” is optional—$750. So are extra teats, if you are so inclined. It is much less disconcerting to watch a pump deliver constant fluid from fiberglass udders to the “authentic stainless steel milking pan” than to watch live cows cringe with embarrassment being milked in front of 60 gawking children.

Another plus for fiberglass cows: they’ve been used by the Royal Veterinary College in Britain to teach students how to perform gynecological exams on real cows. Students get a lifelike feel of a real bovine reproductive tract because of a virtual reality simulator implanted in the fiberglass cow’s hindquarters. The instructor follows a student’s hand movements inside the cow using a computer monitor. (The cow may not use the computer monitor more than 30 minutes.)  In a test, students were given five minutes to locate the cow’s uterus. Fiberglass cow trained students found the uterus 56% of the time. The other 44% successfully located the cow’s anus.

Another UK advance—an artificial cow that kills deadly flies in African because it replicates the smell of a cow and attracts tsetse flies that cause sleeping sickness. However, a real cow’s manure smell has also been shown to have substantial benefits. The publication New Scientist reported that working with manure can drastically reduce chances of developing lung cancer, and that dairy farmers are five times less likely than the general public to develop the disease. Their greater exposure to germs offered better resistance. In a follow-up study, New Scientist reported that cows exposed to dairy farmers were five times more likely to develop lung cancer.

In New Zealand the dairy cow population outnumbers humans. It’s frightening to think what would happen if cows universally realized their potential power, worse if fiberglass cows are simultaneously mass-produced. Clearly Hollywood must realize the political implications of a planet overrun with hostile bovines who were never featured positively in a film.

It is high time for one of the currently lackluster major studios to produce a moving, powerful, certain to be critically-acclaimed film starring Daniel Day-Lewis and a cow.

True, it was years ago when Newt made the remark. But remembering his controversial cautionary remarks, I worried about my niece Melissa who’s planning on a career in the Army. Did she know about these infections?

To put my mind at rest, I called the local Army Recruiting station.

“Do women in combat who stay in ditches for 30 days get infections,” I asked Sergeant Renfro, the officer in charge, “like Newt Gingrich has said?”

“M’am, I don’t believe that’s what Mr. Gingrich said,” the sergeant replied uncomfortably. “From all our information, Mr. Gingrich said women get inspections after 30 days in a ditch.”

I was relieved. Later than night, I heard on local news the old quote attributed to Newt.

The next day I called my gynecologist.

“What kind of infections do women get in the trenches, like Newt Gingrich once said?” I asked.

He laughed. “Don’t believe everything you read, just like the conflicting reports on medical research. I’m sure Gingrich said women get injections after 30 days in a ditch. After all, there’s a lot of bugs in those close quarters.”

I felt a lot better until I watched a news commentary show on CNN. Republicans and Democrats were yelling back and forth while the commentator pretended to keep order. One of the Democrats attacked Newt for his women-in-combat remarks at Reinhart College.

That was it. I FAXED a polite note to Joe McQuaid, publisher of New Hampshire’s only statewide newspaper, the influential Union Leader, who has endorsed Gingrich’s bid for President.

“How could you support a Neanderthal like Gingrich?” I wrote.

One of McQuaid’s assistants Faxed back swiftly. “Regret that Gingrich was clearly misquoted. He really said women get confections after 30 days in a ditch. Candy from home, chocolates.”

That put my mind at rest until I went to a party and heard several angry women remember Newt’s “infection” comment.

“Don’t worry, “  I said, “It was all a silly mistake.” But I agreed to call up Georgia Governor Nathan Deal’s office. Deal is one of the few powerhouses who has endorsed Newt’s candidacy.

“Of course Newt didn’t say that, “the Governor’s aide said. “What Newt said was, women get directions after 30 days in a ditch. They get their marching orders.”

At dinner that night, my friend Michael, a loyal Republican, was adamant. “No politician, particularly one as high up as Newt Gingrich, would ever say something so stupid, sexist and unfounded. The press is just out to nail him, to dredge up all the old garbage.”

“You’re right,” I replied. “But I wish I knew exactly what he said. None of the Republicans seem to agree on what he said.”

“So call Speaker Boehner’s office.”

The next day I did, cautious that Boehner was not a Gingrich fan. But surely the House majority leader would know Newt’s history.

A young man answered. “Oh, yes, that was quite a flap,” he remarked, over the rustle of paper. “Mr. Gingrich actually said women get inflections after 30 days in a ditch. Their voices get louder from being underground.”

Still uneasy, I called my niece.

“I know your heart is set on the service,” I told her, “but if you go into combat and get stuck in a ditch, you may have a problem.”

“Oh, yeah, “ she replied, “but I’m not worried. I remember Newt Gingrich’s comments. That men have problems staying in a ditch for 30 days because they get erections. Hey, war is hell on everybody.”

            I hate buying a new mattress, sorting through the sales claims. I’d do just as well putting money in the stock market: In both cases, mattress or stocks, I’ll be told what a great investment I’ve chosen, that for sure I’ll sleep better at night, and then predictably, my investment ends up sinking.

            There’s a timely parallel to my theory: I recently read that King Chuen Tang, the former chief financial officer of a San Francisco-based investment company, pled guilty to indecent behavior involving mattresses. Admittedly, that’s not unusual conduct, but Tang shared inside information about Temper-Pedic mattresses. Tang tipped off friends that the share price of Temper-Pedic would fall because the media had just learned Temper-Pedic’s mattresses, made from “memory foam,” had a worse memory than Sealy Posturepedics whose mattresses could name all 50 state capitols. 

            Temper-Pedic’s stock fell 37%, which also threatened the company’s low profile. Few people have heard of Temper-Pedic, assuming it to be related to rectal thermometers. The only thing I remember was hearing stories from friends told to walk on their new Temper-Pedic mattresses for three weeks who suddenly realized they did just as well walking on a treadmill.

            Why are people so surprised at Wall Street’s transgressors like mattress King Chuen Tang?  The first time I was coaxed by a stockbroker (“Brad”), he assured me he’d warn me if my mutual funds were about to take a dive. On his advice I invested in conservative funds like Salton Sea Luxury Hotels. A month after my portfolio evaporated, a stockbroker called to report the market didn’t look too good. The new person called because Brad “was now involved in foreign trade.” I found out later he’d moved to Toronto.

            Wall Street gets away with murder and always has partly because people are trusting and don’t understand what they’re really investing in. But any ten year old child who watches Ben Bernanke on Dancing with the Stars can tell you that the main subject of Congressional scrutiny— “derivatives”—- which the Senate Agriculture Committee wants to crack down on, is merely stock that involves farms. In Xining, China, for example, there’s a derivative called “purine derivative excretion” that’s been measured in the urine of three dry yak cows, collected after the animals were fed oat hay for 17 days. The “purine” is a “heterocyclic aromatic organic compound, consisting of a pyrimidine ring fused to an imidazole ring.” It’s that simple.

            For people who’ve been burned in the stock market graft, there is one sure investment—mattresses. Not only people need mattresses, but cows, too, and there’s money to be made in that: Consider that cows spends 16-20 hours a day lying, one cow claiming chocolate causes acne, another that crossing your eyes will make them stick.

             Improving cattle comfort theoretically encourages cows to contribute more milk. Since 1990 L & L Sales and Service of Kaukauna, Wisconsin has provided cows with PastureMat, mattresses stuffed with rubber crumbs from old car tires. Which beats my current pillowtop mattress, apparently stuffed with synthetics and recycled pinecones. For extra insurance, on top of the PastureMat cow mattress is a foam pad “with tremendous memory life,” so that the mattress not only molds to the warm cow body, but also remembers that Madison is the State Capitol.

            However, the makers of PastureMat warn of the importance of bedding maintenance. “Dairymen have found that bedding less and more often” is the routine that works for both cows and Charlie Sheen. In addition, the PastureMat must be cleaned by removing dirtied bedding. “As you can see,” the company’s literature says, when it comes to stock, “nothing can eliminate proper manure management.”

            Which, come to think of it, is basically the same Wall Street reform goal of the Senate Agriculture Committee.  

            Ultimately, Ford withdrew from the race he hadn’t entered, but not before launching at Senator Gillibrand the most offensive invective I’ve ever heard in politics: Ford called her a “hypocrite,” a “liar,” “an unelected senator,” and most repugnant, “a parakeet.”

            I am the incensed owner of a parakeet, also known as a budgie, short for budgerigar, an unpronounceable Aborigine word that translates “good to eat.” For the purpose of this essay, I shall vary my use of the two words, for in truth they are the identical bird and number approximately 5,000,000 at the 2009 census, not counting the ones who did not respond to the census because of invasion of privacy issues and the fear that previously unreported budgies would be deported.

            Ford’s slander of both Senator Gillibrand and parakeets is no surprise. Because the budgie/parakeet is small and fits easily in one’s hand, pocket, cardboard toilet paper roll or Mason jar, the bird, like many short people, has been the victim of prejudice and increasing misothery, a word meaning “hatred of animals,” or “hatred of miso.” Budgies have been bred in captivity since 1859, coincidentally the year after the invention of the Mason jar.

            Contrary to Ford’s assumption, budgies are highly intelligent. They can be taught to play games with humans, such as Hide and Seek, soccer with little bell balls, and Monopoly, since the budgie makes an exceptional playing piece who can be moved around the board more easily than the metal top hat, horse, or thimble. 

            Budgies are well-known for their ability to talk, and this talent for mimicry is clearly what the unenlightened Ford had in mind when he denigrated Senator Gillibrand.  One budgie named Puck holds the world record for largest vocabulary of any bird—1728 words. He died in 1994 while trying to pronounce his 1729th word—“seashells”—after three hundred attempts to add that to his previously-mastered phrase, “she sells.”

            Budgies are also represented in the apex of culture. A British opera is based on Sparkie the budgie, who died in 1962 at age eight, after acquiring a repertoire of more than 500 words. His stuffed body was flown to Berlin for a performance of the opera, “Sparkle: Cage and Beyond.” He was accompanied by both the archivist at the Natural History Society of Northumbria and the featured coloratura who sings the vocally demanding aria, “Ein Bissele Yenta Feigeleh.”

            It’s a certainty that Ford’s calling Senator Gillibrand a “parakeet” was intended to be misogynistic. By implication, Ford was attacking as frivolous Senator Gillibrand’s preoccupation with colorful dress and good grooming. But his analogy about the Australian-native budgies boomerangs on him again.  In fact, budgies use their ultraviolet-pigmented plumage to attract interest, the goal of all legislators including Senator Gillibrand.

            Australian ornithologists at the University of Queensland actually discovered the effect that ultraviolet (UV) pigment plays on budgies’ feathers in attracting members of the opposite sex. The scientists smeared petroleum jelly and sunscreen on the heads of male budgies, then smeared a control group of male budgies with petroleum jelly without sunscreen. Required to choose between the two smeared male groups, female budgies showed a clear preference for male canaries.

            Another Harold Ford misperception: that parakeets are flighty and featherbrained. In Barcelona Spain one of the most popular soccer teams that consistently demonstrates its prowess is Los Periquitos [“The Parakeets”].The team’s first uniforms were bright yellow jerseys, although they now play in attractive blue and white stripes with pinfeathers. 

            When I was young and pet-less, I was thrilled my parents finally agreed to a pet parakeet. I knew the corner pet store carried parakeets, priced at $1.20 or 99 cents, depending on whether you wanted one with wings. Once there, I looked in awe through the wire cage at the kinetic birds swirling around, a congress of color in blues, greens and yellows.

            I narrowed the field to three different budgies and even chose their names, which I don’t recall, but can approximate with modern monikers. “Stupakky” had a tendency to fly backwards. “Nancy” was diminutive, but scared hell out of the other birds. My third choice, named for a popular baseball player, was “Bunting” or “Bunning.” Unfortunately, when we brought him home, we found Bunning was plagued with constipation. Nothing would pass.

            I doubt Harold Ford ever had a pet parakeet. Or perhaps his prejudice is broader, extending to all birds, the result of his formative years in Memphis where his father, former Congressman Harold Ford Sr., used to be the chief duck wrangler for the Peabody Hotel’s famous parading ducks. Tennessee also has an unfortunate history of Parakeet-American abuse. In 2006 the hideaway of two escaped convicts searched by police reportedly turned up numerous sex-related paraphernalia, including “sex toys, whips, kinky lingerie, a pornographic DVD …. and a blue parakeet.”

            In this era of deplorable incivility by politicians, Ford needs to go back to Memphis to trace the source of his bigotry against budgies. While he’s there, he can reacquaint himself with the Tennessee voters he abandoned, and even make rounds at places like the Memphis Zoo, 13 miles from Parakeet Drive. This spring the zoo is featuring a special “Birds and Bees” exhibit.  Inside the walk-through outdoor aviary Ford can open his arms to those most anticipating his visit—— 500 frenzied parakeets.

            No, wait….. Brinton was an authority on the Krill, small, shrimp-like crustaceans that whales, fish, birds and other animals like to eat, not the Krell which was the advanced civilization I just described, the aliens prominently featured (but unseen) in the 1956 documentary, Forbidden Planet.  That classic film was notable for its Oscar-nominated special effects, groundbreaking use of an all-electronic music score, and Leslie Nielsen (pre–Detective Frank Drebin of Naked Gun) as a grim commander of a spaceship crew on a mission to Altair IV to learn if members of a previous expedition died as the result of the polymer-derived zirconium silicate composite Toyota accelerator sticking to the floor mat of the previous mission’s starship.

            Nielsen as Commander John Adams, son of the late Commander John Quincy Adams, confronts the last remaining survivor of Altairus, Dr. Irving Morbius, who is clueless why no one else remains on the planet except for him and his nubile daughter Altaira [a/k/a “Alta” Kocker]. Adams is certain he knows the fate of the previous mission, and why Alta, who’s never seen a man other than her father, has an unhealthy relationship with a male tiger:  

              Commander Adams: Monsters from the subconscious.   Of course! That’s what Doc meant, Morbius. The big machine, 8,000 miles of klystron relays, enough power for a whole population of creative geniuses, operated by remote control, Morbius, operated by the electromagnetic impulses of individual Krell brains.
             Dr. Morbius: To what purpose? 
             Commander Adams: In return, that ultimate machine would instantaneously project solid matter to any point on the planet, in any shape or color they might imagine. For any purpose, Morbius! Creation by mere thought. 
             Dr. Morbius: Why haven’t I seen this all along? 

             I was reminded of this informative exchange after recently reading that Britain’s Ministry of Defence [actual British spelling] declassified previously top-secret files with more than 6,000 pages of UFO sightings, including reports of “flying Toblerones,” [actual quote] humungous triangular spaceships coated in Swiss Dark Chocolate impervious to high space temperatures because of extra-strength paraffin coating.

           One report was of a funeral director who reported feeling physically sick after his car was enveloped by a “tube of light.” After exposure the man’s body also developed a skin condition, which employees at his funeral home immediately concealed with chemical solvents, Clearasil, and cosmetics before stuffing his torso in an eco-friendly cardboard coffin, the advertised special that week.   

            Another report contained details of a man who claimed a Toblerone-shaped UFO left a ‘silky-white’ substance “which he collected in a jam jar” [actual quote] and entered in the Yorkshire County Fair.

            Unfortunately, nobody in Britain seems to take UFO stories seriously, just like the narrow minded and secretive U.S. Air Force. None other than Winston Churchill once wrote an exasperated memorandum to Lord Cherwell, Secretary of State for Air [actual title], asking “What does all this stuff about flying saucers amount to? What can it mean? What is the truth? What are you wearing? Let me have a report at your convenience.”

             Lord Cherwell, in his August 9, 1952 response memo, wrote that flying saucers could be explained by several possible causes: “meteorological phenomenon; mistaken identification for conventional aircraft, balloons, and birds; optical illusion; and deliberate hoaxes. The most credible explanation,” Lord Cherwell concluded, were “interplanetary forces intent on destroying Earth, but consistently assigned lengthy holding patterns by air traffic control causing the extraterrestrial aircraft to circle endlessly after losing their landing spots.”

            Frankly, it’s high time our country acknowledges the obvious: that we’re not the only ones in the Universe. The quicker we establish a governmental Department for Extra-Terrestrial Affairs, the quicker the public will come to terms with the certainty of being kidnapped to other planets, and the sooner we can turn our attention to other Extraordinary Occurrences, like Congress passing a bill.

[Actual end.]

       I want to be a role model in my positive attitude about the Apocalypse, like the San Francisco woman living in a cliffside apartment overlooking the Pacific Ocean when a sixty foot section of a cliff gave way a few days ago. Asked what she thought about this potentially cataclysmic event, she replied, “I just thought the ocean view was getting closer.”

       A good friend has begun wearing a necklace with a Hamsa, the good-luck amulet shaped like a human palm, including fingers.  My friend firmly believes the Hamsa will ward off evil and the End of Days, although more than once guys have high-fived her chest.

       I told my son Andy how happy I was that the Apocalypse is due, either at the same time as my six-month dental appointment or my yearly Pap smear, I can’t remember which. But I know it’s close to one of my annual appointments. I’m supposed to get an Apocalypse reminder card in the mail.

            I called Andy to suggest he buy extra water, flashlights and Triscuits for the Apocalypse. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss it, since, like most 20-year-olds, he’s trying to find a job. The closest he’s come to a job was for a Craigslist-advertised “Fitter,” but when he showed up for the interview, Victoria’s Secret threw him out.

            Realizing that with the imminent Apocalypse any new job will only be temporary, I urged Andy to sign with a temp agency. His first job is to fill in for a man on leave from Andy’s local Congressman’s office. The job is “Legislative Sanitation Aide” and requires that Andy have good spelling skills and be able to carry around a gallon jug of Purell to wipe down whatever and whoever his legislator boss has touched. The job may turn into permanent work because the regular Legislative Sanitation Aide is off work due to an upper respiratory infection, E-coli, oral herpes, and pinkeye.  

            One of my friends (whom I’ll call Mel) has his own unique program to greet the Apocalypse. Mel has secured a domain online—this is true— which celebrates the (soon-to-be outdated) joy of being alive. He plans to meet with business people and politicians to promote his idea of a national day celebrating all the happiness that humans take for granted.

            “I call my domain ‘WWW.Worldorg.org.” he told me recently.

            I thought “org.org” seemed redundant, but, Mel said, “the domain name reflects the source of much joy I’ve experience in the world and its universality.”

            Mel’s first “org,” he explained, is for “orgasm.”

            Apparently, when the Apocalypse shows, Mel will be too engrossed to notice it. For example, he won’t need any Triscuits.