The great thing about shows like Extreme Home Makeover is that they inspire ideas on how to improve your home. The bad news is that people like me then try to implement these ideas without the benefit of a trained professional. The result is our bathroom, which currently has a commode with hot running water and a wall heater that can only be turned on by unscrewing the third bulb in our vanity mirror. Continue reading →

Teaching a child to bowl is truly a bonding experience — meaning that  you should really consider taking out a bond before entering the bowling alley.

As someone who escaped the experience with only a minor skull fracture and minimal orthodontic surgery, I feel I’ve acquired a level of expertise that could be helpful. Continue reading →

Scientists tell us it’s only a matter of time before a giant asteroid threatens to crash into the Earth. This of course would lead to a cataclysmic event unleashing tidal waves, earthquakes, 6,000 years of winter, and, theoretically, mankind’s final offering as an evolved species:

Survivor: Oh great—now what?

Scientists warn that the only way to avoid total extinction would be to somehow divert the offending asteroid into a different orbit, therefore altering its path into a collision course with something less vital, like, say… New Jersey. Continue reading →

You should be aware that the idea of promoting an important issue through a week of “National Awareness” has gotten plain silly. There was a time when, in order to command the attention of our entire country for a whole week, you actually needed to have an issue that was important—something that could save lives, improve society, or, at the very least, boost the sale of Hallmark cards.

But not anymore.

I say this because, as you may or may not know, we’re in the middle of “National Psychic Week.” (For those of you who weren’t aware of this, I’m sorry: But there’s a very good chance you are NOT psychic.) According to one website, the purpose of this week-long focus is to “dispel skepticism [of psychics] through factual awareness.”

Thanks to an article that appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times, I have a better understanding of how it might take an entire week to dispel all that skepticism—especially after reading about Ulf Buck, a blind psychic from Meldorf, Germany, who claims he can read people’s futures by feeling their naked buttocks.

(Warning to women who frequent singles bars: Men who frequent singles bars may be reading this column.)

According to Buck, creases representing success, career and artistic ability extend inward from the extremities of the buttocks (Similar to a map of Hollywood), while five other creases radiate outward. Though Buck explained that those creases represent areas such as love and money, when asked about that crease radiating down the middle, he just said, “Ewww.”

My point is, if you have a habit of sitting naked on wicker furniture, don’t waste your time getting a buttocks reading.

No. My real point is that people no longer pay ANY attention to “National Awareness” weeks because the topics have gotten so stupid.

For example, when’s the last time you observed “National Fresh Breath” week with any level of enthusiasm? Did you gargle more? Brush better? Buy an extra roll of Certs?

(No one in THIS office did, I can tell you that.)

The problem is that there are no guidelines when it comes to petitioning for “National Awareness” status — which is why we have 40 states that participate in “Sky Awareness” week each year. First of all, do we really need a whole week? Unless you’re lying face down getting a buttocks reading, how long does it take to look straight up? Considering that there are 10 states that don’t observe “Sky Awareness” week at all, we can conclude that they either, 1) Think it’s stupid, 2) Put all of their efforts into having a great “Fresh Breath” week, or 3) Have no idea the sky actually exists.

Which could explain the idea behind “Brain Awareness” week.

That’s right. The same people who brought us “Mustard” week and “Bat Survey” week would like us to remember that we have brains. (Even though, oddly enough, those same people scheduled “National Hot Dog” week to take place three months AFTER “National Mustard” week.)

The bottom line, of course, is that coming up with wisecracks about buttocks readings, while cheeky, requires more brain activity than most “Awareness Week” topics.

Though I’m sure that’ll change some day, exactly when is anybody’s guess.

Then again, they do say hindsight is 20/20….

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

You should be aware that the idea of promoting an important issue through a week of “National Awareness” has gotten plain silly. There was a time when, in order to command the attention of our entire country for a whole week, you actually needed to have an issue that was important—something that could save lives, improve society, or, at the very least, boost the sale of Hallmark cards

But not anymore.

I say this because, as you may or may not know, we’re in the middle of “National Psychic Week.” (For those of you who weren’t aware of this, I’m sorry: But there’s a very good chance you are NOT psychic.) According to one website, the purpose of this week-long focus is to “dispel skepticism [of psychics] through factual awareness.”

Thanks to an article that appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times, I have a better understanding of how it might take an entire week to dispel all that skepticism—especially after reading about Ulf Buck, a blind psychic from Meldorf, Germany, who claims he can read people’s futures by feeling their naked buttocks.

(Warning to women who frequent singles bars: Men who frequent singles bars may be reading this column.)

According to Buck, creases representing success, career and artistic ability extend inward from the extremities of the buttocks (Similar to a map of Hollywood), while five other creases radiate outward. Though Buck explained that those creases represent areas such as love and money, when asked about that crease radiating down the middle, he just said, “Ewww.”

My point is, if you have a habit of sitting naked on wicker furniture, don’t waste your time getting a buttocks reading.

No. My real point is that people no longer pay ANY attention to “National Awareness” weeks because the topics have gotten so stupid.

For example, when’s the last time you observed “National Fresh Breath” week with any level of enthusiasm? Did you gargle more? Brush better? Buy an extra roll of Certs?

(No one in THIS office did, I can tell you that.)

The problem is that there are no guidelines when it comes to petitioning for “National Awareness” status — which is why we have 40 states that participate in “Sky Awareness” week each year. First of all, do we really need a whole week? Unless you’re lying face down getting a buttocks reading, how long does it take to look straight up? Considering that there are 10 states that don’t observe “Sky Awareness” week at all, we can conclude that they either, 1) Think it’s stupid, 2) Put all of their efforts into having a great “Fresh Breath” week, or 3) Have no idea the sky actually exists.

Which could explain the idea behind “Brain Awareness” week.

That’s right. The same people who brought us “Mustard” week and “Bat Survey” week would like us to remember that we have brains. (Even though, oddly enough, those same people scheduled “National Hot Dog” week to take place three months AFTER “National Mustard” week.)

The bottom line, of course, is that coming up with wisecracks about buttocks readings, while cheeky, requires more brain activity than most “Awareness Week” topics.

Though I’m sure that’ll change some day, exactly when is anybody’s guess.

Then again, they do say hindsight is 20/20….

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not very athletic. I made this realization in the third grade, when I was knocked unconscious 32 times playing dodge ball. After that first game, I remember waking up in the nurse’s office and being told of a special program for “gifted” athletes who were so special they got to wear a football helmet during recess. Of course, I eventually figured out there was no “special program,” and openly expressed my feelings of betrayal when I slammed my helmet on the desk of my high school counselor.

After which I was taken to the hospital with a broken finger.

I live with the memory of being an unathletic child on a daily basis. Particularly when I look in the mirror and see a man whose head still fits into a third-grade football helmet. For this reason, when my daughter asked me to coach her fourth-grade basketball team, I smiled, took her hand, and began faking a seizure. I panicked at the thought of providing guidance to a team of fourth-grade girls, any one of whom could take me to the hole. This includes my daughter, who has inherited a recessive “athletic” gene I call the “monkey factor” because, apparently, it leaps entire family trees.

Of course, none of this mattered to my daughter; she just wanted Dad to coach her team. Knowing this attitude would eventually change (possibly by the end of our first practice), I made the decision to put aside my own petty fears and be her team’s coach. In addition, I also put aside some petty cash for psychological treatment later.

To prepare myself as coach, I read books about fundamental basketball skills. I talked with other coaches. I installed a tiny basketball hoop over the trashcan in my office. Before long, I had gained confidence knowing that with hard work and determination, someone would be able to undo the damage I was doing.

For our first practice, we worked on free throws and lay-ups. I chose these areas because, as everyone knows, they are the most common —  and easiest ways — of scoring a basket.

Unless you are me.

As it turns out, repeatedly sending a wad of paper through a six-inch hoop over your trashcan doesn’t mean you’ll be able to sink a regulation basketball from the free throw line. Particularly if your entire team and most of its parents are watching, in some cases using phone cameras to send live images to friends while laughing hysterically. Confident that I had taught my team an important lesson in determination, humility, and the value of having a “shared minutes” plan, we moved on to lay-ups. It was at this point I asked parents to please put their phone cameras away. In addition to the distraction it was causing, there were also safety issues to consider since many parents had now moved under the backboard to get a better angle.

When practice ended a week later (okay, but it felt like a week) we joined hands and reached an important understanding as a team:

The coach has no “game.”

Apparently, my players don’t see this as a problem. What matters to them most is if I can be trusted, as their coach, to coordinate the snack rotation. I assured them I could, and things have gone well ever since.

They bring “game,” I bring jelly donuts.

And my helmet.

Just in case there’s a loose ball.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439.)

It’s true I sometimes make fun of scientific discoveries that, in my opinion, seem a little silly—such as genetically altering a mouse to glow in the dark. That’s because I just can’t see any benefit to creating a rodent with its own built-in night light. While it might make for goofy fun at the lab when all the lights are out, should one of these neon mice manage to escape and reproduce, I’ll be the one stuck taking my cat to therapy twice a week.

However, from time to time, there is a scientific breakthrough so significant, so far-reaching, so groundbreaking that even I—a trained humor columnist—must stop and say:

Wow! This is quite possibly the most important scientific discovery since….

The glow-in-the-dark mouse!

(For me, the yardstick by which all modern scientific discoveries are measured.)

Thanks to researchers at Lewis and Clark University and the University of California Berkley, we are on the verge of another milestone in scientific achievement—something that could quite possibly change the world as we know it!

At least in terms of adhesiveness.

Gecko Tape.

After hearing this exciting news, you’re undoubtedly thinking the same thing I was:

Ewwwww.

But rest assured that this new tape is NOT actually made from geckos. However, it is strong enough to support the entire body weight of a full grown elephant—which apparently is just one of its many practical applications.

However, before we get to that, part of my job as a journalist is to take highly technical information and, through a rigorous process of study and research, find a way of explaining it to you, the reader, in such a way that I, the journalist, look smart. To do this, I will be using terms like setae, and spatulae, and Van der Waal forces. I might even include the term proluminal crotominoids (pronounced pro-loom-i-nal  crow-tom-i-noids), which essentially means that I’ve run out of actual scientific terms and am now making them up.

That said, I will explain the science behind Gecko Tape. To begin with, geckos have 100 times the wall-climbing ability of spiders. Something that, back in the 1960s, nearly led Marvel Comics to pass up spiders and introduce the Amazing Gecko-Man! who, along with his ability to climb walls, would possess other gecko-like superpowers—such as licking his eyelids and detaching his rear end as a means of escape. (The idea was shelved after sketching just three panels of a fight between Gecko-Man! and Doctor Octigrab.)

The secret to the gecko’s clinging ability lies in its toes, each of which contain microscopic setae (tiny hairs). At the tip of each setae is a spatulae (pad) that is approximately 10 millionths of an inch across, which the gecko laces with poluminal crotominoids (Super Glue) before climbing. This produces an effect called Van der Waal forces, which I haven’t figured out yet, but nonetheless would be a really great name for a Bruce Willis movie.

After years of study, researchers have discovered that the combination of setae and spatulae cause electrical charges around molecules to become unbalanced, resulting in an unnatural attraction to each other, such as Brigitte Nielsen and Flava Flav.

Scientists have now found a way to duplicate the gecko’s setae and spatulae in order to create the most adhesive tape known to man.

The next big challenge, of course, will be packaging. It’s not like you can sell it in a roll like duct tape. How will you ever get it apart?

Still, when they do eventually figure it out, I’ll be the first one in line. I plan to buy several rolls and leave strips of it all over the house.

I mean, heck—what better way to catch a glow-in-the-dark mouse?

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

My wife and I have been trying to come up with an explanation for the volume of dirty clothes that accumulates in our laundry basket on a daily basis. In an attempt to explain this phenomena by utilizing mathematic principles, we went through the laundry, separated the clothes, subtracted how many days since the basket was empty, and then divided it by the number of children in our home — which lead to an important discovery:

We had become trapped in the bathroom after our pile of clothes fell against the door.

While it’s true we have four children between us, according to my calculations they are changing their clothes every 18 minutes. This includes through the night, when they apparently take turns changing EACH OTHER while sleeping in shifts. This would explain how they can have a closet full of clothes at bedtime, then wake up and have nothing to wear. It would also explain why their bed sheets are always untucked and strewn on the floor by morning; they are using the sheets to drag each other’s sleeping bodies back and forth to the closet. Also included in our mathematical equation was the “X” quotient, which represents clothes that don’t actually make it home from school until the end of the year, when they magically re-appear in the closet two sizes too small.

Even though they are homosapians capable of walking in an upright position, we have to assume, judging from their pants, our children spend most of the day on their hands and knees trapping moles. As a result, we discussed the idea of getting ahead of the curve by purchasing new pants, and then immediately cutting the knees out. This would effectively eliminate 90 percent of the grass stains from our laundry while, at the same time, providing our children with knee calluses the size of Egg McMuffins. We decided against this because we realized our children would be missing an important lesson about taking care of their clothes.

We also realized we really needed to stop and eat because the phrase “Egg McMuffin knee calluses” made us salivate.

What we eventually decided on was a responsibility checklist for each of our children. This list is designed to encourage them to take care of their clothes as well as themselves. Naturally, there is a reward system involved for completing this checklist each day, such as reward option 1) Not having to go to school naked.

I will let you know if our plan is successful.

As soon as we get out of the bathroom.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439.)

First, the good news.

According to the National Council on Fireworks Safety, fireworks-related injuries have dropped by 75 percent in the last decade.

First, the good news.

According to the National Council on Fireworks Safety, fireworks-related injuries have dropped by 75 percent in the last decade.

The bad news, as anyone over the age of 30 can tell you, is that today’s fireworks are about as exciting to watch as a pile of smoldering  pencil shavings.

For example: It used to be that “sparklers” actually sparkled. They showered the air with tiny crackling embers so bright you could see them through your eyelids. The bravest kids would spin them like propellers, knowing full well their eyebrows would grow back by mid summer.

My kids don’t believe me when I tell them this. That’s because, each July Fourth, they are handed “sparklers” that are basically sticks of incense that smell like sulfur. No crackle. No shower of sparks. Just a momentary flame as the paper wick ignites then — upon reaching its climactic flash point — fizzles into a puff of flatulent-smelling smoke.

Note: In the event you happen to purchase a defective sparkler, and find yourself the unwitting victim of actual spark-spitting action, DO NOT PANIC. Call the NCFS hotline immediately so your rogue sparkler can be safely deposited in a special, undisclosed location three miles beneath the Mojave Desert. If there’s no time to drive to the desert because, say, you live in Michigan, you will be instructed on how to disarm the sparkler yourself. This will mean transporting it to an unpopulated area and, utilizing protective gear and the most extreme caution, dipping it into a glass of water.

Several times if necessary.

Those of you who live in Alabama or Tennessee have no idea what I’m talking about. That’s because you have real fireworks. The kind that childhood memories (and a good portion of our nation’s first-strike capabilities) are made of. In addition, the only real restrictions you have are as follows:

1) If a skyrocket is longer than your boat trailer, it must be flagged during transport.

2) You must, by law, inform neighbors when using any fireworks that require a dynamite plunger.

3) Though there is no limit to the number of M-80s you can join together with a single fuse, the Department of Homeland Security warns it can’t be held responsible should your area, as a precautionary measure, be swept with heat-seeking missiles.

4) If you have studded tires, you must remove them. This has nothing to do with fireworks; it’s just a friendly reminder from the folks at the Highway Department.

And lastly,

5) Any and all skyrockets capable of leaving southern air space must be pointed north.

The fact is, even though I whine about having wimpy fireworks here in Oregon, at least we have them. In Georgia, they are illegal. This means watching public fireworks displays, or, as many Georgians do, going outside and facing Alabama. Even though these displays are beautiful, it’s still not the same as being knocked unconscious by a runaway ground flower. Being as I lived in Atlanta for six years, I can tell you illegal fireworks do make their way across the Alabama border.

This, of course, is a huge problem.

Especially if your boat trailer isn’t big enough.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

Normal 0 MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:”Table Normal”; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:””; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:”Times New Roman”;} Yesterday I had my first baseball practice in 30 years. It was with a group of guys with names like Chico, Blaze, Rip, and Easton — guys who even sound like baseball players. My name is Ned, which is why this morning I am so sore my nostrils are the only part of my body capable of responding — albeit only to simple verbal commands such “Flare” and “Sniff.”

Yesterday I had my first baseball practice in 30 years. It was with a group of guys with names like Chico, Blaze, Rip, and Easton — guys who even sound like baseball players. My name is Ned, which is why this morning I am so sore my nostrils are the only part of my body capable of responding — albeit only to simple verbal commands such “Flare” and “Sniff.”

For this reason, I’d like to apologize in advance for any typos you may find in this column. Please keep in mind it was typed using only my my nostrils, and a dried lima bean that was strategically dropped onto the appropriate keys through a combination of sniffing and flaring.

I should also mention the Spellcheck feature on my computer requires holding down the SHIFT key while simultaneously pushing F-12. Although I tried, I was unable to execute this function successfully before dislocating my tongue — which is actually easier than you might think. Especially if your tongue becomes pinched between two keys and, in  an attempt to dislodge it, you begin swinging the keyboard from side to side until you are knocked unconscious.

Let’s face it: given my athletic background, I have no illusions about being a great player. I have one year of organized baseball experience. That experience came when I was 10, while playing on a team called The Giants, which was quite possibly the worst team in the history of little league baseball. We had nicknames like “Squint,” “Waterboy,”  “Strike,” and “Phlegm.” I remember these names because they were at the top of the rotation. Our only win of the season came by way of forfeit when, after witnessing “Phlegm” blow a large mucus bubble, the other team was too nauseous to continue.

Considering all of this — and taking into account my lack of athletic talent, fundamental skills, conditioning and, according to our coach, a league a rule prohibiting the use of oxygen tanks anywhere on the field — I’ve tried to set realistic goals for myself this summer.

Here are a few examples:

1) Realistically, I should be able to run all the bases in 15 seconds, as long as it doesn’t have to happen in a single game.

2) Realistically, by the end of the season, I should be able to catch a fly ball; next year, I’ll try for two.

3) Realistically, I should be able to stop thinking of my athletic cup as a bull’s-eye, and therefore overcome my fear of getting hit in the groin on a line drive from someone nicknamed “The Sterilizer.”

4) Realistically, number three is never going happen, but I’ll learn to deal with it.

5) Realistically, I will have to stop blaming pretend gophers every time I miss a routine grounder; eventually, I will need to bring in real gophers.

And lastly,

6) Realistically, I should be able to hit a home run if I work on my fundamentals and eventually execute them in a game where, in one unforgettable moment, the entire outfield is swallowed by a giant sink hole.

By setting achievable goals like these, I can measure my progress and hopefully contribute to our team’s success. On the other hand, it doesn’t mean I don’t have a back-up plan. I’m not going to tip my hand to the opposing teams by getting into the details here.

But “Phlegm,” if you’re reading this, please give me a call.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439.)

From time to time a column strikes a collective nerve with readers. These readers then respond — in many cases — by calling me collect. After my column a couple of weeks ago, it’s obvious that excessive ear and nose hair has been on a lot of people’s chests. And by that I mean in terms of subject matter, not actual hairs falling from men’s ears and noses during the course of conversation, eating or…whatever.

From time to time a column strikes a collective nerve with readers. These readers then respond — in many cases — by calling me collect. After my column a couple of weeks ago, it’s obvious that excessive ear and nose hair has been on a lot of people’s chests. And by that I mean in terms of subject matter, not actual hairs falling from men’s ears and noses during the course of conversation, eating or…whatever.

It seems I have become the “go-to” guy when it comes to ear and nose hair confessions. The subject is generally brought up by wives, such as while standing in line at A&W and ordering a chili cheese dog for their husbands. One minute they’re talking about the origin of the Coney dog, the next I’m being told what it’s like trying to carry on a conversation with a spouse who doesn’t seem to notice he has hardened Cheez Whiz in his nostril hair. This puts me in the difficult position of trying to sympathize with the wife while, at the same time and being a male myself, trying to defend his honor by saying something like, “Has he tried the chicken strip basket?”

And this isn’t to say the topic hasn’t been brought up by men. In fact, it has come up several times — while getting gas, buying groceries, attending a funeral mass, standing at a urinal — and usually starts off with, “Have you been talking with my wife?”

There have also been e-mails and letters, wherein readers feel safe describing — in frightening detail — nose and ear hair abominations they have witnessed, are married to, or are currently cultivating. One individual even sent a photograph, which arrived by e-mail under the heading “Look at my nostrils!”

Sure, I probably should have known better than to open it. Especially before I’d had my coffee or gotten within arm’s reach of a defibrillator. As a result, I now meet once a week with a psychiatrist, who says I can begin the next phase of my recovery as soon as I’m able to look at the photo without wearing a welder’s mask.

I should point out this photo was intercepted by Homeland Security because agents believe this person’s nose hair could be hiding a small terrorist cell.

Don’t get me wrong; as a columnist, you hope to illicit a response so you know that people are reading. My thanks to all of you for letting me know you’re out there. But for a few of you, it’s just good to know you’re out there — and I’m in here.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439)

What I’m about to tell you may be considered vain. On the other hand, it could also be considered a responsible act of brush fire prevention. I’m talking, of course, about excessive ear and nose hair. I bring this up because of a recent conversation I had with someone who wanted to express his opinion on… something. To be honest, I can’t remember what it was because I couldn’t overlook the fact that he appeared to have a chinchilla stuck in each ear.

What I’m about to tell you may be considered vain. On the other hand, it could also be considered a responsible act of brush fire prevention. I’m talking, of course, about excessive ear and nose hair. I bring this up because of a recent conversation I had with someone who wanted to express his opinion on… something. To be honest, I can’t remember what it was because I couldn’t overlook the fact that he appeared to have a chinchilla stuck in each ear.

I tried to be a good listener.

Tried to look reflective.

At least until I realized saliva had pooled in my open mouth.

As you might expect, this person was a male over the age of 40, which seems to be about the time follicles in mens’ ears and noses begin producing hair at an alarming rate. I say alarming because I’ve heard of men purposely growing enough ear and nose hair to make a comb over. And if that isn’t alarming to you, then you need to stop reading this column right NOW and put more mousse in your ear-and-nose-hair comb over.

Admittedly, after my conversation, I went directly to the nearest men’s room and examined my ears and nostrils. If for no other reason than to avoid putting those I care about at risk by allowing the hair in either orifice to become a fire hazard, such as being ignited by a random cell phone spark. To my relief, I found that the hair in both regions was still within the parameters of good taste, and by that I don’t mean hanging over my mouth. Naturally, as I was standing in front of the mirror staring down my nostrils, someone walked in.

After exchanging knowing glances, I turned back to the mirror and saw that my ear and nose hair had grown two centimeters.

This apparently is not uncommon.

According to a recent article published in the Journal Medicine, “A six-year study of Hypertrichosis in the ears and nose of men over age 40 revealed that the same study could have been completed in six months if male researchers hadn’t been fighting over the nose-hair trimmer.”

So, as a service to the men who may be reading this column, I’d like to offer the following tips gathered by our research department here at the Siuslaw News. Keep in mind that this department consists of:

A 41-year-old humor columnist obsessing over his ear and nose hair.

Tip #1: Never attempt to manicure the hair in these regions at the end of the day when you are tired — or possibly intoxicated — unless you are willing to run the risk of waking up without eye brows.

Tip #2: Should you not follow the advice of tip #1, you can always replace your eye brows with hair from your ears and nostrils.

Tip #3: Use a magnifying mirror. This will help you avoid nicking sensitive areas. On the other hand, seeing your own nostrils the size of bowling ball finger holes is likely to cause insomnia.

And lastly,

Tip #4: Do not pluck ear or nose hair with tweezers. This can cause ingrown hairs and lead to infection. Your best bet is to use a nose and ear hair trimmer, which is a device designed to fit into either orifice and remove hair safely by pulling them out at the root. It is best to start out lying on the floor in a fetal position since that is where you will end up anyway.

For those of you who have any more advice on this subject, please feel free to send it in. But please keep it short.

And by that, I mean your ear and nose hair.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

As many of you know, I have a fear of flying. What many of you don’t know is that I also have a fear of being seen naked. Until now, I had the comfort of knowing there was almost no chance of both happening at once, unless I somehow ended up on one of those nude flights, where I would quickly be arrested for refusing to return my tray to its upright position for take-off.

As many of you know, I have a fear of flying. What many of you don’t know is that I also have a fear of being seen naked. Until now, I had the comfort of knowing there was almost no chance of both happening at once, unless I somehow ended up on one of those nude flights, where I would quickly be arrested for refusing to return my tray to its upright position for take-off.

But now, thanks to the latest development in airport security technology, I no longer have to wait until I’m actually in the air and vomiting into the seat pocket in front of me before I can experience total humiliation. That’s right. I can now get things rolling before I even board the plane by stepping into a special X-ray booth and having an airport security professional see me completely naked.

According to the U.S. Transportation Security Administration, the technology has been around for several years but hasn’t been introduced as an anti-terrorism tool because of privacy concerns.

“We have now found a way to blur certain areas of the images that would otherwise be too detailed for some people’s comfort,” said TSA spokesman Alto Leering. “It’s a great alternative to a strip search — You know, unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

The machines are currently being tested in Phoenix’s Sky Harbor International Airport, as well as London’s Heathrow Airport, where Prince Charles recently helped demonstrate how areas of concern could be blurred for privacy.

“As you can see, you cannot discern how large my ears are,” he said to reporters. “And my shim-shim is completely gone.”

The press conference ended soon after, when TSA officials admitted there were no alterations applied below the Prince’s ears.

“But when you consider what we were able to do with his ears, you can image what we could do with a standard ‘shim-shim,’” officials said.

Needless to say, this has not helped ease my fears. In fact, it has made them worse by introducing the word ‘shim-shim’ into my vocabulary. Regardless, I thought doing some research to get a better understanding of this new technology might help.

Naturally, I was wrong.

We’ll begin with the name of this technology. I was hoping for something either a) extremely technical, suggesting years of exhaustive research and training, or b) something friendly that would make me feel looked upon in my nakedness with compassion. Instead, I ended up with c) “BackScatter,” which sounds like what could happen if I forget to remove my cell phone before I step infront of the X-ray.

I should also point out that, in addition to revealing metal objects, the images can also help identify the presence of nitrogen, which appears as a cloudy area on the image; nitrogen is emitted by plastic or liquid explosives.

It is also emitted by humans when they flatulate.

As I already stated, I get nervous when I fly.

It doesn’t help knowing I could be tackled by airport security because of a “cloud” on my X-ray that comes as the result of a Taco Bell value meal and my extreme anxiety over flying.

And I don’t even want to think of what will happen if bomb-sniffing dogs become part of the scenario.

So, I’d like to thank the TSA for giving me another reason to freak out the next time I have to fly somewhere. I’m already thinking I’ll need to take a seditive to help with my nerves.

Unless, of course, it gives me gas.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

Nothing says “sexy” faster than someone with a pair of giant lips, even if that person’s collagen injections have made their lips so enormously seductive that they can’t actually pronounce the word “sexy,” and must instead settle for calling themselves “shek-shee.” The point is, big lips are no longer just a cosmetic enhancement for people less fortunate than Mick Jagger and Angelina Jolie, whose lips are so large and incredibly sexy that they are prohibited by international law from bearing children together because, quote: “Said children could potentially upset the delicate balance between populations of humans and sucker fish.”Nothing says “sexy” faster than someone with a pair of giant lips, even if that person’s collagen injections have made their lips so enormously seductive that they can’t actually pronounce the word “sexy,” and must instead settle for calling themselves “shek-shee.” The point is, big lips are no longer just a cosmetic enhancement for people less fortunate than Mick Jagger and Angelina Jolie, whose lips are so large and incredibly sexy that they are prohibited by international law from bearing children together because, quote: “Said children could potentially upset the delicate balance between populations of humans and sucker fish.”

Though we all know that true beauty stems from inside, as any cosmetics surgeon will tell you, no one will notice unless your lips are the size of tractor tires. Which is why a new product called City Lips is being heralded as the newest, easiest and safest way to give you the lips you always wanted, but never dreamed you could have. At least not without surgically implanting tire stems in them and inflating your lips to 350 psi. Until now, those of us unable to afford expensive collagen injections were forced to live with the embarrassment of having normal, everyday lips. But thanks to City Lips, you can avoid the hassle and expense of collagen injections by using their patented do-it-yourself lip enlargement process!

That’s right! Say goodbye to snobby surgeons telling you how much better you’d look with Julia Roberts lips when their own lips look like Phyllis Diller’s. With each purchase of City Lips you’ll receive one bottle of specially formulated “lip transformer” solution and a patented dual-action applicator. This applicator is a crucial part of City Lips’ groundbreaking, two-step process — which starts by applying the “lip transformer” with one side of the patented applicator and then, after turning the applicator over, whacking your lips with it as many times as possible for 10 minutes.

Okay, I made that last part up. But according to City Lips, their new product has been named “Best Over-the-Counter Lip Plumper” by Good Housekeeping, which, as you know, recently debunked the common misconception that you could increase the size of your lips by spraying them with Pledge (although it will keep them shiny and smelling lemony fresh).

I’d also like to point out that after three large margaritas, trying to say “Best Over-the-Counter Lip Plumper” will at least make your feel like your lips are really huge.

I bring this up because I’m concerned about the mixed message this sends to young women. On one hand, they’re seeing supermodels getting thinner and thinner. On the other hand, they’re seeing those same models trip over their own lips on the runway, with nothing to break their fall except for other stumbling models, who then land in a flailing heap of inflated lips and silicone.

No more. It’s time to quit pouting, pucker up,  and accept each other’s lips just the way they are.

Unless pouting makes your lips look fuller, of course.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@oregonfast.net, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

In order to help prepare my daughter for her first season of T-ball, we bought a mitt, ball, practice tee, and all the equipment necessary to get started on the basics. For obvious reasons, we saw no need to purchase an athletic cup—until I decided to advise her about batting stance, at which point it became obvious that I should have.

Flashback: May 2003

In order to help prepare my daughter for her first season of T-ball, we bought a mitt, ball, practice tee, and all the equipment necessary to get started on the basics. For obvious reasons, we saw no need to purchase an athletic cup—until I decided to advise her about batting stance, at which point it became obvious that I should have.

At least for myself.

Though practice ended a little early that first day, we were back at it the following afternoon—my daughter with her bat and a look of determination, and me offering advice and encouragement a safe distance away with my bull horn. It was one of those father/daughter moments that lasted just long enough for me to realize it, and just long enough for our neighbor to cross the street and threaten to shove my bull horn somewhere that isn’t located on any ball field.

With that, we decided to try some fielding practice; I’d hit the ball to her, and she’d practice leaping on it with her eyes closed. Before we could do that, however, I had to actually HIT the ball. In my defense, I was using her bat, which is roughly the size of a cucumber. Also in my defense, let me just say that the cucumber and I have about the same degree of hand-eye coordination. Yet, between the two of us, we STILL couldn’t hit the ball.

As a father, this is very embarrassing.

(As a cucumber, it’s no big deal.)

On the other hand, this was a good opportunity to teach my daughter about the importance of not giving up, and how, through patience and determination, you can do anything.

I say this all in retrospect, having hurled her cucumber bat over the top of the house in a fit of frustration.

In spite of all this, when it came time for our daughter’s first official T-ball practice this week, we felt ready.

For those of you who’ve never watched T-ball, the rules are roughly the same as baseball; the ball is hit, the batter runs the bases, and 15 infielders throw their mitts at the ball in order to stop it. Once that is accomplished, everyone runs to a spot about eight inches in front of home plate—which is where the ball has usually landed after gravity, and a solid hit to the neck of the tee, has advanced the ball.

This isn’t always the case, however. In fact, some of the kids I saw could really whack the ball. If not for them, the outfielders walking around with mitts on their faces pretending to be monsters might not have seen any action at all.

In the end, it is the ability to cover your face with your mitt and run around in circles until you trip over a sprinkler head that separates T-ball from major league baseball (not counting Darryl Strawberry). I’d even say that professional baseball could learn a thing or two from T-ball.

But not before I learn how to hit the ball with a cucumber.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

As I’m sure you’ve noticed, police dramas involving any type of forensic investigation are still very popular. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this type of crime show, it’s when old-fashioned detective work — in combination with high-tech science — is conducted by really attractive people who would otherwise be getting into water balloon fights at the Playboy Mansion. This formula has proven so popular that every major network now carries at least one of these shows (Not counting the WB, which cancelled its plans for CSI: Pennsylvania after test audiences complained that watching Quaker detectives chase villians in pony carts was “really boring.”)As I’m sure you’ve noticed, police dramas involving any type of forensic investigation are still very popular. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this type of crime show, it’s when old-fashioned detective work — in combination with high-tech science — is conducted by really attractive people who would otherwise be getting into water balloon fights at the Playboy Mansion. This formula has proven so popular that every major network now carries at least one of these shows (Not counting the WB, which cancelled its plans for CSI: Pennsylvania after test audiences complained that watching Quaker detectives chase villians in pony carts was “really boring.”)

In spite of this, talks are continuing about a new spin-off from the CSI franchise that would take place in Ashland, Ore., which, in real life, is home to the world’s only forensic crime lab dedicated exclusively to cases involving wildlife.

For example: When a squirrel’s death is deemed accidental after attempting to retrieve a loose walnut from Interstate 5 during the city’s annual Shakespeare Festival, it takes a highly-trained forensic detective to unravel the ugly truth.

“Hmmm. Judging from this buzzard feather I found near the scene of the crime, I think the victim was PUSHED in front of that Volvo!”

Anther important ingredient to any CSI-type show is that it take place in a unique location. Until recently, I was completely unaware of that Ashland has a free-flowing fountain that spews naturally-occurring mineral water from an underground spring.

Apparently, this is a huge attraction that draws tourists from throughout the world for a chance to drink this mineral-rich water. It is also a huge attraction for Ashland residents, who come to watch tourists gag and then rub dry grass in their mouths after actually tasting the water that comes from the fountain. I’m not saying that everyone thinks it tastes bad; but there’s a reason it’s not in a squeeze bottle next to the Evian.

Which brings us back to the city’s unique crime lab, and its potential as a new police drama. Although I’m not at liberty to divulge my source, I was able to get my hands on a page of script from the pilot episode — which opens with David Hasselhoff standing over a 60-foot-long indentation left in the grass by what he deduces was a severely undernourished boa constrictor.

Hasselhoff: I want this area completely sealed off. It’s going to take a while to process this.

Coroner: What are you doing?

Hasselhoff: I’m going to sift through all 60 feet, starting here at this water faucet and all the way across the yard to the vegetable garden. I WILL find out who starved this poor snake and just left it out here to die.

Coroner: You DO understand that this was made by the garden hose after we moved it, right?

Hasselhoff: Hmmm?

As you can see, there’s plenty of potential here for some riveting television drama. Granted, it isn’t Shakespeare. But I don’t think it’ll be hard to swallow.

Especially with a little mineral water.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, Or. 97439, or at nhickson@oregonfast.net.)

When I was a kid I had a book called Mysteries of the Unexplained that contained AMAZING BUT TRUE! stories aimed at stirring the imagination, eliciting a sense of wonder, and prolonging the bed-wetting experience by at least three years. I’d huddle beneath the covers with my flashlight and read about strange psychic phenomena documented by real scientists, physicists, private investigators, and the occasional freaked-out paranormal expert who, at the end of the story, usually abandoned his profession to become a plumber:When I was a kid I had a book called Mysteries of the Unexplained that contained AMAZING BUT TRUE! stories aimed at stirring the imagination, eliciting a sense of wonder, and prolonging the bed-wetting experience by at least three years. I’d huddle beneath the covers with my flashlight and read about strange psychic phenomena documented by real scientists, physicists, private investigators, and the occasional freaked-out paranormal expert who, at the end of the story, usually abandoned his profession to become a plumber:

“Even now, after all these years, I can still feel those icy fingers whenever a cold breeze blows across my butt crack…”

Though the book was mostly about ghosts, aliens, strange disappearances and creepy folklore (…so stand alone in the dark, if you dare. Hold a mirror and repeat the words “Sassafras Sally.” And prepare to be slapped by a pair of wet tea bags), it was spontaneous human combustion that really got to me. I think it’s because, in my mind, ghosts, aliens, strange disappearance and folklore could all be avoided by exercising a little caution.

Spot an alien spaceship? Run.

Worried about Sassafras Sally? Introduce her to Chi tea.

Concerned about taking a cruise through the Bermuda Triangle? Go to Disneyland and settle for the “Pirates of the Caribbean” instead.

But burst into flames in the middle of Mrs. Frump’s sixth-grade classroom, and chances are you’d be reduced to a pair of smoking sneakers long before you could acquire a hall pass and make it to a water source. Because of this fear, I mapped out the location of every fire extinguisher and water fountain at Jane Adams Elementary, and remained within eight feet of something to douse myself with throughout much of the sixth grade. Suffice it to say, except for visiting the public pool and local fire station, I missed most of my class field trips.

I’m 43 now, and, aside from “All-You-Can-Eat Frijole Night” at Juan’s Cantina, I’ve overcome my fear of spontaneously combusting.

At least until yesterday.

That’s when “Peggy” from our composition department handed me a news article about a man in Warrnambool, Australia whose clothes spontaneously built up 40,000 volts of static electricity. According to Frank Clewers, he was unaware of being a human power grid until a secretary noticed his shoes were burning a hole in the office carpet. After several awkward minutes of misinterpreting his secretary’s warnings of “You’re sizzling!” and “You’re making my hair stand up!” as sexual innuendo, Frank realized what was happening and contacted the fire department. Fire official Henry Barton believes it was the combination of Franks’ woolen shirt and synthetic nylon jacket rubbing together that created a charge “just shy of spontaneous combustion.”

I’m no electrician, but had shag carpet been involved, I doubt Frank would still be alive.

After reading about this incident, I thanked “Peggy” (whom I used to like), then slowly removed my nylon coat and wool sweater, trying to generate as little friction as possible, by cutting them from my body with a pair of scissors. That’s because I’m one of those people who’s constantly building up small amounts of static electricity. Our cat became aware of this phenomenon after rubbing on my leg once. This was followed by a loud “pop,” a blue flash, and our cat performing a hissing cartwheel.

Needless to say, thanks to “Peggy,” my condition has now escalated from minor annoyance to full-blown phobia. I no longer leave the house without a copper wire running from my undershorts to the ground, and I go through at least four cans of “Cling Free” a day.

I’m sure I’ll eventually overcome my fear again. In the meantime, I really need to finish mapping out the extinguishers and water sources in our office.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439, or nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com.)

Our universe is full of mysteries. Easter Island. The Bermuda Triangle. California. And perhaps the biggest mystery: Why I am allowed to golf.Our universe is full of mysteries.

Easter Island.

The Bermuda Triangle.

California.

And perhaps the biggest mystery:

Why I am allowed to golf.

Afew years ago, I participated in the Florence Chamber Golf Tournamanet. At the time, no one — including myself — realized how bad a golfer I really am. Though none of the injuries sustained during that year’s tournament were life threatening, having six golfers (two of whom were playing the hole behind me) knocked unconscious by balls with my initials on them — I thought — would become my golfing swan song.

(Speaking of which, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize once again for the tragic death of that swan near the putting green. Had I known the difference between a putter and a pitching wedge, things might’ve turned out differently for that majestic creature.)

Because of this, I fully expected a letter from the American Golf Association (and PETA) denying me access to any course that doesn’t include a windmill and tokens for a free hot dog.

Needless to say, when I was asked back for a second year, I naturally assumed that, at some point, hard liquor had become available in the clubhouse.

As it turns out, being the worst golfer in Ocean Dunes Golf Links history actually makes me a hot commodity! That’s right! With my handicap, the only way a team I’m on can lose is if, over the course of 18 holes, I accidentally knock each of my teammates unconscious with my backswing.

Which is why I’m determined to make my next golfing experience different.

How?

By hypnotizing myself into believing I’m a good golfer.

That’s right. Thanks to golf hypnotherapist Dr. Kenneth Grossman, I will utilize the power of my subconscious to golf in a manner that is, quote:

Relaxed, self-confident and — unless I purchase both CDs — amazingly like that of a chicken.

The program, called Hypnosis for Golf (available at www.hypnosis4golf.com) comes with a no-risk guarantee that if I’m not completely satisfied, my money will be refunded “… within a period of time considered reasonable by many third-world countries.”

Like many of you, I was a little skeptical about the idea of hypnotizing myself because I figured it meant standing in front of a mirror with a shiny object and repeating:

You’re getting very sleepy.

Very sleeeee-peee

Very s-l-e-e-e-e-p—

THUD.

That was silly, of course.

Dr. Grossman is a man of science, and his method is scientifically proven to induce the trance-like state necessary for self-hypnosis. This is achieved by having the subject go to a quiet room and, for 15 to 20 minutes, watch golf on television. If you happen to be among those who are more resistant to hypnosis, then switch to bowling. However, Dr. Grossman warns that prolonged exposure can send subjects into a catatonic state similar to a coma. If that happens, change to something more stimulating, such as the blue screen on your auxiliary channel.

I plan to practice Dr. Grossman’s technique each day until I can approach the fairway with complete (entirely unfounded) confidence.

I’d also like to say to my golfing friend Randy, if for some reason I don’t show up, I’d appreciate it you would come over and change the channel.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

Like many of you, I’ll never forget where I was when I heard the shocking news that obesity had officially become the No. 1 preventable health crisis in the nation. In fact, I can even tell you which super-sized meal I was eating. The truth is, it’s time for us Americans to make some drastic changes in our eating habits before the unthinkable happens, and we’re forced to apologize to the French for throwing the earth off its axis.Like many of you, I’ll never forget where I was when I heard the shocking news that obesity had officially become the No. 1 preventable health crisis in the nation. In fact, I can even tell you which super-sized meal I was eating. The truth is, it’s time for us Americans to make some drastic changes in our eating habits before the unthinkable happens, and we’re forced to apologize to the French for throwing the earth off its axis.

With that in mind, we scheduled a Q&A session with the Surgeon General to explain how we got so fat, and what we can do to reverse this trend so that Americans can get back to living a normal, healthy lifestyle cut short by smoking and drinking.

Q: How did we get so fat?

SG: We’ll start around 200,000 B.C., when early man was scavenging for food and living in dirty enclosures littered with bones and debris—a way of life that can still be observed in many college dorms. The difference is that, in prehistoric times, “fast food” was something hairy travelling on all fours. While there are plenty of campus refrigerators filled with hairy food items, in most cases it has stopped moving by the time it’s eaten. Because of this, early man had the distinct health advantage of burning fat in order to obtain food, compared to what many college students burn, which is generally a large Papa Murphy’s pizza.

Q: Then why do so many college students look so trim?

SG: Because their metabolism is still very high. This allows them to continue their bad eating habits without consequence until around age 30, when their metabolism suddenly kicks into reverse and, without warning, starts sucking up fat like an industrial shop-vac.

Q: What can we do to break this unhealthy cycle?

SG: The problem is that food has become too convenient. It wasn’t long ago that Americans were a trim people undaunted by the idea of actually walking into a fast food restaurant and standing in line before being fed. Now, drive-up windows hand us food bags roughly the size of a potato sack, which we plant between the seats in our tank-sized SUVs. To break the cycle we must return to our hunter-gatherer roots. How?

Q: Hey, that’s my line.

SG: Sorry.

Q: How do we return to our hunter-gatherer roots?

SG: We need to make every fast food purchase a life-or-death situation by forcing consumers to fight a mountain lion…

Q: A mountain lion?!

SG: Just a small one; something that can fit through the driver’s side window.

Q: I don’t get it.

SG: Play along with me: So that’s a supersized double cheesy bacon onion ring burger with a large cheddar chili fry and pony keg of Mountain Dew — will that be all today?

Q: Uh..Yes

SG: GRRRAAAAAARRR!

Q: What are you DOING?!?!

SG: I’m a mountain lion that has been released into your car. You must get to the next window before you become a Happy Meal.

Q:[Silence]

SG: What?

Q: Do you happen to be dieting right now?

SG: I’m sorry — Is it that obvious?

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439)

I have a basic rule of thumb when it comes to carnival rides: If the person running a ride, such as the Squirrel Cages, keeps a garden hose available for spraying out the seats, I stay away. That’s because this person’s sole ambition is to make me — and others like me — vomit. I realize this person may be a trained professional who, on a daily basis, makes countless split-second decisions on whether to push the red or green button to stop the ride. And, yes, I realize this individual has nothing but the safety of his passengers in mind when he secures a safety latch by removing his boot and whacking it until his arm gets tired, at which point, being a trained professional, he bolsters the confidence of his nervous riders by hacking up a cheekful of phlegm and shrugging his shoulders before walking off.

I have a basic rule of thumb when it comes to carnival rides: If the person running a ride, such as the Squirrel Cages, keeps a garden hose available for spraying out the seats, I stay away. That’s because this person’s sole ambition is to make me — and others like me — vomit. I realize this person may be a trained professional who, on a daily basis, makes countless split-second decisions on whether to push the red or green button to stop the ride. And, yes, I realize this individual has nothing but the safety of his passengers in mind when he secures a safety latch by removing his boot and whacking it until his arm gets tired, at which point, being a trained professional, he bolsters the confidence of his nervous riders by hacking up a cheekful of phlegm and shrugging his shoulders before walking off.

Yet somehow, in spite of these assurances, I’m still terrified of carnival rides. I think it’s because, when I was 10, my “friends” talked me into riding The Drop Out, which wasn’t actually a ride as much as it was a barf-a-torium with an observation deck. Basically, 30 people entered a circular room and found a spot along the wall. Gradually, the walls would begin to rotate faster and faster, creating enough centrifugal force to suck the cotton candy from the mouth of anyone standing within 100 feet. Once the ride reached optimum centrifuge, occupants would be stuck to the wall as the floor dropped out, leaving them suspended 20 feet above a pit of (presumably fake) spikes.

All of this was visible through a series of windows surrounding the ride so that, while waiting in line, people such as myself could prepare for the experience by, very slowly, having a bowel movement. I still don’t know how I got talked into this ride. All I know is I ended up next to someone whose stomach contents went on display the instant the floor dropped out. Due to the force of gravity, I couldn’t move my head without blacking out, which meant watching the sum total of this person’s food consumption — which was considerable — reconfigure itself on the wall next to me.

This was, without question, the longest ride of my life. To this day, I can still see the apologetic look on that person’s face as the ride came to an end and the three of us — him, his vomit and I — gradually slid down the wall together.

Since that fateful encounter I’ve had no interest in being strapped down, cinched up or buckled into something specifically designed to do things I wouldn’t normally do without a flight suit and full medical coverage.  I once allowed myself to be talked into riding the Squirrel Cages with my friend, who is one of those people who is exhilarated by having his stomach in his mouth. Everything was fine until that part in the ride where — and you know the part I mean — it starts to actually move.

Granted, I’m not a professional carnival ride operator, but I think I could recognize some of the subtle signs exhibited by a rider who is in distress. For example: Someone who is pressed so hard against the cage that his lips are actually outside the door while screaming “LET-ME-OFF-LET-ME-OFF-LET-ME-OFF!” would be a red flag to me. Particularly if the rider in question began doing this after traveling less than two feet. In my case, these signs were somehow missed by our ride operator. I’m not saying it was all his fault.

Who knows, he might’ve been busy looking for a garden hose.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439, or nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com)