I'm watching the local evening news, and the lead story is about a group of disgruntled University of Utah students whose lives are being made entirely unlivable because the landing pad for a medical helicopter has been temporarily moved near their dormitory. They're calling it "a conflict between life and death, a conflict between peace and quiet." They had to choose between starting with this story or the one about a man who put his Chihuahua in the oven. I cannot possibly imagine the hand-wringing in the control room. Here's an idea: take off the headsets, set down the clipboard and SEND SOMEONE TO SAVE THE CHIHUAHUA.

They interview a coed whose hair is hardened into a crispy chunk of pork flesh. She complains that the Air Med helicopter is making so much noise that she can't study. "The residents are really upset," she says, "because we have this helicopter that's moving in, and it's very noisy. And they don't want to make it any easier for us. We're not being compensated for it."

I instinctively pause the TV and sit there blinking. Compensated. Like a gift certificate to Denny's. That would totally do it.

I mean, I live near the hospital, too. And when that helicopter flies over the house in the middle of the night carrying donor organs, I'm like, GOD. Why do those doctors have to save lives so loudly?

(I am currently out of town on business, so for the next few days I'm going to post some things from my archives that many of you have probably never seen. This following was originally published on December 12, 2005.)

Yesterday while pushing Leta through the grocery store in a cart that had a car fastened to its front I accidentally backed the entire 600 pound vehicle over my right foot. A woman and her child were waiting several feet down the aisle for us to move out of the way, and for the first time in many, many years I actually thought twice about bursting into flames of profanity. The first string that came to mind was SHIT DAMN GEFILTE FISH FUCK.

A part of me recognized this self-censorship as an inevitable consequence of parenthood, of not wanting my tiny tape recorder with pigtails to play back my vulgarity in public, but a bigger part of me felt possessed of The Spirit of The Lord, a burning within not unlike a urinary tract infection. Parenthood has tapped into the latent overachieving Mormon in me, and for a few seconds yesterday I stifled the urge to curse because IT WAS THE RIGHT THING TO DO.

Yuck.

(I am currently out of town on business, so for the next few days I'm going to post some things from my archives that many of you have probably never seen. This following was originally published on January 23, 2007.)

Just now I got a spam with a subject that made it look like it was going to be filled with fake stock tips, and as I was marking it as junk I noticed that inside it said this:

Hurry! Act now to secure your weblog toast!

Did you know about this? Because I had no idea there was such a thing as weblog toast, and now that I do I just might have a reason to go on living. I just hope they have a loaf in whole grain.

Last night I read one that took me several minutes to decipher, and am I ever glad that I took the time:

morning-breathing nutmeg liver,
conceal the winter in your heart.
that i had known it
and purposely care
you destroy the rest of the world.
to wish at least.

Here's what it says in English:

I am 14 years old, and my parents won't let me get a tattoo.

And then there's always one about penis enlargement or erectile dysfunction or one you're afraid to glance at because you just know you're going to get a subject heading stuck in your head and all day long you're going to have the urge to shout NURSES SPEWING SEX FRIES every time you open your mouth, but sometimes, if you're patient enough to receive the blessings of the Universe, sometimes those can be the most meaningful and inspiring ones. For instance:

The quantity of my sperm had been scanty, that I felt ill at ease. I was advised to eat green apples but even this didn't help. Raisins didn't help either. About a month ago I was hanging around at the bar with my best friend. And he said that I should try xxaaVOLUME. I thought, sounds interesting. The next day this supplement increased the sperm volume and improved the mobility of spermatozoa. I'd even say, it changed my life.

Okay. One, I had no idea that men were going around eating raisins because they thought it would make their sperm less scanty. Where have I been? Raisins can do that? What does this mean for people who eat raisins? Because I eat a lot of raisins. I don't really want to know the answer to that question, nor am I about to do a Google search on RAISIN SPERM because the last time I did a Google search for anything I ended up at a site that had a picture of a gutted pig carcass lying on the hood of a Ford Mustang, and I'm thinking that a picture of a sperm transformed by raisins would be as equally uplifting.

Two, you get the sense that this drug has really helped this guy's spermatozoa, a drug recommended to him by a friend, and so here you have a heartwarming story of friends helping friends when they need it the most. And who can't relate to that? I know I can, and you can, too, even if you don't have any spermatozoa. Because the spermatozoa is just a metaphor for something bigger, for whatever it is that is holding you back or making you sad or stopping you from being everything you can be. Do you fear trying new things? That's your spermatozoa. Can't sleep at night? Spermatozoa. Trouble saving money? Common spermatozoa. Have relatives from the South? SPERMATOZOA.