I knew it was a matter of time before this “Tim Jones” fellow would crack. As the lead detective on this case, I had to get to the bottom of how it was so many people were subscribing to his weekly humor blog when clearly the chump had no talent at all. It just didn’t add up.
THE SCENE: Pre-dawn on a rainy Sunday in the disheveled office of Detective Drake Marlboro of the Seattle Police Department, 9th Precinct. For the past 3 hours, Marlboro, a chain-smoking, grizzled, no-nonsense gumshoe has been interrogating a middle-aged man with no fashion sense by the name of Tim Jones.
Jones was picked up on suspicion of maliciously harassing innocent civilians by posting offensive commentary on the web about parenting, politics, and how many cats people should adopt, plus a long list of other lame topics. But something just didn’t add up. Detective Marlboro suspected Jones was holding back the truth. And so our story begins…
It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name (sounded fishy to me) – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be hackneyed writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up. I’ve been a detective for 30 years. I knew it was just a matter of time before he would spill the beans. I was going to crack this case before that snake Lieutenant Jaworski in Homicide could spell “collar.” I was sure I was close.
Jones was fidgeting with his plastic Casio watch – the guy had as much class as a cubic zirconium unicorn. He was looking confused and anxious, wanting desperately to flee the confines of the cold, windowless interrogation room so he could return to the cushy comfort of his suburban living room recliner and watch another episode of The Big Bang Theory he’d recorded on his DVR. Not tonight, fella. Not ‘til I get some answers.
I offered him a cup of coffee. “Thanks, but I don’t drink coffee. Do you happen to have any Diet Mountain Dew?” he asked a little too eagerly. What law-abiding adult in Seattle doesn’t drink coffee – and asks for a teenager’s soft drink instead? Now I knew he was a two-faced liar. I was done playing “good cop,” waiting for his innocent, deer-in-the-headlights façade to crack. This had gone on long enough. It was time to tighten the screws. I lit another smoke.
“So let me get this straight. You’re telling me that thousands of readers from all across the country willingly subscribe to your weekly humor blog? Is that your story? How? I want answers, and I want ‘em NOW,” I barked as I pounded my fist on the one-way mirror, behind which Lt. Jaworski was watching, no doubt taking notes on how he could steal this case from me. What a frickin’ snake, that Jaworski.
“I’m just as confused as you are, Sergeant Marlboro. Have you actually read any of my stuff?
“That’s DETECTIVE Marlboro, fella…”
“Sorry, Detective. I mean, I’m just as mystified as you are as to why anybody would read my weekly rants. Even my wife begged me to stop writing years ago, but I just can’t seem to stop myself. It’s a sickness.”
“Sickness, eh? Well, I’m sick of your lying to me, goddammit.” I glared at him, as he awkwardly shifted his legs on the rusty metal fold-out chair. I took another puff on my Camel filter and blew a charcoal wave of smoke in his face. “Sure. Whatever you say, pal. I got all night.”
Jones pleaded, “What are you charging me with, Marlboro? Is it a crime to write lame humor, officer?”
“The way you write, it sure as Hell is,” I growled back. “And for the last time, it’s Detective, you little weasel.”
This Jones fellow was such a loser. After two hours of my dogged interrogation, he refused to answer any more questions until I agreed to give him back his favorite teddy bear Sparkles, to cuddle with. Pathetic. Just pathetic.
By now Jones was nervously twisting his wedding ring, no doubt coming to the realization that his humor writing was nothing short of criminal – or at the very least a misdemeanor. So how was it he got away with writing this crap for the past sixteen years without being shut down by the Feds? I needed to crack this case and fast – Jaworski was ready to pounce.
But what was Jones’ angle? For the money? Hell, no. This dude wasn’t that clever. I could tell from the fact he wore white socks with his Teva sandals. Now, that’s a crime in itself!
Another hour crept by, like a filthy rat creeping around a dank, dark sewer for, well, about an hour. I started in on my second pack of Camels. “Don’t you find it strange that so many people have tried to unsubscribe from your weekly tome only to keep getting your posts week after week?”
“I’m not sure I would call it a ‘tome’, Detective. I’d say it’s more of an ‘essay.’”
“Don’t get smart with me, chum,” I snarled. I wasn’t buying his ‘Mr. Innocent’ routine. So I grabbed a copy of his latest piece and began to read. What I read next confounded me:
“It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be bad writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up.”
I had this sudden eerie sense of déjà vu. Then I looked back up at the top of this page and saw. He was stealing my story for his blog, the little conniving bastard.
Jones continued to fidget with his Batman secret decoder ring – the one he claimed he got at the dentist last week for having no cavities. “Like I’ve told you five times, Detective Marlboro, I have no idea why you’re keeping me here. I just like to write. Is it my fault that I’m not very good at it? Who am I hurting?”
“Me for one, you little putz,” I shouted. “Reading your crap is like being forced to drink my own urine.”
“Really? That bad, eh?”
“Worse. Ain’t you got no compassion for the innocent kids who might stumble upon your blog?”
“Actually, the expression is, “Have you no compassion. ‘Ain’t you got no’ is not a grammatical – “
That chump owes me a frickin ’apology – for wasting the past five goddamn hours of my life. He kept droning on about his favorite articles. “Stop,” I screamed. “Not another word. Just shut your trap!” This guy was really getting on my nerves. He had to be lying. Nobody could possibly write such inane drivel week after week, year after year and not go insane. And who the freak wears shorts on a rainy night in March? What a loser.
I decided to read a couple of his posts just to be sure I wasn’t missing an important clue. I could barely stomach the first piece called Lessons in Bonding. He was killing me with this stream-of-consciousness bull crap. I looked away from his annoyingly chirpy grin. Dawn was slithering in like… like something that slithers… in the dawn.
The drivel pounding on my brain was as unrelenting as the drizzle pounding on the roof. I looked at his Casio. It blinked 6:47am. We’d been at this for over six hours. But instead of cracking, he just kept on reciting an endless list of his favorite posts – from always lying to your kids, to his sports-impaired wife. I was on my 7th cup of lukewarm Joe, and this goober was still rambling mindlessly on. One of his posts even warned me to not to let my dishwasher destroy my marriage. The guy was a numskull, though on that last one, he had a point.
I finally decided that as criminal as his humor writing was, no one was more a victim of his crimes against humanity than himself. I put out my last Camel, blew the smoke in his face and sneered at this turkey. “Get outta here, ya’ punk. I guess I can’t charge you with anything – yet. And maybe I can’t stop you from writing this crap. But for the love of Pete, please do me one favor.”
“What’s that, Detective?”
“Get yourself a goddamn editor. This week’s piece is way too long!”
I thought that was the end of this story. But the very next week, I got an email inviting me to check out his latest blog piece – called The Interrogation. Sounded fishy. Some twisted fiend must have added me to Jones’ humor blog subscriber list. And I’m pretty sure I know the slime dog who would have signed me up. Goddamn Lieutenant Jaworski. That dirty rotten scoundrel.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Recently I created a bit of a panic with a buddy of mine who became deeply distraught over my wife’s shocking passing – because I texted him that she had been killed. Let me back up a bit. Like most people, I use my phone for texting all the time. But I don’t like typing, because it takes too long. So, unless it’s a short message like, “okay” or “I’ll be home in 10 minutes” or in the case of one of my daughters, “No, I won’t loan you $800 for a new iPhone,” then I usually dictate my text using the voice recognition feature. Saves me so much time.
Which brings me to the subject of my wife’s death, which – and I can’t stress this enough – never happened. She’s fine. Honest. If you’re a regular reader, or even if you’re someone who’s irregular, you probably know by now that throughout our marriage, we’ve always had cats. We’ve also fostered kittens – dozens of them by now. I love cats. Heck, I even sing to them – mainly to annoy my wife.
We had this one adorable calico kitty named Mischief. But over time, I gave her the nickname of Misha. She was a sweet furry companion, a real lap cat. She would routinely follow me to bed at nighttime and sleep on my pillow. She’d often knead my hair – adorable, I agree – and occasionally painful. I loved Misha deeply, which is why I was profoundly saddened to learn one day that she had escaped out the front door, ran off, was hit by a car and killed.
The next day, I got a text from a buddy of mine named Frank, reminding me about our lunch plans. I texted him back and told him that I would have to pass on lunch. I was not up for it because, as I texted, “I’m feeling a little down today. Misha was killed last night.”
Only that was not how my dictation came through. The message Frank received was: “I’m feeling a little down today. Michele was killed last night.”
“OMG I’m so sorry, man. Howd it happen?” Frank texted back in shock.
“She was hit by a car,” I nonchalantly replied, unaware of the typo that changed Misha to Michele.
“A car? A car??? Did they catch the guy? Was he a drunk driver? Were you there when it happened?” a stunned Frank replied.
“No idea what happened or who the driver was. I was watching an episode of The Simpsons at the time. You know the one where Homer almost blows up the nuclear plant he works at when he falls asleep on the job. Pretty funny episode, I have to say,” I wrote back.
“Tim, U okay? Do U want me to come over, buddy?” Frank inquired.
“That’s okay. I have a busy day today. I need to go to Costco. And after that I have to go to the post office,” I casually explained.
“Tim, buddy, are U sure U should be doing a Costco run after what just happened?”
“Well, I’m almost out of Twizzlers and granola bars, And I could use some more detergent,” I clarified.
“Wow, I have to say, not sure I could handle this tragedy as calmly as U. Tim, I think maybe U R in shock,” Frank probed.
“Nah, not really. To be honest, she was getting pretty old anyway. I figured she wasn’t going to be around much longer,” I wrote back.
“Seriously, dude? That seems a bit callous, pardon me for saying. She had a lot of good years left in her,” Frank wrote back, now starting to freak out.
“Well maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I sure miss her,” I sighed in response.
“I know this might be a bit premature to ask, but are U thinking about any sort of memorial service?” Frank asked, feeling uneasy about what to say next.
“Nah, I don’t think so. I don’t want to go to all that fuss. I’ve been through this a few times before.”
“Tim, What are U saying???!!! R U thinking clearly, my friend? How can I help?” Frank implored.
“Well, I was planning to bury her in the backyard. You don’t happen to have a shovel, do you, Frank?” I asked.
“A shovel? A SHOVEL??? Of course, I have a shovel. Dude, U R really not thinking clearly right now,” Frank texted back, increasingly concerned about my mental state.
“I don’t want to impose. I was going to get a shovel at Costco anyway,” I calmly texted back.
“Enough about the shovel! Jesus, Tim. I think I better come over. On my way,” Frank wrote back frantically.
Then I texted back, “You know the saddest part about all of this, Frank?”
“I can’t imagine. Tell me, buddy.”
“Turns out she was pregnant. And I had repeatedly told my wife that we needed to get her neutered so that she would not get pregnant. But my wife never got around to doing it,” I wrote with a bit of melancholy.
“Pregnant? Seriously? Oh My God! This keeps getting worse and worse. Tim, I had no idea your wife was pregnant. I hope she and her baby didn’t suffer,” Frank wrote back in utter disbelief.
“What are you talking about, Frank? Michele’s not pregnant.”
“But you just wrote – wait, hold on. Michele’s not pregnant? But you said she was killed in a car crash. You have me totally flipping out, buddy!” Frank wrote back in exasperation.
Eventually we both figured out how this dialogue went off the rails. I explained that it was our cat Misha, not my wife Michele, who had died.
In case you were curious, this kitty’s name was Mischief, AKA “Misha.”
I guess the lesson is to carefully re-read my texts before I press SEND. In fact, now I always check my texts BEFORE I press SEND. Well, most of the time, anyway.
That’s all for now. I need to go. It’s my turn to make dinner tonight. I just dictated the following text to my wife: “Sweetie, dinner will be ready at 6pm. It’s your favorite: Barbecued Chicken.”
My wife immediately fired back a snippy response: “What’s wrong with you? Why in the world would you think my favorite meal is Barbecued Children??”
Uh, oh. I did it again….
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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If you’re an American thinking of traveling to Pakistan, perhaps I can help steer you in the right direction, because I recently returned from that amazing country myself. Don’t believe all the media hysteria. People there are amazingly kind and welcoming. But before you go, remember the following travel tips:
1st, Try to learn a few basic words and phrases of Urdu (the primary language spoken there). The locals will deeply appreciate your attempt to talk in their language, even if it’s just to say hello, thank you, or “Where is the nearest McDonalds?”
2nd, Remember you’re a guest in their culture. Show respect for their traditions.
3rd, You might not want to wear your favorite “HEY, HEY, USA – WE’RE NUMBER 1” t-shirt. Our two governments are not big fans of each other at the moment. And if you’re a woman, cover your arms and legs. They don’t need to see your Batman Forever tramp stamp or, for that matter, the tattoo that reads “Jesus Saves.”
4th, No beer keg parties in your hotel room. Pakistan, like most Muslim nations, is a dry country. Alcohol is forbidden by their religion. But Mountain Dew soft drink is not, I’m relieved to report!
5th, And perhaps most importantly, whatever you do, do NOT bring me along with you on your trip. You’re liable to end up in jail, or worse yet, have to sit through a three-day cricket match (their national sport).
Let me back up. When I told people I was going to travel to Pakistan – by myself, sans my wife or as part of a tour – the reactions from just about everyone I told ranged from “Seriously? Pakistan? By yourself? Are you insane?” to “Pakistan? By yourself? Are you insane? Seriously, are you insane?”
L to R: Hafiz, me and Hammad dining overlooking the world-famous Badshahi Mosque in Lahore, Pakistan. Helpful travel tip: While it’s fine to hug your friends, don’t hug every local just because they smile at you. Start by offering to shake hands.
No, I’m not insane. And I had a wonderful time. But I have to say, I did screw up a few times. The reason I went to a country that few American tourists frequent is because of two young Pakistani friends I have come to know over the past three years. Let’s call them Hafiz and Hammad… because well, that’s their names.
Back in 2020, I discovered Hafiz while doing an internet search for a video editor. I was about to start my YouTube channel of VFTB video commentaries. I knew how to record my videos, but I needed help editing, adding background images, inserting photos, captions and sound effects. Hafiz offered these services, and I’ve been working with him ever since.
After a few months, we started creating educational videos in a series called Across the World in which each week we would record myself and Hafiz’s good friend Hammad, discussing various topics from sports to courtship & marriage to our nations’ historic ties to and rebellions from Great Britain. Our goal was to educate Americans about Pakistani culture and vice versa. In the process of all this collaboration, I became good friends with both of these very smart and extremely kind young men. Over time, we forged sort of an Uncle-Nephews kind of bond.
So, in November 2023, I flew from Seattle to Istanbul, changed planes, and flew from there to Lahore, Pakistan in a span of 23 hours. Lahore is a city of more than 12 million people. All this to see my friends in person for the first time. Neither one of them has ever left Pakistan. I cannot say enough about the remarkable warmth, kindness, and patience displayed by the two of them, and every other Pakistani I met.
Oh sure, I had to deal with a Muslim culture very different from my own mostly Christian world back home. I had to navigate my way in cities where most of the people barely spoke English. But keep this in mind: They had to put up with a 68-year-old American humor writer with the maturity of a 17-year-old, who could barely speak a word of Urdu, and who travels around the world with a stuffed animal teddy bear named Grumpy and tries to hug everybody. So, if you ask me, they had the much greater burden to bear.
L to R: Ik-Bal, Grumpy (in front), me, and Hammad. Ik-Bal was so funny and kind, I gave him my hat as a gift. (True) Then he reciprocated by offering to let me marry his sister. (Okay, that part was a lie. My, just how gullible are you?)
I read a fair amount about Pakistan’s culture and history before I arrived. But still, I committed more than my share of cultural faux pas. Let me list just a few of them.
Improper Hugging: I’m a hugger. Guess what? Pakistanis are not – unless you’re a family member or a very close friend. But I hug everybody. Here’s a useful tip to tuck away. If you’re an American man, visiting the home of a Pakistani family, DO NOT HUG THE WIFE. Just trust me on this. You might as well try to give them a French kiss on the mouth. It’s way too forward.
Language mistakes: You don’t have to learn a lot of words. Here is a phrase I used over and over: “Meera Nam Tim Hai.” It means “My name is Tim.” I also found the following phrase came in extremely handy: “Maaf Kee Ji Ye,“ which loosely translates to “Excuse me if I offended you. I’m an American tourist, and I’m an idiot.”
But whichever words you memorize, make sure you pronounce them correctly. A very useful word to learn is Alhamdulilah, pronounced “AL-Ham-Du-LEE-Lah.” It loosely means, “I’m good” or more literally, “By God’s grace, I’m good.” However, apparently, I kept pronouncing it “Al-Ham-Du-LOO-Lah.” I don’t know what that errant pronunciation means, but my embarrassed host explained it is essentially an Urdu curse word that should never be uttered.
At one point, I attempted to ask someone for directions, but my words came out so badly mangled in Urdu that apparently I had asked, “Please, may I eat your cat for breakfast?” After that, I pretty much stuck to Hello, Thank You, and Check Please.
One of the local street performers I came across. I asked if I could take his photo, and he said yes. Then I asked if he could play me any songs by Taylor Swift. Said he’d never heard of her. Isn’t that crazy?
Walking in bare feet: When you enter someone’s home, you must take off your shoes. The souls of shoes are considered unsanitary. That said, I found myself walking down the hallway of my hotel in my bare feet and was (politely) stopped by a hotel clerk reminding me (very nicely) that I needed to wear footwear. He immediately provided me with comfy sandals for my feet. I wonder if next time I walked down the hallway stark naked he might provide me with a cool Pakistani man’s outfit. Probably not. Forget I even mentioned the idea.
Despite my periodic stumbles, everyone was very gracious and patient. The Pakistani people I met were the nicest people I have ever met, kind to a fault. The only thing I would criticize about their country is their somewhat embarrassingly lax airport security. How else to explain the fact an American humor writer and his teddy bear Grumpy were permitted entry into the country? Just saying.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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It’s your pal Tim here. I’m one of your biggest fans. I’ve seen Randy Travis, Brad Paisley, and John Denver in concert. Okay, so you’re saying John Denver is more folk than country. Fair point.
My point is that I’ve loved you, Country Music, my entire adult life – even the really old stuff, like Eddie Arnold, Hank Williams and George Jones (no relation). That said, I’m not quite sure what you were thinking when you came up with songs like Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer, or Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goalposts of Life. I assume you were probably going through a rough patch. It happens to the best of us.
I’m writing to you today because, well, I think it’s time we had a serious chat. You see, I’ve been noticing a disturbing pattern lately, and I’m starting to worry about you. It seems like every time I turn on the radio to listen to your music, there’s another ballad about drinking. Just today, I heard you play Drink in My Hand, by Eric Church. Then not 15 minutes later, you were back at it with Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar, followed five minutes later by Miranda Lambert crooning Tequila Does. Are you trying to tell me something?
Let me get to the point, Country Music. I’m starting to get concerned. I think you may have a drinking problem. Now, before you get defensive, hear me out. I’m not saying this to be judgmental or to rain on your parade. But lately, it just seems like you can’t go a single playlist without mentioning whiskey, beer, or some other form of liquid courage. As I was typing the last sentence, I had you playing in the background. And right out of the starting gate, my Alexa app delivered Merle Haggard wailing I Think I’ll Just Stay Here and Drink.
Country Music, I know you like to party, drown your sorrows in a shot glass, and reminisce about the girl that broke your heart. But do you always have to have a drink in your hand when you sing your stories?
Country Music, have you noticed your songs tend to devote an unhealthy amount of air time to day drinking, whiskey, tequila shots, and drinking your sorrows away? I’m no physician, but I’d say you’ve got a drinking problem. Why not do a toe-tapping melody about the pleasures of downing a chocolate milk shake, for a change?
Look, I get it. Alcohol has been a staple of your repertoire since the beginning. From Red Foley to Tammy Wynette, it’s been a central theme in many of your greatest hits, like Drunk on a Plane or It’s Five O’clock Somewhere. But times change, my friend. And maybe it’s time for you to put down the bottle.
Now, I’m not saying you have to go cold turkey or anything drastic like that. I’m just suggesting that maybe you could branch out a bit. How about a song about drinking Mountain Dew instead of whiskey? Or maybe a ballad about the joys of herbal tea? I hear chamomile can be quite soothing. I’m just saying every third song doesn’t have to be about day drinking Tequila shots.
What really worries me is that right after I hear you deliver one of your boozing songs, then you’ll often play a song like Willie Nelson’s On The Road Again or Commander Cody’s Hot Rod Lincoln. Do you really think it’s a good idea to combine drinking and driving, buddy? And it seems you can’t even go fishing without case of beer on board. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Or did you forget that Ray Stevens song, Too Drunk to Fish?
But hey, CM – can I call you CM? – don’t take this the wrong way. I still love you even though I think you may be in serious denial about your drinking (and driving and boating) problem. I wonder sometimes, do you even hear yourself? I mean, you even came up with a song called DRINKIN’ PROBLEM, in which one of the lyrics goes, “People say I’ve got a drinkin’ problem, but I got no problem drinkin’ at all.” If you ask me, this sounds like a cry for help.
Hey, buddy, normally’ I’d be the first one on the dance floor kicking up my cowboy boots when Garth Brooks’Friends in Low Places comes on. But I can’t do it anymore, for two reasons: First, I simply can’t encourage your reckless binge drinking song habit. And second, I’ve never been able to pull off cowboy boots as a look.
Some of Toby Keith’s songs include Beer for My Horses, I Love This Bar, Get Drunk and Be Somebody, Beers Ago, Whiskey Girl, and Get My Drink On. Personally, I think this is a cry for help. Either that or a cry for more beer. Yeah, that may be more accurate. Sigh.
So, what do ya’ say, Country Music? Can you finally ask for help? I want to be there for you but first you have to come clean and admit you have a serious drinking problem. You need to look in the mirror and face the fact that songs like Ten Rounds with Jose Cuervo (yet another Tequila song – seriously, what is it with you and Tequila, dude?) will only make your alcohol addiction worse.
I believe in you, Country Music. I know you can turn things around. How about cranking out some sober ballads about how much you love your momma or maybe a tearjerker about watching your little girl grow up? Those are healthier choices.
But if you refuse to make serious changes in your song selection, you may leave me no choice but to distance myself from you for my own emotional wellbeing. I hear that there are virtually no Gregorian Chants about getting hammered. Please don’t make me resort to that. Those chants are so depressing, they just might make ME start drinking.
Your biggest fan – for now,
Tim
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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I’m a big believer in tipping generously for quality service. I never would have been able to afford college were it not for the tips I earned waiting tables to pay for school. But lately, it seems tipping for services is getting out of hand.
The tradition of tipping service providers has been around for at least four centuries. Evidence suggests it first began in Europe during the 17th century, when aristocrats would give people in lower classes extra money for their services. In the United States, the practice of leaving tips began shortly after the Civil War, often in the form of added remuneration paid to freed slaves working in difficult conditions.
It is speculated the word “TIP” may come from the phrase “To Insure Promptness” – and not, as I had long theorized, “Totally Inexcusable Piracy.”
Okay, enough with the history lesson. While I appreciate the noble origins of this practice, it’s starting to feel like it’s getting out of hand. Is it just me or does it seem like everybody is expecting to receive a tip these days? I have no problem tipping waiters, taxi drivers, and the occasional bellman who errantly brings my luggage to the wrong hotel room.
I routinely give my stylist at the hair salon a 20% tip – which is generous, given how little hair I have left anymore. I’m a believer in the importance of tipping, especially for low-wage earners. I waited tables for three years during college. Without tips, I never would have been able to pay for my education and would probably have dropped out to become a Walmart greeter.
Tipping is as American as apple pie … and as confusing as calculus. When I was young, 10% was a normal tip. At some point, this changed to 15%. But lately, it seems servers get offended if you leave anything less than 20%. Some restaurants even tack on an automatic 20% tip surcharge. What are the rules for when you should tip, and how much? I have no clue anymore.
Not long ago, I was at a restaurant. When the server brought the credit card machine to the table, the readout gave me three options for the tip: 20%, 25%, and OTHER. I wonder what would have happened had I selected OTHER and entered 15%. I’m guessing my receipt printout might have read, “Wow, you are one cheap bastard!”
How long will it be before you’ll be expected to tip your local fireman for putting out your house fire? It looks like he did a crappy job. I wouldn’t give him more than a 10% tip, personally.
Last week I went to a fast food restaurant. I ordered my meal and paid for it at one of those new self-service kiosks. When I pressed the button to pay by credit card, it prompted me for how much of a tip I’d like to include. How about NONE? Yeah, that seems like the right amount for my having to punch in my own order on a computer touch screen, then wait 12 minutes at the counter for my order to arrive.
Recently, I’ve been invited to provide a gratuity for things I was never expected to tip for in the past. In the last month, I’ve been prompted to cough up a $weetener at a fast food drive-thru window, a shop that changes my car’s oil, the airport check-in counter, and even my physical therapist’s office.
There’s even a name for this phenomenon: Tipflation. There’s also another word for it: Tip shaming (okay, technically two words). I’m starting to feel like I’m hemorrhaging cash faster than a broken ATM. In many cases, I’m not even dealing with a human being at all, leaving me to wonder who is really on the receiving end of my generosity.
Is there anything we’re not expected to tip for anymore? I half expect to find a tip jar on my dentist’s reception desk the next time I go in for my semi-annual cleaning: “Don’t forget to tip your dental hygienist for a great job.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for showing gratitude for good service, but where do we draw the line? I’m pretty sure it’s just a matter of time before I buy a pair of sneakers on Amazon.com, and as I check out, it will suggest I enter a gratuity of 20% to 30%. I’m sure Jeff Bezos could use the extra money.
On a future vacation, at the end of my flight, in order to be allowed to exit the plane, will l be required to insert my credit card next to the screen in the seatback in front of me, to indicate the gratuity percentage I’d like to use to thank the pilot and crew for getting me safely to my destination?
The future is looking increasingly unsettling. I can picture a time not too far from now when I may receive an email from our veterinarian reminding me of our cat Zippy’s upcoming appointment. And the email explains that it’s customary to include a 20% tip to ensure proper medical care. So, if I opt not to pay a 20% tip, might Zippy have “an unfortunate accident?” I can barely afford my own healthcare, let alone tipping my cat’s vet.
Every day it seems more and more people are expecting to be tipped, just for doing their job. What’s next? Paying your heart surgeon a tip for a successful double bypass? Hope you got an extended warranty.
You may accuse me of being hyperbolic. Perhaps. But it’s only going to get worse. I’m waiting for the day when we’ll all be expected to tip the greeter at Costco for letting us enter the store. Or the electric utility if we’d like them to restore our power sooner rather than later. Or our cat sitter for taking care of our cats while we’re away. (No, wait. I actually do tip her for that. She does a great job.)
My point is, I think we’re rapidly approaching the point when we’ll be expected to tip for just about everything – even when there’s no human being involved in the transaction at all.
On a completely unrelated note, if you’ve enjoyed reading this article, please show your appreciation by leaving me a small tip. The recommended gratuity is $50, but if you’re on a limited budget, I guess $25 will do. I also accept Venmo. Please give generously, won’t you? It’s hard to pay for my upcoming European vacation on a humor writer’s salary. Just saying.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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If you live in the modern world, you’ll recognize this woman as Taylor Swift, the superstar singer. And if you live in a cave without Internet access, this is my college girlfriend, Donna. We’re still good friends.
Dear Taylor,
Like 53% of American adults (and 98% of girls between seven and seventeen) I’m a BIG Swiftie, as we fans call ourselves. If the situation were different – and I was not twice your age, I honestly think we could have had a future together. But please don’t try to start something. It would only break my heart (and seriously piss off my wife – not to mention Travis Kelce).
Let me be clear. I’m a HUGE fan. And not just because you’re young, stunningly beautiful, enormously talented, and so wealthy that you recently made an offer to purchase the nation of Luxembourg.
As close to perfect as you almost are, I have one deep concern about you. At 34 years of age, with all you have going for you, you still haven’t found the love of your life. (We both know you’re going to drop Travis before the next football season begins.) And no, Taylor, as flattered as I am that you might consider me to be your next special someone, I must tell you, I’m happily married (as is my wife, almost 35% of the time).
I’m worried about you, Tay Tay. No, I’m not bothered by the fact that, according to Fox News, you are apparently part of Joe Biden’s nefarious plot to steal the 2024 election by brainwashing your legions of adoring fans into voting for Joe for president.
No, I’m concerned because I hate to see you break up with yet another boyfriend, as I’m pretty sure you’ll do with Travis. That strapping young man went out of his way to hoist the Lombardi Trophy for winning the Super Bowl and present it to you. By the way, at some point, you’ll probably be asked to return the trophy to the Kansas City Chiefs. It wasn’t actually Travis’s to give to you. He just got caught up in the moment, I’m sure.
I can appreciate that right now, based on how you two hugged and kissed on the field at the end of the Super Bowl, things appear to be going just swimmingly for “Traylor,” as you two as a couple are called.
But trust me, we both know you’ll eventually break it off – just like you’ve done with every other guy you’ve dated over the past fifteen years. Need I remind you? It’s an exhaustingly long list – from Joe Jonas (of the Jonas Brothers) to Zac Efron to Jake Gyllenhaal to John Mayer to Harry Styles to Harrison Ford to Tom Hiddleston to… well, you get the picture. Okay, I’ll admit, you haven’t actually been linked to Harrison Ford – yet. I just wanted to see if my fellow Swifties out there were paying attention.
At right, that’s Jake Gyllenhaal, one of the many famous celebrities Taylor broke up with, then wrote a scathing song detailing their failed relationship. Somehow, Jake found the strength to get back on his feet, later dating Reese Witherspoon, Natalie Portman, Rachel McAdams, and about 15 other glamorous Hollywood stars.
T-Swizzle, the reality is I am deeply concerned about your inability to stay in a long-term relationship. And then, when you guys break up, you have this unhealthy pattern of writing songs trashing your recent ex.
I learned that your song Forever and Always was about Joe Jonas. Your song Dear John was a biting rebuke of your former lover, singer John Mayer. Then there was your smash hit We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together, in which you eviscerated Jake Gyllenhaal. But I have your back on that one. Personally, I never liked the guy. Jake had it coming.
Where am I heading with this? Honestly, I’ve no idea. An hour ago I polished off a sleeve of Oreo cookies, and I’m having a serious sugar crash right about now. Oh, wait. Now I remember my point. It’s just a matter of time, my dear Taylor-made, before you break Travis’ heart, send him packing, and write another devastating song about your failed love tryst. If you do, have you thought about a name for your song? Might I suggest “You May be a Tight End, But You Can Kiss My Tight End Goodbye.” Do you like it, Tay Tay? If you use it, all I’m asking for is 5% of the royalties, okay?
Travis, with his heart irreparably broken, will probably slip into a deep depression, get cut by the Chiefs for a dramatic drop-off in his production, end up playing Arena Football for the Tallahassee Parrots, doing local TV commercials, and saying things like, “At Art Johnson’s Buick, every customer is a WINNER.” Don’t do it, buddy.
Then, Taylor, you’ll probably make $50 million in record sales from your song about your steamy, volatile star-struck affair with Travis. Hey, I just thought of a better song title. How about “You Wanted to Score a Touchdown, But My Heart Wanted to Punt.” No? Okay. I’ll keep working on it.
This got me to thinking, Taylor. What if your next target for a lover was me? I better nip this idea in the bed, I mean bud, before I have to do some serious explaining to my wife. Taylor, if you’re still reading this, let me stop you before your heart gets the wrong idea about pursuing an affair in which people would inevitably be calling us “Tay-Tim.” (Personally, I prefer Tim-Tay, but let’s not squabble.)
Please don’t knock on that door. I’m happily married. It simply could never work out between us – in part because at 5’11” you’d be an inch taller than me, so you could see my bald spot. Also, I hear you’re allergic to cats, and I have three of them. Here’s the deal. No cats? No Tay-Tim. It’s a package deal. So how about we both forget about this crazy notion and just remain friends, okay?
Poor Travis Kelce. He has no idea about the heartbreak waiting for him, just as soon as Taylor can think of a catchy song about their relationship. Taylor, I have another song title suggestion for you: “I Wanted to Cuddle, But You Just Wanted to Huddle.” Not catchy enough? Okay, I’ll keep working on it.
Besides, if I know you, I know what would happen next. After four months (or perhaps four minutes) together, you’d tire of my jokes. Maybe you’d even unsubscribe from my View from the Bleachers humor column. And you’d leave me for some other older man – probably Harrison Ford. People have been talking about you two, ya’ know.
Then you’d probably pen some catchy, danceable tune in which you reveal to the world my quirky habit of singing to my cats. I’m not sure I could recover from that embarrassment.
So forget about me, Taylor. Try to make things work with Travis. He’s a great catch. (Get it? Catch?) And besides, I’d prefer to avoid giving him a reason to beat the crap out of me for stealing you away from him. I hope you can understand.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
