Just 10 More Minutes: An Insight into the Male Mind

Restrained Mirth

by Tony Ertel

Who knows what the phrase, “time is relative,” really means? After just a bit of research and some time spent considering the observation of photons bouncing off of mirrors, the speed of light, and distance divided by time I am ready to give up on understanding its significance as an element of physics – for the time being at least. For now, I prefer to stick with my own simple understanding. While my intuition regarding this relativity is lacking in theoretical vocabulary and scientific genius, I believe its “gravity” in the realm of practicality is quite important and immediate. My modest understanding relates to the difference in the way the sexes perceive time. I could easily replace “time is relative” with “she thinks it takes how long and you told her what?”

image via

I believe that man and woman’s difference in the understanding of time can be summed up in his oft- used expression, “it’ll be just 10 more minutes.” I would be hard-pressed to find a woman who wasn’t a little frustrated or bewildered after hearing this reply from her dear husband. I believe I would have an equally difficult time finding a woman that doesn’t hear this confounding response on a semi- regular basis. Yes, there are a few men out there who have surpassed the majority of the male species in their understanding of and sensitivity toward the female species. And there are even fewer who have embraced that particular enlightenment and adjusted their internal clocks to be “right on time” exactly how she likes it.

This adaptation is deserving of praise, but is not necessarily the bar for excellence among gentlemen. While the ladies may love being on the same wavelength as their men, I think it is important for them to realize that those men are not correcting a wrong behavior, but simply learning a new language. I hope to share with all of my sisters out there that he isn’t wrong when he says “10 more minutes,” that he isn’t lying when he says “I’m almost ready,” and that things are as they should be when you think you are running a little late.

Perhaps this phenomenon can be best understood by looking at the world of sports. I propose that
the man’s 10-minute claim is akin to any time block in a sport’s game. For example, the final 2 minutes of a basketball game can hardly fit into the same 2 minutes that it takes to heat your coffee in the microwave. If the microwave was set to run through the end of the game, burnt or boiling coffee would be the result. If the game was set to finish at the “ding!” of the microwave, the result would quite probably be several unattended injuries, riotous fans, and confusion as to which team actually claimed the victory. Neither result is the least bit agreeable, yet both timeframes stand in their own right.

So maybe it is best to see his 10 minutes in a new frame. When I recently said to my wife that I would be “about another 10 minutes” working on my project, I certainly did not set my stopwatch. In that statement, I took into account the “timeouts,” potential injuries, and other inevitable clock-stopping occurrences. She, I believe, thought it quite sensible, however, that I adhere to an atomically calibrated stopwatch. But what is the good of a stopwatch’s ringing alarm if the overtime period has necessarily commenced? Well, at that point, she at least deserves to be notified of the new development. My preference is a whooping yell and an “Overtime Babaaaay!” But seriously, I think a conversation and a better understanding of how we all mean “10 minutes” is the first step toward synchronization.

His “yes” still means “yes” just as her “no” means “no.” Sometimes though, in the complex and mysterious relationship of the sexes, his “yes” means her “no.” For both parties to acknowledge that these subtleties exist and communicating to be more clearly understood is an effort of love and hope. With that being said, I should wrap this up and spend some time with my lovely wife.

“Sweetie, I need to proofread this post, I’ll be five more minutes. Well, you know...”

“Alright referee timeout. Can you review that play and let me know how that converts to actual minutes?”

“Yes darling, uhhh... ummm... ahhh... Well, let’s maybe do a range. How about 10 – 20 minutes? No more than 20, I promise.”

It’s harder than you might think, and there’s nothing wrong with starting with a range, right?* That is something that we all understand.


*Guys, if she agrees to communicating with ranges, that second number is the “out-the-door number.” Once that time has come, you better be ready to head “out-the-door,” otherwise you might find yourself on the other side of the door – and rightfully so.


Tony is currently finishing his MBA. He resides with his lovely wife in Cincinnati, Ohio and is kind enough to contribute his humorous perspective in this regular column, Restrained Mirth.

Voice Changer: Product Review

Restrained Mirth 

by Tony Ertel

I am hardly an expert on any one topic and I am not in the habit of sharing product reviews, but in today’s consumer-connected web world I suppose I am as qualified as anyone to state my opinions. And if I were to consider myself qualified to critique anything, it would be something humor-related. I once said, “Now isn’t that funny?” to which someone replied, “yep.” What’s that tell ya? To me it’s a badge of confidence and courage as I move forward in the world of humor and share my stories. And so today I want to do a short “product review” for an app to which I was recently introduced by some friends.

About one week ago, as I wiped the sleeps out of my eyes and checked my text messages, I was surprised to see that some friends had sent me a video. While I consider text messages from “old friends” to be treats, I think videos are even more special. And so I pressed the play button and watched.The message itself was nonsensical, but I sure got a good laugh. The comedic element of the video wasn’t a great punch line at the end of a joke that had me on the edge of my seat or the fact that my friends were dressed as huge onions*, but that their voices were ridiculous and a bit unnatural.

My first thought was that they were goofing off after an Up party. It’s legitimate to think that they were following up the Disney/Pixar film by sippin’ on some helium and cutting a few videos as evidence of their good time. I realized however, that not many people actually think of weird themed parties like that and that they had probably figured out another way to get those squeaky voices. It didn’t take long for me to discover the Voice Changer Video Booth smart phone app and to send a video response to my pals back in North Dakota. After some experimenting and a few failures**, I produced a string of Grammy quality shorts of which I was quite proud (while a little embarrassed at the same time).

The Voice Changer Video Booth app allows users to customize videos with a variety of styled voice changers and speed-up and slow-down modes. This one little app accomplished for the average Joe what it had taken me years of practice to perfect. With the simple click of a button, the squeaky squirrel voice to which I had devoted years of study, became accessible to anyone. And beyond that, the unintelligible phone voice from every cartoon or kid’s show ever aired (whose secret I had long sought after), with the correct set of inputs was made available through this new app. In addition, I could choose from such options as the bear (deep voice), the duck and the mouse (squeaky variations of the squirrel), the clown, the crowd, the megaphone, the scuba guy (garbled underwater sound), violin voice (not sure who would ever think of that), the guitar (auto-tune), the robot, and the echo.

So taken by the many possibilities, I didn’t even take a minute to whine about the injustice of such technology changing the playing field for “cool uncle” status***, though I did dedicate a few seconds of footage to that complaint. Really I was just excited for the new toy.

So I want to share a few of my video creations with you, hit your funny bone, and hopefully get those creative juices flowing so that you too might have a little fun with the app. The good thing is that this app doesn’t require users be as ridiculous as me. You can get by with only being semi-silly and the app configurations will do the rest of the work. As I annoyingly wanted to make more videos and incorporate my wife, she asked what she should say. I simply told her to respond to what I said and then to “make funny noises” if she couldn’t think of anything else. Despite my subpar directing, that short clip turned out to be one of our favorites and a sure nominee for best script****. And if you
decide to film your kids, well... they hardly need to be fed any funny lines; it seems to come natural
to them.

Another great feature of the app is that you can apply changes to videos which you have recorded regularly. This is nice for those individuals who tend to get really carried away. While it’s funny now, I have to say that it would probably lose some effect if all of your home videos from Carly’s 3rd to 4th birthday featured Bear Carly. That particular combination could also have some pretty bizarre psychological repercussions for Carly as she witnesses a year of her life replayed, but with a strange drag-like male voice. But hey! That’s an extreme. Just use the app moderately and your children will be fine (wow, sorry, I didn’t mean for that to get so weird). And finally, for my last bit of advice I want to let you know that I had some difficulty with videos that were longer in length – I would try to keep them shorter than 30 seconds.

Beyond the fun of making the videos, I’ve gotten many good laughs in watching and re-watching with friends and family. A couple special views brought me to the point of tears. I hope and believe you might find a few of mine funny too, but part of the real treasure of these videos is seeing someone you know ridiculously transformed. So enjoy my little collection which I edited together for my editor’s sake, and then take a shot at some of your own.

CLICK HERE FOR VIDEO.*****

*They actually were not dressed as onions, but that would have made the video doubly hilarious. 
**My first video response elicited this reaction from my Bismarckian buddies: Scary! L:’-(.
***I don’t mean this literally. The “cool uncle,” to me, is that guy who is just fun to hang around with – the guy that kids think is so cool.
****You can see this special clip in the middle of the video mix posted here on the page.
*****From the Editor: I could't get the video into the post directly.... And the day is waning, so click the link.

Tony is currently finishing his MBA. He resides with his lovely wife in Cincinnati, Ohio and is kind enough to contribute his humorous perspective in this regular column, Restrained Mirth.

Pick Up Lines

Restrained Mirth

by Tony Ertel

I used to think that once I was married I would have little use for pick-up lines, but it seems that I have actually used them more in the past 3 months than ever before. And while my wife has warned me to be careful, overall, she approves of my usage. I guess I should explain that I’m not speaking of the popular use of the term - cheesy, funny, sleazy, and weird one-liners employed to get a girlfriend or a phone number, but rather of the term's literal use. I’m not referencing, “Hey darling, I noticed you sniffling from across the room and I couldn’t help but think you were trying to pick up my scent. It’s Acqua Di Gio, which is Latin for ‘you look amazing di gio’.” Rather, I am referring to age old lines of benevolence directed to the wearied wayfaring, such as, “Hey man, you need a ride?”

Yes, my recent pick-up lines have been aimed at those afoot. And while there are some naysayers who would caution against driving anyone anywhere, I have found each of the occasions to be quite providential – a thought that I am sure has been shared by the benefitting wanderers. Certainly these particular acts of charity are not meant for everyone, but as a singular adult male, I do not feel that I have taken any great risks. My most recent “pick up” however, could have easily turned sour, but as I stated, in God’s providence it remained mostly safe and a bit ridiculous. Before getting into the details though, let me briefly recount my previous detours.

1. Wolfgang: It was a HOT day and this chap didn’t look too happy to be footing it out of the shopping mall. Wolfgang wasn’t only wet from sweat. He explained to me that “his woman” had thrown her soda on him just as the movie was beginning in the theater. He was courteous enough to put out the half-smoked cigarette before getting in my car. I wonder now if perhaps he was saving it with the express thought of lighting it up as a victory smoke upon arriving at his destination. On a day like that, when a solitary 3 hour hike turns into a 15 minute free cab ride and brush with the poor man’s Dr. Phil,* a man needs some way to celebrate.
2. Larry, Curly, and Mo: These fellas weren’t really stooges. One guy was carrying a gas can while the other two were texting – too busy to bonk each other on the heads. I only ended up driving them a mile, but they sure appreciated it nonetheless.
3. Kevin: This was a peculiar case, as me driving him home actually took longer than if he had walked. He lived about 100 feet away, but driving around to access his driveway increased our travel time by nearly 200%. We had just met in a thrift store and our bibliophilic connection prompted him to invite me to see his library. When I accepted his invitation, I never would have guessed that we also shared an affinity for Miller Lite 16 ouncers. My wife noted that this visit seemed a little strange, but as with the other instances, it seemed destined.
4. Sheila: Read on...

So now I move to the most recent (and probably most bizarre) situation. I rushed out of the house on a Tuesday afternoon in order to deposit some mail in the UPS drop box before the pick-up deadline. I missed my turn for the drop box and made it back to where I needed to be about 7 minutes later than I had planned. Well, my 7 minutes of rambling was an answer to Sheila’s prayer. As I was waiting for a lull in traffic to pull out and return home, a woman shouted at me through my open passenger side window. As far as I could tell it was a simple “get your attention” sort of yell – basically a “hey you!” The woman picked up her pace and headed toward my car, yelling, “Can I get a ride?” I started to ask where she needed to go, but realizing the inconsequence of my questioning as I had already decided to give her a lift, I invited her to get in the car.

Upon entering, the lady told me to where she needed to go. I had a general idea, but was mostly relying on her step-by-step directions to get there. I’m not sure if she would have opened up as she did, telling so much about herself, but it might have been our spiritual connection that came about so quickly that really made her comfortable. As she was remarking how much of a Godsend I was and how good God is, I simply agreed and shared my conviction that I too believed in God’s goodness.

As she continued on with the “problems in the world today” and how so many people focus on worldly things and neglect spiritual things, I somehow squeezed in a request for her prayers. It seemed logical in the context of the conversation, but perhaps I meant it as much as an “Amen sista!” as a request for immediate intercession. But God IS good and Sheila proceeded to cover my hand (the one placed over the gear shifter) with hers and pray, “Dear Sweet Jesus... bless Tony... guide Tony...” I realized then that I was saving my great “Amen!” for the ending of that prayer, which was actually beautiful and right on point.

Following the “amen” I drew Sheila’s attention back to the directions. She gave me the next steps and quickly reverted to other more important things. She talked about marriage and divorce and cheating husbands and dangerous people and corrupt minds. Sheila even went so far as to tell me to “Never pick anyone else up. Especially not black people. Cincinnati is dangerous.”** In order to be clear I asked, “So don’t pick up anyone but you?” To this she emphatically replied, “Yes, that’s right!”

As I was attempting to wrap my mind around all of the advice that she was giving me, save the advice that I needed the most which was how to get her home, she loudly exclaimed, “Follow that car!” As her arm shot up it was as though I was controlled by that forceful command and that pointing finger. In an instant I complied, accelerated, thought, “wait, what?!” and braked hard as traffic stopped. While at the stoplight, the car sat just in front and to the right of us. While I believe the phrase “freaking out” is extremely overused and too widely interpreted, 99% of anyone asked would agree that this woman’s behavior could easily be described as just that. The freak out went something like this: “Oh my God, oh my God! That’s him. That’s my ex. And he’s with her. I have NEVER caught them together before! Oh my God, I can’t believe it! See if you can pull up next to them. He’s the one that I was telling you about. The one that took my baby from me. I can’t believe it, oh my God!”

Oddly enough, I think it might have been Sheila’s own prayer for me (“Dear Jesus guide him...”) that sparked my rational thinking and kept me off of the 9 o’clock news. “A native Cincinnati woman is the only survivor in a car accident/homicide today as she was hitching a ride from a guy she met at the UPS drop box on Clifton Avenue. The woman’s ex-husband purportedly fired several gunshots at the man. The white male driver swerved into the gunman’s car and... Sheila claims that the gunman must have thought the driver, identified as Tony, was her new boyfriend...”

In a moment of grace, I said, “Sheila, I am not going to follow that car. Now, where do you live?” And again, by God’s grace, Sheila snapped out of her “freak out,” gave me the directions, and admitted that “it’s probably better that I don’t see her anyway. Lord knows I don’t need that.” It was a quick transition – thank God. Only 2 minutes later I was dropping Sheila off and making my way home. I was sure to take a moment to say a prayer of thanksgiving, both for not crashing my car and dying as well as for that little bit of adventure.

You can be pretty sure that some lame new pick-up line won’t get you anywhere, but you never know where one of the classics might get you. “Hey bud, you need a lift?”

*I can hardly be considered a “poor man’s Dr. Phil,” but this guy had the material to be a guest on the show and I listened like a champ.
**Sheila herself was a black woman. Can you be racist against your own race? I think she was calling it as she experienced it.

Tony is currently finishing his MBA. He resides with his lovely wife in Cincinnati, Ohio and is kind enough to contribute his humorous perspective in this regular column, Restrained Mirth.

Saving Space and Saving Face*

Restrained Mirth

by Tony Ertel

I promised Mary that I would send her a few pictures and a brief post on my “peg-board project.” I was determined however, to make it fit within my humor column’s ill-defined parameters. So below, you will find my attempt to inspire you toward creative peg-board use and to get you laughing. Mission: Doable.

Settling into the married life has been great, but it is still quite a transition. I’d say that my wife and I have been pretty blessed with the way this transition “phase” has worked out. I’ll try to summarize for you so I can get to the really good stuff (the arts and crafts section of this post!).

Transition Phase:

1. Man and Woman go away to where no one can find them and no one dare look for them (honeymoon.)
   
   
2. Man and Woman drive out of the sunset into a world of work, and study, and cleaning, and organizing, and work and...**
   
   
3. Woman goes back to work.
   
   
4. Man does schoolwork and settles into new home (Woman’s old apartment).
   
   
5. Man sits with textbook on lap and thinks about building stuff and how to save space in new
   home.
   
   
6. Man buys power tools with gift money from wedding.
   
   
7. Man conceives many projects.
   
   
8. Woman judiciously accepts 20% of the proposed projects.***
   
   
9. Man does his thing... 
   

That is more or less what has happened between the wedding and now. Of course, it’s just a simplified summary, but it sets the stage for the peg-board project. With my wife having already lived in the apartment for just over a year, I wasn’t sure what to expect as I moved in and doubled the amount of belongings previously occupying the space. I’m sure that somewhere along the line in our marriage prep (though I can’t remember exactly when) the priest asked us what we planned to do with all of our coffee mugs now that they would be sharing space. We must have “shelved” that question for the time and never worked our way back around to it. It’s hard to believe we still married with that issue unresolved. But we did, and then came face to face with the problem in the transition phase.

I believe it’s somewhere between tying your shoes and learning to read that you learn not to stack coffee cups. If you hadn’t already learned the word “precarious” from Dr. Seuss, you were bound to have a clear understanding with the new coffee cup lesson. Different shapes + different handles + high shelves + swinging doors = precarious = busted coffee mugs. Regardless of this truth, no less real than gravity, my wife and I decided to stack mugs for the sake of saving space. The weeks of gently closing cabinet doors and tiptoeing around the kitchen were long, and our attempt to defy reality ended with
a ceramic casualty. “He was a good mug, had barely lost the sheen of his youth. Only a slight browning
of his interior. He still had so many early morning and rainy day coffees to hold, not to mention evening tea...”**** After the burial I decided to redouble my efforts and focus (number 5 on the above list) on how to get my mugs to safety. After some brainstorming, some googling, and a chance run in with a piece of peg-board at the local hardware store, I decided on my next space-saving project.

What I used:

• Peg-board – one 2’ x 4’ piece
  
• 1” flat oak trim (enough for edges – 2’ x 4’ x 2’ x 4)
  
• Hardware (can’t remember exact sizes/gauges)
  4 sheet metal screw
  4 small flat washers
  4 black rubber stoppers
  24” of picture hanging wire
  2 heavy duty wall anchors (these could support about 70lbs of coffee mugs – didn’t want to take any chances :)*****
  
  4 small wood screws and 4 metal washers for attaching trim

• Valspar “Pale Butter” paint (free sample from Lowe’s – Thanks for the tip Mary!)
  
• Curved hooks for peg-board (with safety latches – it’s like a seat belt, why risk it?) 

What I did:

1. Paint the peg-board.
   
   
2. Cut and attach trim using 4 small wood screws and 4 small flat washers (attach from posterior
   for clean-looking trim)‡this is an unnecessary add-on.
   
   
3. Attach rubber stoppers and hanging wire to back (stoppers in 4 corners).
   
   1. Put metal screws through flat washers and front of board.
      
   2. Wrap hanging wire around the two top screws and then thread into rubber stoppers
      (the stoppers will serve to keep the back of pegs/hooks from scratching up your wall).
      
      
4. Put in wall anchors based on your desired positioning for the board.
   
   
5. Hang the board, insert hooks with safety clips, hang mugs, relax. 

I thought the trim might make for a nicer presentation in the kitchen. I think it improved the look. But more important than a chic wall decoration, we now have increased storage space and easier access to all of the coffee mugs. No more neglecting that little “weird owl” guy in the back of the cabinet.

And I think this is just the beginning. Soon there will be peg-boards in every room of my apartment. In keeping with the 20% spouse approval rate, I figure that I’ll just have to propose four worse ideas in order to get my next peg-board project authorized.

1. Sweetie, what would you say about me painting some flames on the side of the oven? That would be kinda cool, huh?
   
   
2. Audrey, this corner is a little bare. How neat would that be if I got my action figure collection out of storage and we cased them in a china cabinet here? I could make them do some sweet action poses. We could make the bad guys face the good guys like they’re about to clash. And...
   
   
3. I’ve been thinking about the back hallway. How awesome would that be to put some vines and a couple potted trees back there? We could download some jungle sounds and have them playing all the time.
   
   
4. You know that mirror in our dining room? I think we should keep window markers by it all of the time so when we have guests we can draw moustaches and beards and stuff like that.
   
   
5. Hey Sweetie, come and see my newest peg-board idea. I call it the PBTPFD (Peg-Board Toilet
   Paper Fun Dispenser). 
   

*Not sure how many people would get this, but I thought the title was catchy and actually made sense with a little stretch of the imagination. “Face” = “Mug” = “Coffee Cup.” Get it? Saving Face. Visage joke.
**Repetition of “work” and the ellipses are here for dramatic effect. I actually ran out of “depressing,” pity-inducing things to say. It’s amazing what effect that format can have though. And if you really want someone to feel sorry for you, try drawing out certain words on your list. “Wooork, stuuuuudeeeee, cleeeaaaaniiiiinnng, organiziiiiiiinnnnnggg, uuuummmmm, woooooorrrrrk.” This can make even the simplest list seem as daunting and formidable as the 12 labors of Hercules. Actually, with the hypnotic auricular effect of the list you might even slip this in at the end “slaying the Nemean Liiiiioooooon, you know, stuff like that, nothing major.” If that doesn’t get you a pat on the back and a, “it’ll be ok buddy,” then there is no compassion in this world.
***This 20% is generous. It should probably be cut in half. Really though, my wife is very supportive of my ideas – creative, ridiculous, or flat out dumb, she will at least hear me out and help me to categorize.
****Coffee cup eulogy. Weird, but surprisingly sad.
*****I think it would be appropriate to say, “Go Big or Go Home.” I was already home, so I decided to “Go Big.”

Tony is currently finishing his MBA. He resides with his lovely wife in Cincinnati, Ohio and is kind enough to contribute his humorous perspective in this regular column, Restrained Mirth.

Restrained Mirth

TAM Time

by Tony Ertel

Life is loaded with awkward moments. So much so that people have seen fit to disregard the normal rules of syntax for the sake of more easily sharing their awkward moments. As a rule, writers are warned against beginning sentences with “that.” In conversation, when “that” does begin a sentence, it generally refers back to something previously mentioned. In our current day in age, “that” has become the leader of awkward moments. That awkward moment when...

It seems that our conversation format is continually digressing toward the mere exchange of status updates. And of these updates, I would guess that 30% to 43% are classified as awkward moments. I’m amazed that some people can function as their lives are seemingly comprised of closer to 99% awkward moments and 1% normal living*. But then again, I’ve heard some pretty un-awkward moments dramatically stated.

Person: That awkward moment when you try to open the door and it is locked! 

Me: So then what? You grabbed your key and unlocked it?

Person: Yeah, but man was it awkward when I tried to open it like 7 times...

Me: That’s not awkward, that’s stupid. People try to open locked doors all of the time, that’s how you can tell if they are locked or not. But then, the people that aren’t stupid, quit trying to open the locked door, or they just use the key to unlock it.

So I would guess that people’s lives aren’t always as awkward as they would like them to be for the sake of their egotistical Facebook awkwardness. There are however, those situations that are legitimately awkward, funny, and worth sharing.

I have experienced a few awkward moments in my own life, but only enough for an occasional blog post. I have found it funnier to speculate over potential awkward moments and have had some recent fun in textversation with my brother Luke, sharing these musings. Some are legitimately awkward, some are funny, and I think they are all worth sharing.

So without further ado, and content with my normal life full of “that normal moment when...,”** I present you with a few fancies that my brother and I found funny. And for the sake of being cool and consistent with my recent texts, I’ll simply begin with “TAM” – That Awkward Moment.

TAM 1...
Tony: TAM when you’re brushing your teeth and then you see your toothbrush where it always is and you realize you’ve been using your screwdriver that you left in the bathroom when you were working on the sink earlier.

Luke: If that don’t “drive” you crazy I don’t know what will. 

Tony: I know. That’s “screwed” up! I should call Dr. “Phil-ip” 

TAM 2...
Luke: TAM when you realize that you have filled your dish scrubber with honey.***

Tony: Hehehe

TAM 3...
Tony: TAM when you realize it’s not “All About the Benjamins” and your life is suddenly without purpose.

TAM 4...
Luke: TAM when you have invested everything you have into a Hotcakes restaurant, only to discover that they don’t actually sell that well.

TAM 5...
Tony: TAM when the prodigal son tells his dad to hold the fattened calf because he’s actually gone vegan.

Tony: Wouldn’t want to be there when that goes down. Aaawwwwwkwaaaaard... “Uh, hey dad, yeah... um... I mean, first of all, jeez thanks for everything, but uh... there’s something I want to tell you before you start preparing food for the party... So, there’s this new diet...”

TAM 5 continued...
Tony: TAM when the father stops the faithful son’s complaint about slaughtering the fattened calf only to tell him that there’s been a change of plans and they’re actually going to do up special the season’s best algae. And then TAM when the son still gets mad, just because he’s jealous. And the Father says, “Really? You’re seriously mad about that?”

TAM 6...
Tony: TAM when your friend points out to you that it’s “awkward,” not “hawk bird.” But you say you knew all along and defend all that you’ve said: that hawkbird moment when you come around and all the other birds stop chirping, that hawkbird moment when you circle your prey, that hawkbird moment when you dig in your talons, that hawkbird moment when you take a nose dive, that hawkbird moment when... Then TAM when you friend points out to you how creepy those statements have been all along and that there’s a reason you’re still single.

I realize I could go on and on with this. If you’ve enjoyed it at all and would like to see a second installment of TAM Time, let me know with some comments. Otherwise, you guessed it, “TAM when you check your blog post and there’s only one comment, and it’s from your sister: ‘we still love you Tone... but I’ve decided to replace your humor column with a weekly video upload of paint drying. Thanks for all of your hard work though. Paint something and send me a video. I’ll see if I can work it in – fall colors are great right now’.”

*This 1% must be those rare times when there isn’t a fly in the glass of water, or sleep isn’t riddled with bizarre dreams of an anteater-led apocalypse, or the toothpaste doesn’t taste like pickles, or... just other non-awkward moments (normal moments).
**Normal doesn’t signify boring. It’s a great life. There certainly is an element of subjectivity to awkwardness. In fact, someone once tried to convince me that I wasn’t really that funny (even though she could barely keep from laughing when she was around me), but that I was just awkward. “Uh ok. Thanks. I guess.” That’s kind of like, “you’re not really that smart, you just know a lot, get all of the right answers, and you wear glasses.”
***This one is my personal favorite. That really would be the worst, but amazing at the same time. A “sticky” situation...

Tony is currently finishing his MBA. He resides with his lovely wife in Cincinnati, Ohio and is kind enough to contribute his humorous perspective in this regular column, Restrained Mirth.

Restrained Mirth

Thinking in Puns

by Tony Ertel

Thanks to my father and the home in which I was raised, I had an early introduction to the world of puns. In one early memory I “di-stink-tly” recall someone (there’s a good chance it was me) mentioning the flatulation from a few rows up that had sounded during mass. While I know of many parents who would silence their children with a stern command of “WE do NOT speak of such things,” my parents never “pooh-poohed” the topic. They at least never condemned the topic in such a “manner,” though they did take teaching their children manners seriously. And so, rather than “changing” the diaper, er, topic, my father said, “at least there were a few ‘pews’ between us.” Everyone knows that the appropriate verbal response to a foul odor is “pee-eew” or “pew-ee.” I thought that this intentional use of related words was a hilarious stroke of genius. It was then that I started to listen more intently to the words and wisdom of my father, and I have not been disappointed.

And so some 15 years later, my way of thinking has dramatically evolved. I have discovered that I now tend to actually think in puns. While it can be quite humorous, it can also be a sort of “pun-ishment” for those who spend much time with me. I have been praised before as an exceptional listener, but perhaps I listen too intently. My mind works in such a way that it hears words or phrases - loving especially idioms or colloquialisms - and dissects them into a variety of possible meanings. Now, while puns can be great fun and incite much laughter, they can also annoy people, cause embarrassment, and even turn a friend into an enemy*. I have learned these lessons over the years – sometimes the hard way. And I’ve concluded that the rewards outweigh the risks. Delivering puns appropriately and with good timing is a skill that requires honing through trials and errors. To get you started and feeling more comfortable, I’ve outlined a few rules to pun usage that can be appreciated.

1. A quality pun must be delivered “pun-ctually.” This means that it should be stated at its proper time. Each situation is a little different as it involves different people with differing levels of sensitivity and different styles of humor. It’s probably not the best idea to console your buddy after he’s lost $1000 playing Craps by nonchalantly saying “shit happens.” This rule of punctuality is closely related to point number two.

2. Know and respect your audience. I’ll call this rule, Drawing the “Pun-ch” Line. For example, it would be in bad “taste” for the keynote speaker at the PETA Convention to say, “I’m glad to be able to ‘meat’ with you all today. While I don’t want to beat a dead horse, I do want to reiterate that those cow murderers don’t have a cat’s chance in hell of winning the court case. Thank you all for your continued support. We all know what’s at ‘steak’.” This might be funny for an outsider or a cow murderer, but such a “clamity” could leave individuals feeling “shell-shocked” for a looooong time. That would just be mean.

3. Don’t be afraid to “pun-ctuate.” I am a firm believer in drawing attention to your puns. It can be especially helpful if you are new to the pun scene. If people pass right by your carefully selected word choice, don’t be afraid to point it out. I suggest this classic method of emphasis: repeat the pun and follow up with the subtle yet in-your-face “get it?” If your listener is really clueless, try classifying your joke. Repeat, “The LEASE-t the landlord could do.” Follow-up, “Get it?” And categorize (with a sense of confidence in its obviousness), “Rental property joke.” If you still get the look of “huhhh whhhaaaat??” after these efforts, rely on rule number four.

4. “Nevermind.” This word has been saving aspiring comedians for centuries. After doing all you can do to punctuate your joke, it’s ok to fall back on this guy. It doesn’t mean that your pun was a “flop,” it simply means... Nevermind**.

5. Different than “nevermind,” is the “oops, nevermind.” This is the quick (though usually not quick enough) realization that your intended pun was inappropriate or that you accidentally made an punof an inappropriate nature. For these cases, I suggest acquainting yourself with the “pun-dertaker.” Make mental note of certain words that should always be banned from certain conversation topics. In good taste, I will refrain from examples. You will know when you should send a pun to the pundertaker. These puns can often be identified by the symptoms experienced by their reciters. They include severe blushing, instantaneous outbreak of sweating, and uncontrolled repetition of the phrase “that’s not what I meant.”

So now that you know some pun guidelines that have aided me over the years, you can more comfortably and confidently take a swing at making a funny in your coming conversations. Just remember:

• Be Punctual,
• Draw the Punch Line,
• Don’t Hesitate to Punctuate,
• Nevermind, &
• Know the Pundertaker.

And lastly, never forget what Puncle Ben told Peter Parker, “with great power, comes great res-pun- sibility!”

*Luckily I’ve never witnessed the transformation of a friend into an enemy as caused by a pun. But I’m sure it can happen. If it does, make continuous attempts to hug your new “enemy.” When the person gets super annoyed and says, “What the heck are you doing?!” you can tell her that you’re supposed to “keep your friends close, but your enemies closer” and that you will keep trying to hug her until you can be certain that she is not your enemy. That should change her back into a friend. Note: using this tactic on someone who was never your friend in the first place can result in serious injury.
**Be careful with this one though. While “Nevermind” can sometimes serve your comedic efforts, reliance on the word (it’s actually two words – never and mind) can frustrate and disrupt normal communication, all joking aside. Who hasn’t experienced that five minutes of pestering, “what were you going to say???” What’s worse than the five minutes of “C’mon, just tell me,” is the annoyed person’s realization that you were simply “trying to make a fruit pun.” No one feels “peachy” at that point.

Restrained Mirth

No Shame: Biting the Nails

by Tony Ertel

It’s not too often that you find yourself in a completely new situation, not knowing how to act or react. I think people generally have a sense of the proper etiquette required in different settings. If not, and the individual is completely lost, one at least knows to imitate other natural-acting people. This generalization, of course, excludes anyone who was ever homeschooled, as they are unlikely to pick up any social cues*.

And so with this understanding in mind, that people generally “get it," it amazes me when some choose to completely shirk social standards and do whatever they want. Today’s example will be... biting and chewing fingernails. While this habit isn’t completely taboo, it also isn’t listed as a personal practice that is likely to advance your social status or make you a better person. In my days as a nail- biter, I don’t think I received more than a handful of compliments linking how awesome I was to the fact that I had short, jagged fingernails. To hear, “Dude, awesome rugged nails! Is that how you got so good at air guitar?!” was rare. Regardless, I maintained my status as a biter for many years.

Those years were marked by different stages, however, from the bite and spit, to the bite and chew, to the bite and chew and swallow, to the bite and pocket**. I am not sure exactly when I transitioned into that last phase. Perhaps it was after detaching that pain-in-the-butt hangnail during the Sunday homily that I realized I had nowhere to go with that thing, save my own pocket. But from then on I knew that unless they were going directly in the trash can or being released into the wild (i.e. thrown on the ground outside) that I had to stuff them into my pockets. I determined that this was the most appropriate  temporary solution to the nails.

This respectful collecting eventually showed its downside when I discovered that the one thing worse and more distracting than a hangnail during mass is a sharp nail that has worked itself deep into my pocket and is cutting at my thigh. However, not even that dreadful experience proved the necessary catalyst of change. Only the love for a woman and the desire to impress her with my fresh and trim nails could lead me to stop the biting... But this post isn’t about that! It’s about seeing random fingernails, possibly belonging even to the toe species, in random places.

I can’t believe how often I now see huge fingernails (toe nails?) in church pews. I wonder if I was that kid, or if I at least had the dignity to put them directly on the ground. I’ve also become increasingly aware of nails here and there and on every public floor I’ve seen – from apartment hallways to store aisles to restaurant floors. Maybe my super power is that I have supervision that only works for dead human cells once they have detached from the body. Dumb superpower, but I have also noticed a lot of hairballs lately...

Let me say one more thing before you get too disgusted and complain to the blog editor about me making you gag (or sparking bad memories of your own biting days). I once witnessed a guy shamelessly and systematically gnawing off one nail at a time and turning to spit them out while talking to me in a nice restaurant/bar. I was appalled and so shocked that I couldn’t even say anything. I suppose if we had been 12 inches closer to the salad bar I would have either eked out some words or slapped the dude, but the salad bar was just out of his range.

My point is... It is both amazing and funny to me when people are seemingly so ignorant of their distasteful behavior. So we can do one of two things: rise up, condemn the nail-biters for their disgusting habits, make them where the scarlet “NB” on their chests, and paint the boys’ nails at the risk of emasculation, or...  We can acknowledge our own less-than-regal habits (whether or not we have yet conquered them) and laugh at ourselves and our sometimes silly humanity. I for one am going to go and check all of my pockets.

*I am 100% kidding! I was homeschooled (well, for a year). I just think it’s hilarious to take a few shots at the stereotypes – especially when you or those you know shatter them. Homeschoolers Rule! - the LOTR fan club
**Kidding again! While I WAS a biter, I was NEVER a nail-eater. Maybe accidentally. Once.

Restrained Mirth

Mischief and Mannequins

by Tony Ertel

What teenage boy doesn’t like to create a little mischief? I’m not talking about criminal mischief, I’m talking about putting underwear on your brother’s pillow or forcing a pizza roll into your friend’s mouth or telling your younger cousin that putting the ice cream in the microwave for three minutes should be just enough time to soften it for a milk shake (it’s actually plenty of time for a full boil). Those are just completely random examples.

Little mischievous acts were normal around my house growing up, and I was typically the initiator. Looking back though, I wonder if “harmless” mischief is a necessary phase for maturing boys. Though she never condoned the behavior, I have to say my mother likely appreciated it after the terror and temper of her son’s early adolescent years. How bad was it? My 12th birthday also rang in the Chinese Year of the Tiger – what’s that tell ya?

One of my favorite acts of mischief as a teenager (and still, though I have to do it prudently now that I am an adult*) was to surprise my siblings. For some reason my four sisters would always exchange the word “scare” for “surprise” whenever they were telling my parents about the incident. I never understood that. Anyway...

There were two ways in which I would surprise them, both very innocent. I think you would agree that people rarely scream, jump, run for cover, or curse when talking about or seeing squirrels or babies, so I don’t see why such reactions were common in my household. I never imagined the amusement I would squeeze out of a taxidermied squirrel (I personally stuffed the squirrel in high school Agricultural Mechanics Class**) and a lifelike baby doll (commonly referred to as “The Chucky Doll”). Most people would call these toys cute, but the reactions elicited from my sisters would have you think that they were anything but.

Why is it that when you pull back your covers and Mr. Squirrel is on your pillow, he ceases to be cute? Why would a midnight apparition of  the Chucky Doll wielding a plastic battle axe at the bottom of the stairs be deserving of a blood-curdling scream? C’mon, have the Chucky horror films actually created such a mark on society that the fear of a nefarious doll coming to life somehow worked its way into our semi-sheltered, partially homeschooled household? Or was it Toy Story?! The squirrel coming to life I accept as quite feasible; despite them actually being alive, what homeschool family doesn’t have a copy of Wind in the Willows or a few of Brian Jacques’ Redwall tales lying around?

In my sisters' defense, I guess it is hard to objectify “scary,” as Mickey Mouse somehow worked his way into my own childhood nightmares***. So regardless of how scary it might be found in a Fangoria Magazine poll, each surprise was frightening to my sisters. I mischievously duped them.

My thoughts had recently been drawn back to these years and funny memories (I mean completely regrettable and inconsiderate actions – the kind of stuff that creates “baggage” for the faint of heart) by a peculiar happening in my neighborhood. After a nice Saturday afternoon run, I stepped onto my outdoor balcony with a glass of juice, a book, and the intention of cooling down. As
I walked out, I surveyed the neighborhood only to find everything as it normally is – pretty uneventful.

Just before sitting, however, I caught something different out of the corner of my eye. I had a fellow balcony-sitter across the street at the bed and breakfast. As my initial glance revealed that the woman was staring right at me, I held off my own stare and started in on my book. Perhaps 15 minutes
passed and my gaze was drawn up as a large truck bellowed smoke below. Again, I caught the outline of the visitor on the adjacent second- story balcony. I glanced back thinking that she couldn’t possibly still be staring at me. My timid glance was met by an unashamed gaze.

Then it crossed my mind that this lady was checking me out – after all, I had come out shirtless. I simply went back to my book, now a little more curious about this nosey lady. After another 10 minutes my attention was diverted by someone walking his dog, leash in one hand and swinging poopy sack in the other. After his passing, I checked my surroundings as usual – and there she was again. I’ll say I wasn’t really bothered by the woman across the way, but I was increasingly curious as she continued to stare up at me.

My curiosity only increased (in an innocent way - really) as on my third or fourth glance I was fairly certain that her only covering was a sort of a scarf. A bizarre situation is only made more bizarre when you realize that the other party is mostly naked. But she was far enough away for me to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she was wearing the latest fashion in nude-colored tops.

The upward glance, followed by the awkward look around (saying, “I wasn’t looking at you again, I just have this weird tic where I have to stretch my neck and rotate my head every eight minutes”) happened several more times. After 50 minutes of looking up and looking down, glancing this way and that way, and cooling down, I thought to myself, “enough is enough, this chick has barely moved and hasn’t stopped staring at me for the past hour.”

So I did what I should have done at the very beginning, what I learned from the Austrians over the course of living in their country for two years, I stood up and stared that naked lady down! And then after 30 seconds of unabashed staring, I recalled the strange events from the previous day. My wife and I had stopped on the sidewalk to watch three ladies exit their vehicles and carry a mannequin into the b&b (I wasn’t afraid to stare then). I had been duped by a damn mannequin.

I don’t believe in karma, but I do think there is some truth in that old saying, “what goes around, comes around,” and it stretches beyond the realm of tether ball. After all of my trickery and duping, I myself had been duped. My years of mischief were met with a mannequin.

*Prudent Mischief : the wise and judicious tricking, surprising, and scaring of your friends in an effort to be funny, with the knowledge that the action likely won’t be funny to all involved parties until sometime after the event.
**I’ll never forget that class. Some of my classmates were slower in shaving (cutting) the remaining bits of meat off of the squirrel hide. The result of several consecutive snow days was a disturbing return to “the shop” where we had class. The putrid smell of rotting squirrel could barely be contained in the shop, several students “lost” their squirrels completely, and I ended up with a war veteran (I had to amputate three feet – we were able to save one).
***Picture Mickey with fangs. Actually don’t – it is not a pleasant image for any individual.

Restrained Mirth: Man’s Clashes with the Animal Kingdom

Part 1: Procyon Lotor

by Tony Ertel

I am by no means an animal expert, but I, like every other human am intrigued by and find some enjoyment in the diversity and flat out strangeness of God’s creation. Whether observing animals in the wild or perusing a Wikipedia entry, it’s all I can do to keep from exclaiming, “That’s pretty neat.”

My most recent interest concerns the Procyon lotor, commonly known as the raccoon. For the longest time I kept my distance from these curious beasts, getting only slightly more personal on two occasions. My first encounter came during my teenage years; it was the shortest and most dramatic miming I

have ever witnessed. A windy country road in the middle of the night is a strange choice for a “street performance.” And as I was moving pretty quickly (maybe 50 mph), I didn’t get to catch much of the show. My only complaint was that it ended with a bang; I expected that the whole thing would be silent. Anyway, I haven’t seen that performance again.

image via

My second close encounter came years later in a cemetery. Most people wouldn’t believe me, but I truly was the victim of a raccoon hit-and-run. At the time it was funny (and quite shocking), but now looking back on the incident, I wonder if I should have started my research and commenced preparations for World War C or Planet of the Coons. I now wonder if these science fiction scenarios of the past may be realities of the near future. I have two more recent accounts leading me to fear the worst.

Only two months ago I was a naïve and nature-loving guy. When my mother shouted from the dining room, “There’s a raccoon on the back porch,” I innocently and unarmed ran to see. It was cute to watch the curious creature with its dexterous paws, picking up and dunking the dog food before consuming it. In that moment, I was like a child who sees a dog for the first time and cannot turn his gaze. I thought to myself, “I could watch this thing for days.” Well, my hope was realized. The apparent one-time hunger- induced bravery of the coon transformed into a habitual and seemingly calculated consumption of my dog’s food. And thus began the takeover.

I thought for sure that alerting my dog Wrinkles* (though old, she is still known for her toughness and protective nature) of the intruder would put a quick end to the confident demeanor of the coon. A burst of energy and a moment of ferocity however, were not enough to keep the coon away. Rather than retreat, the coon whom I had spontaneously and wrongly named Razzo (that name has playful connotations), embarrassed me, my dog, and all canines by chasing Wrinkles and reclaiming the porch. To make the whole situation worse, Razzo eventually learned to open the door, wrestled a broom from my mother’s hands, and raised four young in the woodshed**. Throughout this display of impertinent behavior I remained naïve and eventually dismissed the happenings from my mind altogether.

Fast forward one month. I am living in my new apartment in the city of Cincinnati. From a third-floor balcony my wife and I enjoy a nice vantage point of the surrounding neighborhood. Aside from the city squirrels and their shenanigans and the seemingly endless line of runners that pass by, there isn’t too much excitement on my street. Or that is what I thought. While sitting out at dusk one week ago, I noticed some movement on a rooftop across the street. Sure enough, it was a raccoon exploring the neighbor’s house. The home is not well kept by city standards, but the coon seemed to find it fitting.

After five minutes of fascinated observation I lost sight of the coon trotting on the sidewalk to the back of the house. My mind had just wandered off into some thought of the next-door bed and breakfast’s landscaping when my eyes caught some motion in the third-floor windows of the dilapidated house. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The raccoon was inside the house with its belly to the window. It was reminiscent of an over-confident middle school child mooning his friends through the library window, thinking the librarian wasn’t watching. Well, in this case the librarian was not watching, but that more conservative classmate was. That classmate was me.

image via

After discussing the situation with my wife, I thought it best to notify the neighbor of her third-floor tenant. At the very least, I thought she might be able to squeeze a little rent out of the freeloader. Before breaking the news however, I ran a background check on Mr. Raccoon (Wikipedia style), so as to really understand with whom I was dealing. I got more than I bargained for. The most striking information I learned was that the first recorded sightings of “urbanized” coons were in the suburbs of Cincinnati! That insight led me to think that maybe my neighbor coon was a respectable tenant after all (perhaps even the longest established urbanized coon in America). Regardless, I deemed it my Christian duty to tell the matron of the house. She didn’t seem too surprised by the news and said that years ago she had a raccoon removed from the house to the wild. Maybe she was ok with the current raccoon keeping a low profile and her actions against the previous were only those of any fair landlord adhering to the lease agreement – “No party animals.”

As for me, I plan on watching my back, staying in at night, and making millions of dollars off of the development and distribution of a coon-specific security system – “Ra-Coon-a Matata Security: It means no worries for the rest of your nights!”

*That’s what happens when you let a kid name a pet. It is black – “let’s call it Blacky!” It has special coloration around its eyes – “can we name him Patches?” It has a spot on its fur – “how about we call him... Spot?!” “Man, this dog has so many wrinkles ... Let’s call her Wrinkles.” I was 12.

**Though the presence of the mama coon’s “kit” (her litter of young), was only suspected by my parents in the early stages, they still might have been found deserving of PETA’s Compassionate Action Award. I suspect the snub was the result of one of two things: 1) there was no naked protestor or 2) it wasn’t endorsed by Bob Barker.