Posted 11:03 AM by Brian K

From The Brain of the Giant Head

Thanksgiving: AKA
The Start Of Christmas

As all you history buffs know Thanksgiving started back in the 1600s, well after Chris Columbus discovered North America. It was on a cold day when the Indians and the Pilgrims sat down to celebrate a big turkey dinner after beating the Braves in the World Series. (It wasn’t until years later that the Pilgrims formed the Yankees, named after Yankee Stadium.) All the buffalo were scarce, so they ate turkey because that’s what you eat on Thanksgiving. And that’s history, as we know it today.

What the history books failed to mention about Thanksgiving was what happened the next day in a town near the big celebration -- The Great Early Christmas Sale at Plymouth Mall.

Chief Squanto, sales supervisor at Ambercrombie, was on the verge of losing his job due to his poor sales record, shortcomings in advertising, and his inability to speak English. He was also under heat for his tabernacle sacrifice of a potential customer — they frown on death caused by employees at Ambercrombie, but smile on robbing them blind.

As he was eating his leftover mashed potatoes the morning after Thanksgiving, he finally came up with an idea to get back in his boss’s good graces. He planned this super sale in which people would flock to the stores and buy gifts for their loved ones, keeping small quantities of hot items such as matches, Lincoln Logs, and Nintendos in order to drive up the price. The sale was a huge success, but Chief Squanto got fired a month later when people didn’t know what to do with the gifts.

In walks Pilgrim Steve, marketing executive and developer of Play-Doe.

Pilgrim Steve understood the public’s cry, for he was once part of the public, and turned to his trusty Bible for answers. Since he couldn’t find any answers there, he called his friend Jimbo and they came up with Christmas, an acronym for Come Help the Rich In Selling Toy-buyers Massive Amounts of Stuff. They picked to celebrate it on December 25th since everyone was already off work for Jesus’ birthday. Christmas instantaneously became a hit.

Now our Forefathers, Phil, Ted, Bob and Stinky, saw the economic gains of this newfound holiday and developed it even further. They created a mascot (a fat man in a red suit), reindeer (to keep the animal rights people off their backs), Charlie Brown’s Christmas (so they could sell videos) and mistletoe (so even Stinky could get some lovin).

The Pilgrims accomplished something that had never been done before in America and became a tradition for years to come. They screwed everyone out of their money.

Historical Note: Stinky’s love affair was a miracle and gave him happiness until three years later when he was thrown in prison for not keeping up on his child support payments. (Sounds like a Jeopardy question to me.)

Over 500 years later, Christmas is still a big success for retailers. Improvements have been made, including lights, decorations and wooden reindeer statues for yards that the neighborhood kids can rearrange in X-rated positions. Every year the powers that be create a new toy sensation, like Tickle-Me-Elmo, causing eager parents to kill one another to get their hands on one for their 2-year-old child, thus keeping population control for the country.

And as Christmas starts earlier and earlier every year (Independence Day this year), I sit back in my chair and curse the Pilgrims for what they did to ruin this country. I hate the Yankees.

I want to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving and a fun shopping season. Give my love to the families and send a piece of pumpkin pie to The Brain, 3616 N. St. Louis Ave., Chicago, IL 60618.

Posted 5:11 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of the Giant Head

Routines Are Bad, Um’Kay

For four years of my life I was a college student. I had incorporated a very intricate, thought-out daily routine that took me two months to perfect in order to save as much time as possible each and every day.

Step 1: Wake up when alarm goes off at 8 a.m. for Biology class.
Step 2: Turn off alarm and yawn.
Step 3: Close eyes until body gets the full amount of rest it needs, which usually means resting until 2 p.m.
Step 4: Get up, and skip things that waste time like showering and brushing hair.
Step 5: Walk to offices of classes missed that morning and tell teacher that you would have made it but you were trapped in a deep conversation about McCarthy-ism and it’s affects on the 70s.
Step 6: Eat McDonalds.
Step 7: Practice your hand-eye coordination for 6-7 hours, using a Nintendo or Play Station.
Step 8: Go to bed.

This usual routine worked beautifully for my first two years of college. While I learned nothing about the anatomy of a starfish, I found every possible shortcut in Mario Cart. Which worked out well, because I don’t remember anyone in college having an "Anatomy of a Starfish Party." And those shortcuts not only won me plenty of races, but also transpired into party-conversation pieces leading me to life-long friendships.

My final two years of college were a bit more critical, as I 1) Had to start preparing for my post-college life and 2) Slowly started to be concerned with my GPA (Generally Pathetic Assessment). While my parents complained about it being low, I calmly pointed out to them that it was only 2 full points shy of a perfect 4.0. Realizing their mistake, they then apologized by rewarding me with my very own Guidance Counselor named Old Ted.

Now, Old Ted was an expert in the area of turning mediocre students with no ambition into mediocre students with little ambition. The wrinkles in his forehead and curls in his mustache gave me confidence, though, as I knew he had been a guidance counselor for at least 240 years. Papers were scattered all over his oak wood desk. His bookshelf was concave, bending in the center as it was heavily weighted by large books, magazines and a Rosanne Bar Bobblehead doll. On top of his desk sat a funny looking computer with stiff keys and a piece of paper hanging from it. When I asked him where his monitor was, he politely smiled and called his computer "Atype-writer." I guess older folks need to name their appliances to remember what they are, so I smiled and nodded and figured that the mystery of the monitor would never be solved.

After flipping though my file, looking at report cards, teachers’ comments, and bar tabs, he turned to me and asked me the ever important, "What Do You Want to Do With Your Life" question. Any honest college student will tell you that what he or she mostly wants to do is create a groove in a couch somewhere in front of a 50" TV and continually mooch off his or her parents until striking it rich on the lottery. But all students give the same lie that brings a smile to the advisor’s (or parent’s/relative’s/friend’s) face.

"I want to work in a job where I feel like I can be a highly productive member of society."

But Old Ted saw right through me as my scruffy chin, nappy hair and Death Metal T-shirt steered him away from advising me toward a career in medicine or law.

"Do you like music, son?" he asked. This question was a surprise, a curveball, a query no other adult had ever asked me before. After much thought of how to impress him, I gave him a detailed response.

"Yes."

"Then I think you should be in a rock band," he replied. This unbiased counselor was speaking from his heart. He had finally found me a career I’d be more than happy to take over. I almost jumped out of my chair to hug the old man but I was fearful that his frail bones would shatter faster than Mark McGwire’s Home Run Record.

"Where do I sign up?" I asked.

"Well," he commented, "First you will have to learn musical theory. Study the Greats like Bach and Mozart. Practice everyday, all day long without breaks. Live out of your car since it’ll be the only housing you can afford and eat bread and mustard sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And after about 20 years, you might be able to afford a one-room apartment, but you’ll have to forego furniture and settle for sleeping on the cold floor. And if and when a record company finally notices you, they’ll sign you to a contract that pays you slightly more than a cashier at McDonalds."

All of a sudden, being a rock star didn’t sound as appealing as it did when it was initially mentioned. It included the three things I hated most: 1) working hard, 2) being poor and 3) mustard. So maybe the life of a rocker wasn’t the path I wanted roll down. But I knew I had no ambition to be anything important either, like a banking executive or a dentist or a belly dancer.

"What happens if I never get signed to a record deal?" I asked.

"You become a guidance counselor."

He then typed up a note I could pass along to my parents that said, "Brian is a hard worker, he’s just misguided right now. I assess that his life in academia will improve over the course of the next two years." That was the biggest load of garbage I had ever read, but I’m sure it would satisfy my parents enough to leave me alone, so I was content.

I left Old Ted’s office feeling no better about my future then I did when I walked in, but I honestly wasn’t all that concerned in the first place. And I visited Old Ted once a week for the next 2 years. I didn’t learn much about myself, but I learned plenty about Old Ted. His angst toward life comforted me. He had fallen into a routine he could not escape, and I decided from that day on I wouldn’t let that happen to me. When I graduated I left Old Ted behind. We haven’t talked since. But I know he’s still there, keeping a close eye on me. And Old Ted, if you are there and reading my column, one mystery still remains that I’d like you to answer for me:

Where did you keep your computer monitor?

Posted 4:54 PM by Brian K

From The Brain of the Giant Head

Pull Down Your Pants and Cough

Once a year it’s important to see that guy that charges you a second mortgage just to enter his office. No, I’m not talking about a scalper for a National Football League game, I’m talking about your General Practitioner of Medicine -- also known as your doctor. You voluntarily go to this guy (or gal) who always has bad news, like quit drinking or start exercising or stop sniffing glue while at work. You give him two of your paychecks and ask if he’ll take your plasma as payment for the rest. Oh joy.

Of course I bring this up cause it’s time for my own yearly check up, the one day I hate more than any other day of the year. And to make matters worse, it’s on a Monday and I enjoy Mondays about as much as I’d enjoy getting poked in the eye with a sharp stick. But I suck it up and go cause if I don’t I’m sure my leg or arm will fall off from lack of healthy activity and monitoring.

So I walk into the doctor’s office at 8 a.m., since the only hours that are ever available are 8 a.m. and 8:10 a.m., and inform the receptionist that I am here. She hands me a set of forms that resemble the SATs that ask me questions like, "What is your Social Security Number?" and "What is your ATM password?"

After filling out the stacks of forms, I plopped down on one of those horribly uncomfortable waiting room chairs and picked up an issue of Seventeen magazine. Liv Tyler, daughter of giant-mouthed Steven Tyler, was on the cover to promote Lord of the Rings, which meant this issue was as old as Christmas -- which is when I must have bought that Poptart I ate for breakfast.

So after 6 hours of waiting in the lobby, a nurse called my name and had me move back into an examining room to wait another 6 hours before the doctor finally made his entrance.

Doctor: "How are you doing today young fella?"

Half of me wanted to yell at him for that remark since I was 23 years old, but the other half of me wanted a sucker, so that side beat the crap out of the other side and it shut-up.

The Brain: "Fine. I’m just here for a general checkup."

We started going through all the normal things you have at a doctor visit, like sticking out your tongue, saying "Ahhhh," letting him molest your chest with his stethoscope and dreadfully stepping on the scale to see how much each of your new chins weigh. Maybe I should lay off those Poptarts.

Finally comes the part that is generally reserved for porn -- the dreaded pull down your pants, turn you head and cough ritual. This might be the most humiliating act any man has to perform, other than buying his wife tampons.

So I drop my pants like any good patient would and immediately looked toward the ceiling. While the teddy bear and rainbow tiles comforted me for a moment, reality shoved its way back into my mind as I felt a finger jab me between the boys.

Doctor: "Okay, now turn your head and cough."

As I turned my head and began coughing, I noticed the door to his office was left half way open. This wouldn’t have bothered me as much if Northbrook Elementary’s 3rd grade class wasn’t taking a tour of the doctor’s facilities at that exact moment. So 30 little heads with 60 little eyes glanced at me, a grown man with my pants down and a doctor fumbling with my good stuff. While holding back the tears I did the only thing that I could think of to hide my embarrassment. I waved to the children and said, "Don’t do drugs." Valid advice if you ask me.

Anyway, the doctor finally rose from south of the Equator and told me everything checked out all right. No hernias. No testicular cancer. No weird splotches. Life was looking pretty good again, and I reached down to pull my jeans back up until the doctor stopped me again.

Doctor: "You’re going to need to leave those down for a minute."
The Brain: "Why? I thought the twins checked out okay?"
Doctor: "Oh they did, I just need to run another test."

At this point I was extremely confused. Usually the groin check ends the physical because you can’t look the doctor in the eyes afterwards. I was about to ask him what the other test was, but all of a sudden I noticed him putting on a new pair of gloves. He put some sort of goo-ey jelly on his index finger. Finally he spoke.

Doctor: "Bend over."
The Brain: "Are you kidding?"
Doctor: "No, bend over."
The Brain: "No thank you."
Doctor: "I need to check for..."

I stopped listening to that quack, pulled up my pants and ran. I ran fast. I ran long. I ran right into a pole. The receptionist began yelling, "Sir, you need to pay your bill." So I handed her a blank check, telling her to fill it out for the appropriate amount which I’m sure was a couple of thousand dollars and scrambled to get the hell out of there -- after grabbing a sucker, of course.

When I got outside, I stopped and took a deep breath of the fresh air around me. It felt good. I was out of there. The humiliation was over.

Then 30 little heads with 60 little eyes walked by. A voice rose out of the crowd.

"HA HA, we saw your wiener!"

I’m glad to know third graders are maturing faster these days.

Posted 10:56 AM by Brian K

From The Brain of the Giant Head

CLASSIC BRAIN: The Time I Tried to Get Some Tongue

Since The BraiN was on vacation this week, WillYee.com has decided to post a BraiN column that originally appeared exactly one year ago on RhymesWithTruck.com. If you’ve read it before, read it again for a chuckle. If it’s the first time you’ve read it, make sure you are wearing a diaper so you don’t ruin your underwear.

Back in late great 1988 I was approximately nine years old, Guns and Roses led the music scene, and Jordache jeans covered every grade-schoolers’ legs. Every boy was discovering that girls really weren’t so bad. Holding hands was no longer considered a "you’re a sissy" thing, but now was the hip thing to do. Little Sally began wearing a bra, not that there was anything underneath that bra, but it still impressed us nonetheless. I decided it was time to make a move on Little Sally.

I devised a full proof plan. First, I would wine her (Kool-Aid) and dine her (Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches — I even broke out the crunchy peanut butter for this special occasion). Then, I would take her for a ride on my 1986 Huffy 4-speed, with blue and gold trimming and handle bar brakes. And finally, the icing on the cake, a trip to the giant oak tree behind the janitor’s barn that we called "Make-Out Point." (I guess the icing on the cake was more for me than for her.)

So on that Wednesday, I put on my nicest pair of jams, had my mom touch up the steps shaved in my hair, and put on my bright green T-shirt cause everyone knew that wearing green on Wednesdays meant you were horny (not that any of us knew what "horny" meant, but we knew it must have been something special).

When I arrived on the playground I was feeling pretty confident. Nothing could stop me. She would have to like me. She wouldn’t be able to resist me. She might even let me slip her the tongue.

But then I saw them.

Little Sally was not alone like she normally was. She had her arm around Jack "The Zipper’s" shoulders. Jack got the nickname "The Zipper" back when we were little cause he’d always forget to zip up his pants after taking a leak, and, since we were the kind compassionate people that most little kids are, we pointed and laughed and properly nicknamed him.

I couldn’t believe this jerk was stepping onto my turf. Little Sally should have her arm around me, not him. I wasn’t going to get to take her on my Huffy. I wasn’t going to get to go to Make-Out Point. I wasn’t going to get to slip her the tongue. Damn!

Something told me to leave them alone. It was my mom after she beat my ass for throwing water on the crotch of Jack’s pants and telling everyone that he wet himself. It wasn’t the brightest move, but it was the most tactical thing I could think of at the time. And it earned me a week’s worth of after-school detention.

Little Sally never gave Jack the time of day after that. But she never gave me the time of day neither, nor any other boy in our class. And when we reached high school, she started dating Samantha Jones, who looked like she ate Jack the Zipper’s entire family and apparently had a way with the ladies.

And to this day I still think about Little Sally and the bra she still can’t fill. And Samantha Jones and the children she ate. And Jack the Zipper, with his pants all wet and his zipper down, getting laughed at by all the other kids in our class. I remember each day when I say to my boss, "I forgot I’m not supposed to call ‘The Zipper,’ sir. I’ll get your coffee right away and have the report on your desk by noon."