CBS Replaces Charlie Sheen With a Monkey!

I am sick and tired of hearing about Charlie Sheen.   I barely watch TV, and certainly not the gossipy shows that live off the detritus of train wrecks like Carlos Estevez (his real name, by the way)—so for me to even be writing this means that this story is everywhere.  And I do not like having it invade my space!

For those of you living under rocks or on some secluded island, Charlie Sheen is a television actor on a popular situation comedy who is too screwed up to show up for work.  As a health and fitness guru, not to mention a self-help and personal development guy, I do have some empathy for the messed up Charlie’s of the world—in fact, I would love to be the person who helps him and sets him on the path to enlightenment and recovery.  But, alas, Charlie does not want help or feels he needs it.  He is cool with who he is and how his behavior not only affects himself, but those around him.  Still, I would be more than willing to work with him…if he asks.

Since I’ve not received any SOS flare from Chuck, I have instead decided to offer up a few suggestions on how CBS, the most-watched television network in these United States, should handle the sad case of Charlie Sheen.

REPLACE HIM WITH A MONKEY!!

Here are the bottom-line, no-nonsense facts: Charlie Sheen is just an actor, a very lucky actor who was able to take mediocre talent and transform it, along with an established family name, into an amazing career.  He has been paid outrageous amounts of money for, basically, standing in front of a camera and reciting bad lines of dialogue that make millions laugh.  Now, there’s nothing wrong with making people laugh.  I think finding humor in things throughout the day is a necessity in living one’s life to its fullest, along with being one of the essences of living a healthy life.

But Sheen is just a guy who has a job that reaches millions…but IT’S JUST A JOB!  AND HE’S JUST A GUY!  AND HE DID NOT SHOW UP FOR WORK BECAUSE OF SELFISH REASONS AND THAT HAS AFFECTED HIS COWORKERS' LIVELIHOOD!!

The simple solution is to replace him.  If I behaved like Charlie has behaved, I would, indeed, be fired, terminated, axed, canned, let go, replaced, and FIRED (again!).  Why?  Because you cannot get away with being bigger than the job.  If you do not comply with what is asked of you by your employer, then you will not be employed.  End of story.

CBS can and should fire Sheen.  And replace him with…not a monkey.  That was my way of getting the attention of the masses (and CBS).    But replace him with any of the hundreds of talented, working actors out there looking for a break.

That’s why I suggest that CBS have a reality-themed show designed to replace Sheen.  Find ten hungry, talented, funny, out-of-work actors, put them all in one apartment, and have one replace Sheen each week on “Two and a Half Men.”  At the end of the ten-week talent search, and after creating a ratings powerhouse, the new “Charlie” is revealed.  Everybody wins.  The current cast of the show, who, because of the selfish antics of their star are not making a living, get to work and get paid.  And someone new on the horizon, as good as but more than likely better than Sheen, gets his shot at stardom.

And best yet, the audience, you out there who need laughter to end your day after having to scrape and toil for your daily bread and gasoline, you, my friend, gets to chuckle during dinner, a necessary respite, delivered by a fresh face, hopefully sans chemicals and attitude, that will make you smile…and not give a moment’s thought to Carlos Estevez.

Life is too short to put up with the Charlie Sheen’s of the world.  Think about it.  If this guy lived next door to you or, heaven forbid, were related to you, would you allow him to continue with such bizarre, destructive, and repugnant behavior?  No, you would see that he seeks help…and change the channel, in hope of discovering something to take your mind off your troubles.  And have a jolly chortle or two in the meantime.

Until next time…

peace,

Mike

When in Doubt, Yank 'Em Out!

Is there anything more painful than a toothache? Okay, maybe a gunshot wound, but, thankfully, having never experienced being shot I can’t really make a valid comparison. Childbirth? Being of the wrong gender, I am legally not allowed to comment. How about having an angry ex-(anyone) rearing back and kicking you squarely in the lower region naughty parts? Having HAD experience with that, I can honestly say that, while having your family jewels rearranged is quite painful, a prolonged toothache is worse. How much worse? Bad enough to pay someone (a large chunk of cash) to knock you out under anesthesia and then take a sharp carving implement and have at the insides of your mouth. Turning you into something that resembles this:

WHEN IN DOUBT, YANK ‘EM OUT!



It all started with a little ache in the lower left side of my mouth. Being an avid tooth-brusher and compulsive flosser, as well as a regular dental checkup kind of guy, I figured the pain would go away, like one hopes an annoying neighbor will. Sadly, that is the wrong strategy to use for both toothaches and neighbors, so I paid a visit to my dentist. He probed and poked, x-rayed and consulted until he reached suitable recompense, then announced that I had a fractured tooth and that I should…

“Yes, yes?” I said, nodding hopefully, knowing that relief was just a few magical dental moves away.

“Wait,” my (not usually sadistic) dentist said.

“Huh?” said I.

“It’s fractured. Can’t fill it, can’t extract it, so just wait until…”

“Yes? Until…?”

“Until it either fractures some more or you need a root canal.”

After one more “huh?” and a few “what the…?'s”, my dentist smiled, nodded, and left me with drool on my chin and a still sensitive tooth in need of…what?

Patience.

So I waited, continued to eat my almonds and enjoy my dietary life as usual, while favoring that fractured side of my mouth. This went on for months and months, until…

AAARRRGGGOOOOOOOOCCCHHHHH!

The fracture fractured some more, creating enough pain to motivate me to make another visit to my dentist, who, after more adequate probing and x-raying to satisfy his curiosity and my deductible, announced:

“Looks like you may need a root canal.”

Through a mouthful of fingers, cotton, and that annoying little sucking machine, I said, “Warrgllehuhphmmm?”

My dentist smiled, nodded, added up my bill and decided to take one more x-ray, then shuffled me off to another practitioner of dental maneuvers: an endodontist, who specialized, I was told, in root canals, more probing, vague announcements, and, of course, additional x-ray taking. The biggest difference I noticed was the endodontist charges more and it takes longer to get an appointment. But if you tell them that you are in extreme pain, they will smile, recheck their appointment book, then tell you that whining won’t make the pain go away so take some Advil and practice…

Patience.

And that’s what I did, finally getting the pleasure of having a higher paid sadist probe my fractured tooth, while feeling the stirring of another tooth announce its painful presence on the other side of my mouth. So I said:

“What the heck, doc, it’s only money, right? Take a look at that other guy while you’re at it.”

My endodontist nodded, grunted, probed, ordered and received additional x-rays, probed some more then pondered and professed:

“You need two root canals. How much money do you have?”

My mouth stuffed with the expensive hands of a specialist, cotton, a dental assistant, and that annoying little sucky thing that sometimes gets stuck in the back of your throat, making you want to vomit and choke at the same time, I said, “Whadrrrgfhrrfertwwwooo?”

My sadistic little endodontist nodded, smiled, and left the room to order more x-rays. Leaving me to, you guessed it, practice…

Patience.

Finally the day arrived when I had my root canal exploratory exam that would let me know if I could save the fractured tooth, have the root canal, then be able to have a crown installed. The crown, of course, would be done by yet another dental practitioner and cost several arms, a leg, and the promise of donating various organs to science and x-ray development costs.

His hands deep inside my mouth, which was benumbed by enough Novocain to curtail the charge of a rabid rhinoceros, my endodontist announced:

“Tsk, tsk, bad news. Fracture is too deep, no root canal, have to have it extracted. I must leave now because you are no longer a viable money stream, but before you go let’s take a few more x-rays just to be sure.”

With that he left, leaving me with a numb face, two still very throbbing teeth, and an appointment with another dental professional.

While all this was going on, over the course of several months, I favored one side of my mouth over the other, effectively adding additional stress to that side, effectively causing the tooth that wasn’t yet fractured to SPLIT IN HALF!! This caused me enormous pain, and more trips to dental professionals, along with, you guessed it:

MORE X-RAYS!!

Finally leading me to this past Friday, where, after all three geniuses of the dental community, otherwise known as the Mike Foster Dental Retirement Fund Group, decided it was best that I had both fractured and root-befouled teeth extracted.

I, of course, had to find yet another dental practitioner, who, of course, took several more x-rays, and then, naturally, checked the balance of my dental coverage to make sure he charged enough, and then, thankfully, mercifully, at long last:

REMOVED MY TWO THROBBING TEETH!

Making my pain not necessarily go away, but at least be replaced by another pain, a healing, slightly bloody, cheek-puffing pain that while still nowhere near where I want to be pain-wise, at least was better than what I had been feeling for the past half-year.

The good news is I am feeling better every day, those two annoying teeth are gone (along with several painful extractions from my wallet and checking accounts), and I am well on my way to the road to recovery.

Hmmm, maybe just one more x-ray?


Until next time…

peace,

Mike

You're Doing What, Mom?

I just got off the phone with my mom. She lives Back East. She is a recent widow. This past December, my stepfather passed away, and my mom now occupies their large home by herself. While still grieving, she is determined to move on with her life, to persevere, to live life 365, like the website says. Little did I know how determined she is!

Like I said, I just hung up the phone (or, in this age of flip-open cell phones: I snapped it closed and slipped it back into my pocket) after experiencing a rather odd conversation with my mother. Now, more often than not, a conversation with my mom borders on oddness, meanders around the strange, and all too frequently is laced with nonsensical utterances. This one was no exception, except she also added that, a mere three months since the passing of my stepfather, she is “seeing” someone. Not “dating” someone. According to those seventy-something romantics, “seeing” is strictly dining and watching a movie together. While “dating” is something that my fifty-something brain cannot, will not, and refuses to wrap itself around. The bizarre conversation went something like this:

MIKE: Hi, Ma, how are you holding up?

MOM: Oh, fine, just fine…doing better.

MIKE: That’s great. So, what’s new?

MOM: Oh, you know, nothing much. (sounds of fork and knife against dishes and food being masticated)

MIKE: Same here. What are you doing, eating? Want me to call back?

MOM: Oh, no, it’s okay. (whispering sounds away from the phone)

MIKE: Is someone there?

MOM: Huh? (giggle)

MIKE: Ma?

MOM: I’m here…(away from the phone): No, let me get that, Dave (not his real name)

MIKE: Dave?

MOM: Oh, he’s trying to put the dishes away.

MIKE: Huh?

MOM: Huh? (giggle, sounds of dishes clattering, more chewing sounds, and something that may or may not have been a belch)

MIKE: Huh?

MOM: Michael?

MIKE: Ma? What’s going on?

MOM: Oh, you remember Dave? From the neighborhood?

MIKE: Dave? What’s he doing there?

MOM: (away from the phone): Michael says “hi.”

MIKE: Ma?

On and on it went like that, only it got worse, took stranger and weirder turns until my head was spinning like a gyro. Through my dizziness, I finally found the fortitude to say goodbye and hang up. After several minutes of mental Ping-Pong, I debated having my first drink of alcohol since 1993, then opted instead to create this video:



You see, besides my shock at discovering my mom was “seeing” someone less than three months after my stepfather went off to meet his Maker, I was taken aback by her choice of gentleman callers. Not that there is anything wrong with Dave (not his real name); actually, Dave is a great guy. Now. But back in the day, when I was a wild child, a hyperactive menace, an energy-driven sports junkie, I kicked, tossed, hurled, belted, flipped, flew, flung, booted, upchucked, and projectile-vomited every known object of recreational activity—baseball, bat, glove, Frisbee, tennis ball, football, badminton racket, golf club, shuttlecock, and kickball—into our neighbor’s fenced-in backyard…into our neighbor Dave’s (not his real name) yard. And do you know what Dave did? Hmmm?

HE KEPT THEM! ALL OF THEM! EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM!

Today, as a moderately mature adult, I can certainly understand where Dave (still not his real name) was coming from. Who would want some snot-nosed brat shucking and shoveling every ball or sports equipment known to man into his backyard? Not me, now! And certainly not Dave, then!

But as a kid, an athletic kid who adored sports and wanted nothing more than to run wild in his yard playing make-believe Red Sox games in which he was at bat in the bottom of the ninth with the winning runs on base, I was devastated. And out a lot of balls. But I got better, got over it, moved on, actually forgot about it as the decades came and went and the balls of my youthful dreams evolved into balls that, in the name of good taste, shall remain nameless.

And don’t even get me started on the differences between “seeing” someone and actually “dating” them. To quote my mother:

“Oh, no, Michael, we’re just friends, it will never come to that, and he understands that.”

Me: “Ma, come on, he’s a man, even if he’s in his seventies, he is a man and men would much rather ‘date’ someone that merely ‘see’ them.”

Leading me to this conclusion: what can ya do? I mean, she’s a grown woman who knows, for the most part, what she’s doing. If she wants to “see” the guy who used to steal my balls, then God bless her. It’s better than “dating” the guy who used to steal my balls, I guess.

But do me one favor, huh, Ma? As this “seeing” eventually evolves into “dating,” and that morphs into something I CANNOT EVEN BEGIN TO IMAGINE!...can you do me one big favor? Huh?

Can you ask Dave (okay, really, not his real name…not even close) if he still has my balls? And if he does, can I have them back?


Until next time…

peace,

Mike