Lincoln Logs’ Wisconsin Connection

There’s a popular childhood toy of the past with a distinctly Wisconsin connection.  The toy is Lincoln Logs.  A lot of people think that Lincoln Logs were named after Abraham Lincoln, but they weren’t. 

Lincoln Logs were the idea of one John Wright, and he came up with the idea while watching the construction of the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo.  The basement of the hotel featured interlocking beams to help reduce earthquake damage.  John Wright thought that it would be neat if children could build things with small interlocking beams as well, and came up with the idea for Lincoln Logs. 

What’s the Wisconsin connection?  The architect of the hotel was his father, and former Richland Center, Wisconsin native, Frank Lloyd Wright, and John Wright named the logs after his father.  You see, Frank Lloyd Wright’s middle name wasn’t always Lloyd.  He changed it to Lloyd after his parents split, but before that, his middle name was Lincoln.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we got Lincoln Logs. 

Now go out there and buy your kids an Xbox 360.


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Tick another experience off the very long list of things that have never happened to me because last night, a guy puked on my car.  What makes this particular incident unique is that it didn’t happen at the curb, it didn’t happen in a parking lot; it happened at 60 Miles per hour. 

As I was merging onto the freeway after our Midnight Show Saturday, I noticed a ball of some kind hanging out of the passenger window of a car in the right lane.  As I pulled in behind the car, something a bit more viscous blended with the road spray and spattered on my windshield.  That’s when it occurred to me that the ball was not a ball at all, but rather a bald, lolling, drunken head that was heaving out the booze that its body couldn’t metabolize.  It also became clear that my windshield wipers were painfully ill-equipped for such an event.  Thank God for road spray. 

The spew was shortly followed by what appeared to be fast food napkins that were no doubt used to blot the remnants of his partying from his chin and shirt.  I suppose it could have been worse; it could have been his other end that exploded.  Had this occurred, due to the trauma, I fear my wipers would have stopped working completely.


Proposed Pit Bull Ban Vetoed by West Allis Mayor

The West Allis Common Council recently unanimously approved (9-0 with one Alderperson abstaining) a Pit Bull ban in the City of West Allis.  Thankfully, the Mayor of the city, Dan Devine, has promised to veto the legislation.  As you may have guessed from the tone of this paragraph, my wife and I are pit bull owners.

Bailey is a Pit Bull/Lab mix, and we rescued her from the Wisconsin Humane Society.  We chose her because there were no Grizzly Bear/Great White Shark/Rattlesnake mixes available on the day that we went.  I’m kidding of course; we chose her because she was sweet, smart and eager to please.  Afterwards, on walks and such, we noticed that people don’t have a neutral opinion of Pit Bulls; they either cheer you or fear you.  They either applaud you for extending kindness to a much maligned and misunderstood breed, or they assume that you’re on your way to the hospital maternity ward for its afternoon feeding. 

Irrational fear of dogs is certainly nothing new.  In the 70’s, it was the Rottweiler, in the 80’s it was the Doberman Pinscher, in the ’90’s it was the German Shepherd and now it’s the Pit Bull’s turn. 

The fact is that no dog, Pit Bull or otherwise, is inherently aggressive.  It’s not like God said:  “Man and dog seem to make for fast friends.  Hmmmm, I know what I’ll do, I’ll create a really mean one that will turn on its owner when the owner least expects it.  Ha!” 

Of course, that’s patently absurd.  It’s the human owner that creates instability, insecurity and aggression.  The Pit Bull (which is actually a blanket term for several breeds) is like no other dog in its eagerness to please its human owner.  Unfortunately, this means that if the human owner wishes to use the dog to intimidate, terrorize or harm, the dog’s loyalty dictates that that’s exactly what it will do.  It doesn’t conspire or scheme or judge, it merely wishes to please that which it views as God:  Its owner.

But I realize that fans of Breed-Specific Legislation (B.S.L.) are not going to go away quietly.  Therefore, let me offer a breed that rabid legislators should ban; namely the North American Douchebag.  This breed is extremely insecure and often aggressive.  In an attempt to extend its machismo, street “cred” and obtain superficial respect, nearly everything, including another living creature, becomes a weapon when under its control.

To the West Allis Common Council:  Alderperson Gary T. Barczak, Alderperson Michael J. Czaplewski, Alderperson Kurt E. Kopplin, Alderperson Thomas G. Lajsic, Alderperson Richard F. Narlock, Alderperson Rosalie L. Reinke, Alderperson Daniel J. Roadt, Alderperson James W. Sengstock, Alderperson Vincent Vitale (the author of the West Allis Pit Bull Ban Legislation) and Alderperson Martin J. Weigel, I implore you to consider this proposal to ban the North American Douchebag…or we can just go ahead and punish the deed and not the breed.

And to Mayor Devine:  Thank you for keeping a level head amidst the misguided posturing and hysteria. 


The New Art

The last time I encountered a Web Designer, I remember thinking:  “Wow, that was like talking to an artist.” 

There was the Thousand Yard Stare of seeking perfection and the distracted, interpersonal responses.  And this was while he was NOT currently working on a website; in fact, he was avoiding working on a website.  Just like an artist.  And, just like an artist, the real work seems to get done when independent of the medium.  I firmly believe that the medium of the future will be websites like you’re looking at right now.

Look at the left.  Now, imagine drawing, shading and coloring, by hand, the interlacing circles.  Hard?  Easy?  Really easy?”  Now imagine all the neurons in the brain that fire, in the correct order, for you to picture it and draw it.  Now imagine drawing the interlacing circles with just the neurons.  That’s what it’s like to draw a picture with “code.”  

“Code” is the word that web designers use to tell you, nicely:  “You wouldn’t understand, but it’s nice of you to pretend to be interested.”

And we don’t understand, and we do pretend.  And we never will understand because we Noobs see the World Wide Intertubes from a strictly utilitarian point of view; “how is my world better because of this website?”  But every day, the internet becomes a greater part of our lives, and soon, the part of the human psyche that created, and is enriched by art will be served almost exclusively by this very Internet.  

Web designers attempt to make technology interesting.  And “interesting” both inspires, and is defined by, “art.”  Web designers are the creators of this “New Art,” and we won’t truly appreciate them until several generations after their deaths. 

Personally, I’m proud to commission a man named Chris to electronically enrich my soul.   




After some requests to know how my 39th birthday was, I’ve decided to use this forum to respond.  Let me first thank both of you for your curiosity. 

First, I believe that, after a certain age, shots are no longer celebratory but strictly medicinal.  The sheer effort that is required for my aging body to metabolize alcohol is staggering.  I’ve been legally drinking for 18 years.  That means that my drinking self has now reached adulthood and should move out and begin a life of his own.  I no longer marvel at the heady feeling of inebriation, and my tolerance has reached the point where I now go from sober to sick with very little party in between.  And it’s not the giddy hangover of youth where you wake up and immediately commiserate with your drinking partners like knights of Olde flushed with victory over a dragon carcass.  No, I think I’m ready to start celebrating with an open robe and sandals over my socks.

But, as it turns out, 39 was also a birthday of reckoning.  I didn’t realize this until today, but this was the first year that I didn’t receive a card in the mail.  It occurred to me that all of the people that were obliged, based either on birth or circumstance, are now gone.  This year, I became the elder, marching point with only the scraps of maps left by those who went before me. 

For a moment I was struck and panicked by the silence and the untouched, pristine path ahead, but then I felt the presence of the new family at my side.  Any self-pity that I had entertained was gradually replaced by reverence and optimism; reverence for the ghosts of those that I used to follow, and optimism for the rabble occupying my here and now.  The voices and faces, harmonies and discords, interwoven in a complex and beautiful melange.

There are many things I would like to write to those who can no longer read them.  To those of you who can, thank you for being my magic and mystery.  It was a Happy Birthday, indeed.


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The Big Three go to Washington

The Big Three are back in Washington today.  Of course I’m referring to the Father, Son and Chrysler.  After their dressing down the last time they were in Washington, they flew back to Detroit, formulated a plan to cut 20,000 more middle class jobs, drove back in Hybrids and asked for even more money.  As long as we’re making them sing for their supper, let’s go further with it.  Let’s make them dress up like French Maids and serve tea.  Let’s lock them in a closet and make them play “Seven Minutes in Heaven.”  Let’s make them fight like gladiators and the winner gets the money. 

I wonder why we didn’t make the Wall Street firms dance like this.

All the while, ads for automobiles are airing on television.  You’ve seen them.  A man covers his wife’s eyes and leads her outside to reveal a brand spankin’ new ride with a huge red ribbon on it.  I can’t help but wonder:  Who are these people?  Is there really a segment of our society that exchanges automobiles for the Holidays?  Maybe it’s because the automotive companies are sitting in front of Congress begging for a loan, but the car commercials always seem to ring hollow and sheepish.  There’s an air of desperation in them.  But if we consumers are to take on debt that loses value the minute you drive it off the lot, to be effective, the auto makers are going to have to appeal to our Lizard Brain.  I think the commercials will also have to be apropos of the Holiday Season in which we currently find ourselves.  In an effort to, in my own small part, help the American Auto Industry get back on all four, fully-inflated tires, I’ve created the following commercial:



A choir of angels sing while Joseph, Mary and two wise men are gathered around a manger.  Suddenly, “Slow Ride” by Foghat begins to play.  A powerful wind blows the halos from the heads of the angels while lifting their robes to reveal the newest Victoria’s Secret fashions. 

Cut to:

The Third Wise Man driving in a Pontiac Firebird.  He wears aviator sunglasses and a cigarette dangles rakishly from his mouth.  On the dash is a Northstar of Bethlehem GPS system leading him to a destination titled:  “David, City of.”

Cut to:

Mary, Joseph and the Two Wise Men looking on in shock.  The angels are wrestling.  The Firebird skids into frame, covering the onlookers in a cloud of desert dust. 

Close Up of the ground and lower portion of the driver’s door.  It opens and a couple Budweiser cans fall out.  The cigarette drops and is crushed by an ostrich skin boot.  Pan up to the Wise Man as he says:  “Hey Kid.”  He tosses the keys.  They rise into the sky and, for a moment, become a brilliant star.

Cut to:

The stable as the keys fall into the manger and we hear a baby say:  “Sweet.”  The angels coo and strut towards the camera.

Cut to:

Close up of the Third Wise Man’s sunglasses.  The angels are reflected in them as the Wise Man smirks.

Logo.  Fade to Black.


Now that would make me take on and additional $25,000 worth of bad debt.  This one’s on me, American Auto Industry.  I’d be happy to produce it for you for a mere $34 Billion.


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Happy Birthday to us all! Everyone!

My wife recently turned 30 years old, and I couldn’t be happier for her.  I know it’s considered bad form to ask or reveal a woman’s age, but I think that particular tradition is a remnant of the days when our life expectancy was around 35.  These days, I’m not so sure.  After all, now we have shows like Talk Sex with Sue Johanson who just turned 78.  (Full Disclosure:  Sue Johanson is Canadian, and with the current exchange rate, that puts her around Sex and the City‘s Kim Cattrall in American years, but that’s still pretty impressive.)

And maybe it’s different for women, but my 30’s were, thus far, the best years of my life.  My 20’s were filled with drama.  In fact, they were merely an extension of my teens with the addition of alcohol, which served to turn the “Bad Decision” knob up to 11.  Of course, I didn’t recognize that then.  It’s only from the lofty perch of my present age that I can chuckle nostalgically at that foolish young man.

But your 20’s are all about drama; testing your capacity for love and mortality, howling at the moon and calling out God.  I like to picture God, holding me at arm’s length, His hand on my forehead while I swing away like a toddler throwing a tantrum screaming:  “It’s not fair!  It’s not fair!”  Then I tire and fall asleep and in the morning we hug it out.

In our 20’s, the drama defines us.  We fling ourselves against every perceived boundary, hoping for a breakthrough while bracing for rejection.  Like visceral cartographers, we use the data to draw the Map of Our Self.  Eventually, we chill.  We begin to seek balance instead of drama.  For me, that happened in my 30’s. 

My 30’s offered a drama of their own.  My father died at 33, so if his life was any indication of mine, my days were numbered.  As it turned out, my timeline was very different from his.  While this took a lot of getting used to, gradually, panic was replaced with peace. 

Now, I stand in the twilight of my 30’s.  In just a few days, I will turn 39, which is the lamest birthday I can imagine.  It’s like the last 5 feet of The Green Mile.  “Dead man walkin’…still.  Still walkin’.”

But I’m looking forward to my 40’s.  As a younger man, I always thought that things would get better with age.  While this is not necessarily the case for my mid-section, back and knees, it certainly holds true for my head and heart.  And also on the plus side, 39 gives me a full year to prepare for the Joy of the Prostate Exam.  Maybe Sue Johanson has some tips on how I can make it pleasurable.  I also look forward to looking back on this post and laughing at how I thought I had it all figured out.

One thing that won’t change, however, is my sincere wish that, for my wife, her 30’s will be the best years of her life.

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Milwaukee’s 2008 Blizzard-ish Winter Weather Snow Event

I would like to congratulate everyone who is reading this, because if you are reading this right now, that means that you are alive.  If you are not reading this right now, that doesn’t necessarily mean that you are dead.  You could be reading something else or nothing at all.  Either way you’re dead to me.  But you may be thinking:  “Dylan, what are you talking about?  Of course we’re alive!  What’s all this about?”  Well my friends, it’s that kind of humble bravery that makes you so special.  You don’t have to hide it anymore.  Ladies and gentlemen, you are survivors!  You survived the last day of November, 2008.  You survived Milwaukee’s 2008 Blizzard-ish Winter Weather Snow Event!  We all did!  And however you survived, it’s that kind of plucky, human ingenuity that has kept us at the top of the food chain and showing Nature who’s boss for a million years…or 5700 years…or 2000 years…depending on the calendar you follow.

And the weather wasn’t always out to get us.  Back when we were kids, the weather just was.  Sometimes it made us wet, sometimes it made us warm, sometimes it made us cold and sometimes it gave us a day off of school.  It wasn’t until science gave us the technology to forecast the weather that we learned what a bastard the weather truly is.  And today, thankfully, we can forecast the weather accurately and beyond a shadow of a doubt. 

But we just need to look at history to know how mean weather can be.  Remember Noah?  Well, he didn’t build that ark for fun.  Sure he liked to build arks in bottles, but that’s probably why God chose him.  God appeared to Noah and said:  “Noah, I’m going to destroy everything with a flood and I want you to build an ark.” 

“You want me to build someone who rats out his friends?” Noah replied. 


“You want me to build a NARC?” 

“No!  For My sake, an ark.  It’s a boat.” 

“Are you going to kill me then?” 


“If you’re going to destroy Mankind, I’m a man.  Are you planning to destroy me?” 

“No, Noah, I’ll need you to repopulate the Earth.  You and your lovely wife…what’s her name?” 

“I’m not sure, Genesis doesn’t mention it.” 


“Yeah, Genesis 7-7 says that I have one, but that’s where it stops.” 



“How about your sons?” 

“Oh they have names:  Shem, Ham and Jafeth.” 

“Really.  Noah, you realize that you’re Jewish right?” 


“You’re Jewish and you named one of your sons Ham?” 


“Never mind.  So I need you to build an ark.” 

“I assume you’ll want the underbody rust-proofing.” 


“With a flood and all, you’re gonna want that rust-proofing.” 

“Okay…well I don’t want to spend a lot of money.” 

“It’s only an additional $1000.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Tell you what, let me go talk to my manager.  Help yourself to some coffee.  I’ll be right back.” 

That’s exactly how it went, by the way.

And that was the first time that the weather attempted to destroy us, but as we saw on November 30th, 2008, it was not the last.  Gone are the days when God would appear and warn us of our impending doom.  Today, God has been replaced by our local news.  It is They who keeps us “safe from the storm,” using colorful maps and radars with names like Viper.  When the Viper Radar isn’t tempting Eve with the fruit of knowledge, it’s issuing severe weather warnings for our Gardens.  Every ten minutes a Local Celebrity appears on our televsion and calmly tracks the Apocolypse.  How can they be so glib and light?  I’ll tell you how; because in the basement of every local news studio, there’s a bunker filled with tooth whitener, hair gel and M-1 Light Bronze make-up foundation which is all a newscaster needs to survive until spring. 

Which gave me an idea.  I’m a husband now, and my first priority is to protect my family.  So with what was possibly my last two hours on Earth, I was determined to fight.  I would not go gentle into that good night. What do you do when Hell is raining down from Heaven?  You dig.  I decided to build a safe room shelter in my basement.  I ventured out into the wilderness where, surrounded by panicked citizens, I attempted to keep my wits. 

The sky hung heavy over South-Eastern Wisconsin like the swollen udder of a Devil Cow.  I collected the necessary materials and began building my personal ark.  Afterwards, I stocked it with food.  Soon the walls were lined with frozen pizzas, taco dip and tortilla chips and carton after carton of malted milk balls.  When the time was right, my wife gathered the kids and we entered the safe room.  I know what you’re thinking:  “But you don’t have kids.”  While this is technically true, I’ve found that a weather drama is always more compelling when kids are involved.  So, we collected the fictional kids and entered the safe room shelter. 

Minutes turned into hours and hours turned into days, because that’s how we measure time.  At about the seventh hour of our ordeal, the food ran out, and, while I’m not proud of this, my wife and I were forced to do the unthinkable.  Like the Donner Party and the soccer team from the movie Alive!, we had no choice but to resort to cannibalism.  Sure, the storm hadn’t started yet, but in the heat of the moment, sometimes there’s no such thing as the wrong choice or the right choice.  Sometimes there is only The Selfish Choice.  They were fictional kids anyway.  And my friends, God forbid you should ever be placed in that horrific situation, but if you are, learn from our suffering; make sure that you’ve stocked your safe room shelter with spicy mustard.  It brings out the flavor so much better than the plain yellow.

But just like the Biblical flood, eventually the skies parted and the dove returned with an olive branch.  Still full from our previous meal, we decided to let him live.  And here I am, writing to you today.  Like the Greatest Generation, we now are members of a very exclusive fraternity.  We survived Milwaukee’s 2008 Blizzard-ish Winter Weather Snow Event.  And let us never take this sweet life for granted.


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Happy Thanksgiving

Hello again, friends.  It would appear that I have fallen victim to the “Creeping Crud” that’s been plaguing many of you.  That’s right; I’m sick.  I am, however, determined not to let it affect these Blogs because, you see, writing unsolicited essays for your consumption is not only presumptuous and arrogant on my part, but it’s also incredibly brave.  Despite the fact that my body is focusing nearly every spare resource on producing mucus, I must soldier on with these correspondences that you didn’t ask for.  No need to not thank me; that’s not why I don’t do it.  I think I might have accidentally taken the NyQuil instead of the DayQuil, so forgive me if I lakhsglhasodioasdgohonvos

Sorry about that.  It appears that I passed out on the keyboard and it’s now early evening.  Either that or, based on the time that I’ve lost and can’t seem to recall, I was abducted by aliens. 

I hope you all had a pleasant Thanksgiving.  In honor of this most American of holidays, I’ve assembled some trivia that you may not have known.  For instance, did you know that turkey was not likely on the menu during the first Thanksgiving back in 1621?  It’s true.  A Native American named Squanto taught the Plymouth Colony Pilgrims how to grow corn…and catch EEL.  Eel for crying out loud!  No white meat, no dark meat, just eel meat!  And no wishbone to break in order to wish for something other than eel.

And apparently, all that eel meat made the Pilgrims crazy because just 70 years later, they thought it would be a great idea to cook something aside from eel, namely their women.  Not all their women of course, just the ones that didn’t act normal.  The folks that brought us Thanksgiving were the same folks that later gave us The Salem Witch Trials.  Thankfully, today we don’t burn outspoken women at the stake; instead we put them on The View.  But back then, it was a very different story. 

Very few records of that time have survived to modern day but, today, I present to you a transcript of an actual copyrighted conversation between two Pilgrims.


David:  Brother Ethan, these two women have been found guilty of the crime of witchcraft and are hereby sentenced to be burned at the stake.  Witch One will be burned at the stake tonight, and Witch Two will be burned at the stake tomorrow.  Is this understood?

Ethan:  Yes, Brother David.  I have but one question:  Which One will be burned tonight?

David:  That is correct.  Now what is your question?

Ethan:  That was my question.

David:  Witch One will be burned tonight?

Ethan:  Yes.

David:  Yes.

Ethan:  Which?

David:  Which what?

Ethan:  Which Witch?

David:  Witch One.

Ethan:  Which one is Witch One?

David:  Of course she is.

Ethan:  Which?

David:  Yes. 

Ethan:  Brother David:  I am to burn a witch tonight.

David:  Yes.

Ethan:  And the witch I tie to the stake atop the tinder will be which one?

David:  Exactly.

Ethan:  Okay, let’s try this:  Brother David, which one is Witch Two?

David:  No.

Ethan:  What do you mean “no?”

David:  No, Brother Ethan, Witch One is Witch One.


(Muted Trombone)  Wah-Wah-Wah-Waaaaaaaah.



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Lite Beer and Wall Street

Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in my life, this morning, I, Dylan Bolin, can call myself a “winner.”  I’ll explain.  As you know, I’m a huge fan of our new alcoholic beverage masters, MillerCoors.  I’ve said this many times on the air at WKLH and, so far, they have yet to send me a case of their delicious hoppy Happy Juice, but I’ve come to learn that the longer they wait, the more I want them.  So delicious, so sexy.  As you know, sexy isn’t what you give away, but what you don’t give away. 

Now if you don’t already know, recently they ran a promotion on their Lite Beer bottles where you can peel off the label and possibly win a Harley Davidson motorcycle, leather jacket or t-shirt.  So, during a trip to a local watering hole, I ordered one and, quivering with anticipation (or the D.T.’s), peeled off the label.  Underneath, it said:  “Not a winner.” 

I was crushed. 

My feelings of inadequacy are what led me to the bottle in the first place, and here was the bottle telling me that I wasn’t a winner.  At first I thought:  “Same to you, Jerk.  You’re just a beer bottle; you don’t know me.”  I was ready to break the bottle, jam one end into my thigh, lacerating my femoral artery and wait for the sweet release of death, but then I read further and it said:  “Try again,” and suddenly it all made sense.  The beer bottle was breaking me down so it could build me back up.  The measure of a man is not how often he falls, but how often he gets back up, dusts himself off and orders another beer.  So delicious, so sexy and so wise

So I ordered another, and another, and another.  Just as I was about to give up/throw up, I ordered one more beer.  I peeled back the label and sure enough there were the words I’d been waiting to see:  “Congratulations, you’re a winner.”  Finally, Grasshopper was ready to stumble out of the temple.  It’s important to add that I then WALKED home.  If there’s one word that describes a winner, it’s “responsible.”  This morning, I mailed the label off.  Soon I will receive a t-shirt worth $11.99 and all it cost me was $15, a hang over and a restraining order.  So every day between now and receiving my t-shirt is like opening another door on the MillerCoors advent calendar.  And thank goodness for it, because it helped me process the news about the economy. Did you guys hear about this about this? 

I thought everything was going along just fine when I was watching television a couple months ago, looking forward to switching between America’s Got Talent and David Blaine’s Dive of Death and getting confused as to which was which, when who should appear but the President of the United States.  I knew it couldn’t be good because he preempted a show called “Dive of Death” to talk about the economy.  He filled the entire screen and told us he needed 700 billion dollars or we would die.  (Later, as we all know, Congress, not to be outdone, raised the tax bill to 850 billion.  Thanks, “People’s House”). 

Anyway, I thought this was a much better approach than when Orel Roberts did it back in the 80’s.  He wanted a lot of money or he was going to die.  It’s true.  He told everyone that God spoke to him and told him that if he didn’t convince his followers to give him something like a million dollars, that God was going to kill him. 

Long story short, he didn’t get the money and he didn’t die.  Which sucked because we all did our part to make sure he didn’t get the money, and we didn’t even get to see how God was going to off him.  Sure I’m bitter, but the important thing is that thankfully, God hasn’t taken a hostage like that in a while.  But the point is that our President told us that we were going to die, and we tend to panic more when we hear that.  Okay, so the President didn’t actually say the words:  “And if we don’t get the money, you will die.”  But he was a bit like the ghost of Christmas Future; he showed us enough that we pretty much knew who was in the coffin at the end. 

So we’re on the brink of an economic meltdown.  This came as a complete shock to me because I had just read that, in 2007, the CEO’s of Bear Stearns, Goldman Sachs, Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch and Morgan Stanley paid themselves a record, combined 39 billion dollars in bonuses.  You don’t get a bonus unless you’re doing a really great job, right?  So clearly, this problem took them completely by surprise. 

But if my beer bottle lesson taught me anything, it’s that we can’t give up.  There are billionaires out there who need your help and you tax payers have got to step up.  I say you taxpayers because I don’t pay taxes.  I took a cue from these Wall Street firms a long time ago and got a P.O. Box in Bermuda, but everybody else has got to answer the call, even if it means a second, third or even a fourth job.  (To the I.R.S.:  That was a joke.  Ha, ha.)

In the meantime, I implore my good friends at MillerCoors, in their delicious, sexy wisdom, to borrow a page from Campbell’s Soup and their Labels for Education program.  Instead of labels that offer t-shirts to folks like me, why not labels that earn points for Wall Street.  If nothing else, perhaps we can provide these Wall Street investment firms with the calculators that they so desperately need.


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