Page 149: SAMSON'ed -- Slain by the Jawbones of Asses (at 38,000 Feet)

Help from 38,000 feet.  I am in the middle of an absolute Freak Show Circus, and it's become less and less clear if I am on the outside or inside of the cage.

It started out so simple, a Monday night flight from Dallas to Boston.

There I was, sitting in 20A, and right behind me in row 21, in a sure sign of the 2012 Apocalypse, it finally happened. Talking Head Tom, that dreaded traveler who cannot shut his mouth on a flight, sat down next to Blabbermouth Betty, who can talk your brain into a mushpot in mere seconds, and it was a Match.com made in Heav'n.  The fact that he was about 25 and she was about 75 made no difference. They both loved to prattle so much and so loudly, they weren't about to let something like chemistry get in the way of the ultimate yackfest.  There was a boat on the cover of the in-flight magazine, and Betty was practically bursting at the seams to start a conversation. "Oh, look at that BOAT!" she exclaimed. "I just love to see boats.  They just always look so FUN and-"

"I have a boat!" Talking Head Tom interrupted excitedly. "It's a 2004 SkiMan Craftathon Deluxe, in blue -- with the optional fins and a kayak hook and a -"

"I rode in a kayak once!" Better squealed. "Well, I think it was a canoe.  It was on a river, and…! And…! And, and… and!"  She finally took a breath and that was Talking Head Tom's cue to butt in - "My favorite river is one in North Carolina!  So last summer..."   Ohhh, no.  No, no, no.   The volume level was set to just above "jackhammer."

Meanwhile, across the aisle to my right in 20C, The Junkman was getting busy.  I refer to him as "The Junkman" because he was apparently having Junk Problems, as in, problems with his junk, and the only thing that could possibly fix it was frantic scratching, poking, and general rustling around his mid-section.  Unfortunately, all the pawing had caught the attention of my seat partner in 20B, Buddy Seeker, the ultimate seat partner horror who was on high alert patrolling for a new best friend on the flight.  His plans included talking incessantly for the entire flight, prominently projecting his rancid smoker's breath.  "Well, what do you think?" he asked toothily.  I smiled and give him a thumbs-up, briefly thinking of answering in sign language as a diversion.  I realized it was going to be a long, long flight.  But at least, the people in front of me seemed normal. 

Don't get me wrong.  I enjoy talking to people on flights.   In moderation, like all healthy things in life.

The flight attendant walked by, and Buddy literally grabbed his arm. "SCUSE' ME," he rasped in a voice that was reminiscent of Herman Munster, if Herman Munster had smoked a couple cartons of Pal Mal's a day, "IS THERE WI-FI ON THIS FLIGHT?"

"Uh, I don't-" the flight attendant said.

"OKAY.  NOW --  DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE MOVIE IS?  IS THERE A MOVIE?  DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS?"

"Sir, I'll find out for you," the flight attendant said, scurrying away and down the aisle like a moth fleeing a spider.  Me, I was all caught up in the web, right there, sitting next to the man.   All web, but no Wi-Fi.  I couldn't go for my earphones and music because we were still on the ground. 

Ah ha, I thought.  I'll feign sleep.  Please understand, you couldn't put me to sleep on a plane takeoff with Cat Tranquilizer, but I can fake it like the dickens.  Buddy started staring at me, itching for conversation, as my eyes slowly fluttered shut.  "Think, krs, THINK!  You need a sound effect."  I decided to pick one of my "scchhhFCHH" mini-snorts, which I felt sure would be convincing that I had taken a sharp right down Ambien Boulevard.   But Buddy was watching, and he had the perfect antidote for Takeoff Nap.

"DO YOU KNOW HOW FAR THE AIRPORT IS AWAY FROM THE CITY OF DALLAS?" Buddy blasted, and my eyes flew open like goosed window shades.  Behind me, Blabbs and Talking Head were exchanging excited monologues about their favorite pool toys (I am not making this up), having clearly died and gone to Chatterbox Heaven.  I blinked my eyes and gently shook my head at Buddy with a perplexed look, and the fact that I lived in Dallas for over a decade didn't dare escape my mouth.

Flight Attendant Richard returned.  "The movie is, The Muppet Movie," he announced.

"OH MY GAAAAAAWD," Buddy moaned in a raspy, smoker's contra-bass horror.  "THAT WAS THE MOVIE YESTERDAY.  PLEASE SOMEBODY, STICK STEEL SPIKES IN MY EYES!"  No, no, I think.  If there were any on the plane, I wanted them so that I could stab them into my ears.  Repeatedly.  I resume my faux-nap and the plane stretched into the air.  While riveted with Blabbs and Talking Head's conversation, which had now drifted downstream to ocean craft and the salt worthiness of different boats, I could feel Buddy's piercing gaze, just waiting for one of my eyelids to squeak open so that he could make his move.   Suddenly, he gave up on me, and -- I swear to the Universe I am not making this up -- he turned around and started talking to the row across the aisle behind us.   Just then, it was then "safe to use portable electronic devices!"   Wholly Fully Grown Sweet Bejeezuz.

I flew out of my "sleep" and grabbed my tablet, put on my headphones, and turned on my music in a desperate plea for escape.  As everyone knows, MP3 players and headphones are impervious to even the most severe of bores on a flight. Channeling Princess Leia:  "Help me, Obi Wan Gavin DeGraw.  You're my only hope!"  Gavin started rocking, and the din drowned out.  I was sure that Blabs & Tom were talking about water on Mars at that point, having exhausted and evaporated every other water topic on Earth.

This story has a happy ending.  I fell asleep, and when I woke up about 30 minutes from BAWstin, Buddy, Talking Head, and Blabs were all sawing logs, with visions of their Blabberfests dancing in their heads.  Me?  I escaped, and the only thing I lost was my sanity.  Well.  I wasn't using it that much anyway.

Page 148: NOW, Just in Time

When I was a child, the only moment I ever paid attention to was the one I was in...I was eight years old for a lifetime. I was nine years old for a lifetime. I turned ten, and that year lasted a lifetime, too.

But to be a parent is to live in the past-present-future all at once. It is to hug your children and be intensely aware of how much smaller they felt last year. When I hear people say that time moves faster as you get older, I think they have it wrong. It's not that time moves any faster; it's that it collapses altogether.

-- Dr. Youngme Moon, Harvard Business School, Different: Escaping the Competitive Herd

One of the most valuable lessons I ever learned came from Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now. In it, he skillfully articulates the dangers of living in the past - thinking about it, longing for it, or regretting it - as well as the folly of living for the future: worrying about it, fearing it, or just obsessing over it. If you want to maximize your happiness, Tolle argues, "live in the now." The thought is profound. The notion is very close to a foundational thought from Buddhism, that most human worry, or "suffering" as articulated there, comes from our tendency to want to hold on to the present, to make it last. We don't want things to change and experience worry and fear about the future and the changes it might bring.

But change is inevitable. As the Greek philosopher Heraclitus said, "you can never step in the same river twice." The water flowing in the river is constantly moving, swirling, and changing.

Thirty years ago, Philip Brickman studied lottery winners and happiness. He found that while winners were elated at first, afterwards they were no happier than they had been prior to winning. Brickman coined the phrase "hedonistic treadmill" to describe our tendency to set new baselines in life. We humans have a remarkable ability to feel entitled today to what we were so excited about and thankful for yesterday.


What I make out of it is this:

Visit the past to remember valuable lessons and great memories. Don't obsess about the past or it will own you and your future.  Plan for the future, but never obsess over it. To do so wastes valuable time in the now. You'll live so many days worrying about the future, you'll sacrifice the present.

Embrace the inevitable change in life. Kids grow up. Parents age. Find the beauty in the Now and when you let go of anxieties about Past & Future, the Now becomes a much brighter, happier place. Live each day finding the good things in life that over-shadow the bad. The light side of life is always brighter. Always.


I had the pleasure of hearing Don Miguel Ruiz when he was in Austin a couple of years ago. Don is the bestselling author of the The Four Agreements and a modern day philosopher descended from a centuries-old line of ancient Toltec shamans. He is respected around the world as a thinker and modern day mystic philosopher. He said it best:

“Life is like dancing. If we have a big floor, many people will dance. Some will get angry when the rhythm changes. But life is changing all the time... The best path to happiness is learning to change as rapidly as life does."

Page 147: Gettin' Back on the Horse

Well, I haven't been in the blogosphere in many moons. It's like getting back on the horse, krs. Just start writing again! Just step back up into the saddle and -

With "Spot," age 5, 1968

Cowpokes. I grew up on a horse.  Literally been knocked down off a horse on many occasions, by everything from tree branches to the horse itself. In the 6th grade, I was riding a 2 year old spirited filly named Sandy. My dad asked me what I thought about my new cap. "Love it," I said, taking the cap off and waving it for effect. Bad idea. As it turns out, Sandy didn't really like caps being waved above her head -- in fact, Sandy thought that a cap being waved around her head was tantamount to attacking marauders, so microseconds later I found myself airborne, flying through the atmosphere toward my landing pad: a rusty galvanized aluminum watering trough atop a thick pile of corral dirt. As they say where I am from, it "knocked the wind out of me" and for what seemed like life and death seconds that turned into minutes, I was sure I was going to die from suffocation as I struggled to get my breath back. Despite the ample blood and scrapes, nothing was permanently broken. "Doc said I was gonna live."

As my dad tells the story, "Kirk was done with horses after that." My illustrious cowboy career was officially ended, and it was only 1975. I was still an 11 year old kid growing up out in the country in the hills of Central Texas, but I had gotten off that horse the hard way, and to quote my dad, "he never got back on one."

July 1971 -- the horse's name escapes me

But actually, I did. It wasn't that I was scared to get back on a horse. I was just completely disinterested, as the the cowboy life was never my thing -- I was into my telescope, chemistry set, electronics, and books, sort of a country spun original geek. But I DID get back on a horse, and actually do love horses and wish I owned one. When no one is looking when I am at my parents, I go back and hang with the horses, just like the old times. I didn't grow up around other kids; we were in the ranchlands. But I did get to spent a lot of time with these magnificent animals when I was a kid, and to me horses are the most "human" of all animals -- I think they are amazing. So intelligent, so much more so than dogs or cats, and each has such such a distinct personality. I'll own one again someday, but please don't tell my dad. He is a very youthful 70, but if he knew this, such a level of laughter at any age is dangerous and he might die laughing. 

So, this writing business is a lot like that. I haven't been writing for a while, simply because I had nothing to say; there was just no reason to get back in the saddle. I've spent much of the past year thinking instead of talking, about Life and what it all means and where I'm headed. Plus, it's discouraging; everyone is all riled up these days about things like politics and religion. Not me. Silly wabbits. Don't you know that all that angst, whatever fence or side of the fence you straddle, is far from healthy and way beyond your control? You can't even convince your closest non-like minded friends you are right and they are wrong. Why in the world would you expand valuable time and energy railing on these topics? As I like to say, "all that venom is not lengthening your life."

If you are the kind of person that sees things from only one point of view and it's all black and white, find some kindred others and support each other up a storm. You'll be much happier, but I would argue, probably more full of fury than happiness on a regular basis. Brain science has uncovered some surprising fundamental about the way our brains work. None of us are as objective as we think. Our political leanings have everything to do with our particular style of brain chemistry and what lights up our neurological tree. Our religious leanings are similar, and it has little do with what is absolutely Right and Wrong.  Like so many others, I discovered that "Right" was relative many years ago. When you understand this, you can release a lot of angst about all those "others" who are so wrong and clueless about everything, who happen to see politics or religion a different way than you.

This is why I don't hesitate to weed maniacs out of my garden, but instead, cultivate wonderers, thinkers, and the heartfelt tolerant as true prizes. The people in your life either give you energy or subtract it. I cherish the former.

As far as we can prove, we are only here once. I feel a gentle breeze on my back again. There are some things I want to say, and I will steer clear of any semblance of anything too serious. Because it took me half a lifetime to learn that it doesn’t take half a lifetime to learn that you shouldn't take life so seriously.

If you have come this far, thanks for reading. My energy and inspiration comes from the thoughtful people like you who would take the time to consider the thoughts of another. Life itself is a miracle.  To lose touch with that is to miss the entire point. Now, let's have some fun and get the life party going.

Namaste.  

Page 146: Can Baptists Dance/Can Christians Drink? And Other Absurdities

In which, krs summons his hellfire self-righteous evangelical anger of Olde.
Non-religious friends -- move on. Nothing for you here.

My old friend Dr. Stephen J. Lucas, former pastor of Highland Park Baptist Church in Austin, once told this from the pulpit: "And the little old lady came up to the minister and said, 'Pastor, can Baptists dance?' And he replied, 'well, ma'am, it turns out...some can, and some just can't!'"

A Certain Someone Who Is An Old Friend of Mine just posted the most asinine thing on Facebook, stating that "That Would Be Like a Christian Drinking, which is Totally Wrong."

Holy Great Ignoramuses, Batman. My Dear. You didn't really say that, did you? Let me illuminate the darkness in that fog-filled head of yours. But buckle up, because it's going to be a rough ride, as it always is when somebody opens up your mind to a wider world and you realize the door to your little broom closet of thought has been nailed shut for years. I know -- it's happened to me many times.

First things first. I have many friends and family members who do not drink. They are not judgmental people and they could care less if you drink or not. Kudos to them and may their tee-totaling lights shine forever brightly. And others have a religious tradition of not drinking, but wouldn't be so crass to condemn those that do. I am not talking about those people.

No, I am talking about Judgmental Nincompoops who like to publically proclaim on a social medium that "Christians drinking is wrong." If these judgers were apple trees, here in my beloved Texas we would be standing in the middle of a vast orchard knee deep in Granny Smiths. I speak to these folks when I say, we will be educating you today in Three Easy, Smart Alecky Points.

Point One. There are 2.2 BILLION Christians in the world, and all but about 100 million drink, best estimates. This means that over 95% of Christians on this planet drink. Catholics drink. Methodists drink. Presbyterians drink. Episcopalians drink. Lutherans drink (a LOT). They officially drink, blessed by their denomination. Many drink AT CHURCH. So in answer to the question "Do Christians Drink," the answer is unequivocally "yes." I do understand you think they aren't "real Christians" because they don't agree with your Little Official Belief List. But if you are a tee-totaling Christian, you are in the very small minority and might think twice about casting aspersions and judgment on 95% of the rest of us.

Point Two. JESUS DRANK. ALCOHOLIC. BEVERAGES. Generally speaking, when the founder of a religion does something, you can do it too! Isn't it exciting? Yes, Jesus drank full-strength Hebrew wine and beer, staples in their Semitic diet for over 3,000 years, and having spent time in Israel working in the very lands Jesus tread, let me assure you that the old Baptist line I was taught in my youth that it "wasn't fermented" or "wasn't as strong as today" is absolute nonsense. Laughable hogwash. Made up baloney to defend an idea that has no basis in fact. But sadly, people love to believe fibs. Don't fall for it, and remember, "the Son of Man came eating and drinking" and was actually called a drunkard.  Catch that? Jesus said that about himself according to Luke 7. He turned water into wine at a wedding in John 2. He drank wine at the Last Supper in Luke 22. I could go on.  Did He do something "totally wrong?"  That sure would wreck the theology books, so perhaps better to agree that your assertion "drinking is totally wrong" is what is actually totally wrong.

Point Three: GOD LOVES BEER. You think I'm kidding? You don't think the Bible says that? Oh, you should quit reading only your few 'lil favorite parts. The consumption of beer was encouraged, sanctioned, and intimately linked with the religion of the Israelites. They were commanded to offer part of their beer to God -- Yahweh, according to the Old Testament, drank at least half a hin of beer (about 2 liters -- a six-pack), and MORE on the Sabbath and first of the month. That is a LOT of beer consumed by God, but apparently, that is just the way He rolls, according to Numbers 28:7-10. As Benjamin Franklin said, "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."

So, if you don't want to drink, hooray for you. That's more for those of us who do. And YES, excessive drinking is bad. I have friends in recovery, and they all recommend that people with addictions should never, EVER drink. But you do understand, right? Too much of ANYTHING is bad. Too much dessert: flappy flab. Too much talking on your cell-phone: big bill. Even too much religion: fanatic kook. Even Jesus must be consumed in reasonable quantities, or you end up completely cuckoo. Believe me, I know several people who are.

So, go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for it is now that God favors what you do. (You just read Ecclesiastes 9:7.)

One of my oldest friends, a Baptist minister, recently emailed me. He had heart issues, and his doctor recommended a glass or two of red wine daily as part of his health-up program. "Can you help teach me how to drink wine?" he asked half-teasingly. Dear Boy -- the doctor is in. Cheers!

Page 145: Raw Topic: The One Sided Burger

in which, krs almost talks about Politics AND Religion...


When you start feeling that all is about to be lost, that we are going to Hell in a handbasket, that the forces that threaten us are so dire that it is time for everybody to wake up and realize it absolutely is going to have to be YOUR way, or the highway…

You just became a giant part of the problem.

This is true in politics. And religion. Our ability to work together is something that makes us uniquely human. When we lose that, we are in truly dangerous territory.

"Who is your 2012 presidential candidate?" I asked Dillon. Dillon is one of Kellen's friends, an Old Soul, and we were talking late one night while everyone else was engaged in a hold-no-hostages Call of Duty shootout.

"What?" Dillon clarified. "I don't think I have one. I mean, I don't think anybody can work together anymore. That's the problem."

Right.

If you are a Righty and *only* watch Fox News -- or you are a Lefty and only watch MSNBC -- it is more than possible you only know half the story. And if you have strong feelings about that half of the story that you know, down to your toes, you might be sort of like a divorce judge who ONLY listens to the husband's (or the wife's) side. What kind of judge is that? On purpose, and to make money by appealing to people with firm opinions, neither Fox or MSNBC are truly "news organizations." They are commentary organizations who write stories from a highly politically partisan point of view. Oh, there is nothing wrong with watching it. Just don't expect to be educated on The Other Half of the Story. And don't be surprised if the news you hear there is constantly upsetting you about "them" -- you know, the Other Side and their outrageous nonsense. The one thing I've learned is that there is a Little Truth on both sides, and always ample bullshit as well -- and it's the latter that frequently riles people up. And sadly, some people seem to thrive on being riled up. Happy Life Hint: all that outrage isn't lengthening your life.

If you only listen to one side of the argument, you are like a burger patty that doesn't get flipped. You end up with a bunch of raw bull. This is true in both politics and religion. In religion, so many times good-intentioned people believe that the only side they have ever heard must be the truth -- without realizing that other people of similar faith have well-grounded, valid, & different ideas on key topics.

I avoid one-sided news sources. I'm more of a Truth-Seeker than a Reinforce-My-Opinions-With-My-Kind-of-Propaganda kind of guy.

"Never argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his level, then beat you with experience." I am talking about myself. I frankly don't have the depth of knowledge to know exactly how to get ourselves out of the financial predicament the country is in or how to resuscitate the economy, which is why I don't argue about the economy. Economics was the most complex thing I ever studied in college, even beyond Physics. You would be arguing with an idiot if you argued with me, because while I know many of the answers being proposed out there, I have no idea what the real answer is.

As a longtime critic of the federal debt, I am not sure those who just woke up and smelled the coffee (tea?) understand that it may not be possible, unfortunately, to solve both the debt and the economy problems at the same time. That is what the majority of our best economists from across the spectrum are saying.

We'll have plenty of time to talk about this, so let's light up the stove. It's going to be a long economic winter.

Page 144: The LADY ON A CELLPHONE Game

The lady's giant SUV swerved, and it was coming right at us. "She's on a collision course," I shouted. "Number Six -- evasive action!"

"Red Alert! Sound the collision alarm!" Nunzilla bellowed from the passenger seat, and Number Six's klaxon horn blared. The lady swerved back into her lane without even glancing sideways, oblivious to the inches she had come from wrecking us both. As we glared at her, Keaton spoke up from the backseat. "Dad, that's 8! LADY ON A CELLPHONE!"

But more on how to play the game in a moment.

Our dear ladies. How we love you. How we could not live without you. And how you can apparently not live without talking on your cellphone when you drive. We wouldn't notice, really, except for the 25 mph in the 60 zone you're doing, or the cars you sideswipe as you careen all over your "lanes." We don't mind, really. We weren't in any sort of rush at all in the long line of cars behind clueless you.

After all, when one is in control of a 2 ton machine flying down the road, there are some things that MUST be urgently communicated. Highly important, urgent things, such as:

"...then he did this and she said that…"

"...well, SHE said that she didn't, but…"

"...and was wearing this purple thing at least 2 sizes too small…"

"...well, I just talked to her, and she said that he..."

True, sometimes the ladies could wait until they got home to call Her on the cell. But that would be so silly. Because they are going to call Her and Her and Her from home anyway.

Is there a a complete ninny obstructing and slowing traffic ahead of you? ODDS ARE… it's a Lady On a Cellphone!

Oh yes, Men talk on their cellphones, too. Their chatter is even more ridiculous, because the more miles their caller is away, the louder Men yell Because That Helps. Like ladies, they will be totally oblivious to their path of destruction, but instead of driving 20 mph and careening across lanes, their energetic, loud talking will make them blindly aggressive. Like enraged mules. Enraged mules hanging 4 inches off your bumper while braying into their little BellowBoxes.

THE GAME
MINIMUM: TWO PLAYERS, PLAYED WHILE IN YOUR CAR

The object of the game is to find 10 Ladies on Cellphones driving their cars before you find 10 Men.

1. Flip a coin. Heads, you get MEN, tails, you get LADIES. On a cellphone. The goal is to see how quickly you can find 10.
2. Get in your car to go anywhere. Within seconds of entering any major road or street, you will spot the first one, and whoever is LADIES yells "LADY ON A CELLPHONE!!!!!!! THAT'S ONE!"
3. If you have MEN, look for a man on cellphone. They are elusive, but they are dangerous and there. When you spot one, counter with "MAN ON A CELLPHONE! THAT'S X!!" where X is the current count. Try to get out of the way before you are all killed.
4. Continue finding and counting LADIES and MEN ON A CELLPHONE until the first person gets to 10.

99. 99% out of 100 times, you will get to 10 LADIES before MEN. And so when LADIES win, everybody spouts in unison, "LADY ON A CELLPHONE!"

As Little Timmy cried from the backseat of Mommy's swerving Phone-mobile, "God bless us people just trying to get to our destination, every one!!!"

Page 143: Make That to GO!!!

Guilty, Your Honor. It's true. I get freaky at the drive-thru. But let me explain.

A long, long time ago in a Central Texas town in the hills far, far away, there lived a blond headed boy, I'm talking LOTS of blond hair nicely styled and parted down the middle, who slaved away at the local Burger King. And every cretin in town lined up their beat up clunkers for miles and miles at that drive-thru, grinning like bucked toothed buffoons while waiting to mumble their highly specialized orders through the microphone.  After placing that order, they would always say, "Make that To Go!" Really?  You sure you don't want to eat it on a tray right there in the window?  Yes, I was the blond guy with the head FULL of hair.

"I'll have a Double-Meat Whopper with Cheese with MUSTARD, no mayo, double onions, no lettuce, double tomatoes, and four pickles." I am not making that up: that was the exact order one imbecilic lady placed every week. Every order was a nightmare for us booth attendants, as we pushed buttons and pulled levers and yelled back to the kitchen trying to "get it their way." One thing you did NOT have to specify was the ritual stomping the meat patty was going to get on the floor, which was pretty much Standard Operating Procedure by the kitchen staff to reward highly picky customers. Don't ask what happened if you came in close to closing time. And all this while, our cranky, uber-pouty mouthed manager Tammy would run a stop-watch and bark out orders, as policy dictated that drive-thru customers were to spend no more than 3 minutes through the window.

So please understand, I have a LOT of baggage when it comes to drive-thrus, and that baggage is stuffed to the gills with unpleasant memories and gallons of sympathy for the poor kids manning the register for a nickel above Minimum.

So, thus it is when my dear family -- bless their hearts, and make a Catholic sign of the cross here, even if you're Jewish -- gets to the drive-thru and thinks they are the Belles of the Ball, I DO in fact go a little nuts.

"What do you guys want?" I ask, perhaps a bit tensely as we drive into the parking lot.

"Well, I don't know what they have here..." the family says, their voices trailing off.

"It's a Sonic. They have the EXACT same menu they've had since 1957. Not one thing has changed. What would you like -- sweeties??" I ask, forcing a strained smile on the last word. We arrive at the order station in front of the big menu, and I can suddenly hear the clock ticking like a time bomb -- the time bomb attached to my patience level.

The entire family is gawking at the menu board as if it just landed from another planet -- it's some alien thing they could not possibly fathom. Kathy speaks up. "That Number One burger looks pretty good, but I'm not really in the mood for a burger. Now, what is different on that Number Two? Oooh, is that... cheese? Well. I don't want any cheese. I wonder -- do they have a chicken sandwich here? Ewww, I wonder if it's fried. Sigh. Maybe a salad."

I can feel my second molars slowly being pulverized into tooth-dust by my rising industrial-level jaw tension. "IT...IS...THE...NUMBER SIX… GRILLED CHICKEN… NUMBER SIX… WHAT YOU ALWAYS GET HERE…N.U.M.B.E.R.S.I.X."

"Kirk, I don't know the menu here. Now, don't be a butt and rush us! Kids, do you know what want yet?"

Meanwhile, the driver of the car behind us has decomposed into a skeleton and the Order Taker at the drive-thru has gotten engaged -- twice. And maybe voted for the first time (absentee). I have to reset my watch due to a change in Daylight Savings Time. The stars move from Spring to Autumn positioning.

"Guys -- COME ON! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!?!?"

I close my eyes and go to a Happy Place. In my Happy Place, I have a megaphone mounted on my front bumper, one that starts playing a looped recording the very second you drive into the parking lot. "FIVE NUMBERS ONES WITH DIET COKES!!! FIVE NUMBER ONES WITH DIET COKES!" it booms. The window attendant hears it 30 seconds before we even get to the drive-thru, and the sun is shining and there is a redbird.

Back in the real world, The Family has finished reading and re-reading the menu board, so now it is time for some serious thinking.

"GUYS!!!!!!"

"Dad, you get really stressed out at the drive-thru," the kids inform me. I want to place a full order for a French Fried board and beat their little rear ends crimson.

"Kirk, we are deciding!" Mrs. Kathryn says. "Well. I think I'll just have a Number Six, grilled Chicken Sandwich. Now, I don't want cheese on it."

You know what would be damn delicious? FIVE NUMBER ONE'S WITH DIET COKE. Thank you, I'll pull right around. "Make that to GO!!!"