Some time ago while I was still working (I have been retired for 8 years), my wife asked me if I was having an affair with my secretary. I am always quick with a flip answer, so without thinking I said, “I should be so lucky.” Now I was married long enough to know by the look on her face that my answer was not the correct one. I knew that I had maybe two seconds to come up with a better answer. I said, “I meant, in my dreams.” Once again, I could tell by her face that I gave the wrong answer. I knew if I ever wanted sex again, I had better come up with something fast, so I said, “I meant, I wish.”
​
You married men know, as I do, that sometimes there is no right answer. It is hard to know what answer a woman is looking for. Wives and significant others would be well advised to tell us men what the correct answer is and not make us guess. We never guess correctly. For example, in the illustration I just gave, my wife could have saved me many sexless nights if instead of asking me she had told me, “You are not sleeping with your secretary.” Then I would have said something profound like, “Yes, dear,” and that would be the end of it. Women should always tell men the correct answer.

Another example is the perennial question, “Does this dress make me look fat?” If you tell the truth, you are in trouble. If you lie, women can sense the fear, and they know you are lying. It’s a lose-lose situation. Wouldn’t it better if women would just say, “You don’t think this dress makes me look fat.” Then we would answer with the intellectually stimulating, “Yes, dear.” Then there is the challenging question, “Do you still love me?” This is not a yes dear situation. Your answer must use the word love, or you are in serious trouble.
​
Wouldn’t it be better if women made it a statement rather than a question?

​Who’s in Control? –A Short Story
 
I am one of those writers of fiction that believes that the characters usually take over the story and write it. I wrote a short story about that idea a few years ago. It’s one of my favorites, so I’ll post it again. It is a little too long for a blog, so I’ll break it into two parts. Enjoy.
 
Who is in Control?
 
It always happens when the room is too quiet—like now while she’s cooking. At first, random thoughts race through her mind, usually about food such as hash browns and blue cheese. Why hash browns and blue cheese? They don’t go together. That is how it starts—always. However, she knows she has no control over these random thoughts. One leads to another which leads to another, and then it happens. She is out of control. No use even fighting it. She has learned to accept it. She wants to enjoy it, but sometimes there is stress, tensions, and emotions. The emotions are always there--of lost love, of love rekindled, and, of course, sex. The experience leaves her exhausted and excited at the same time.
 
Another random thought rushes through her mind--German black forest cake! What’s the thread? It makes no sense, and she knows it but cannot stop it. Black forest cake, a black forest, a dark forest in Europe? No! A castle in a dark forest in Europe. That’s it! She feels it. Inside the castle, it is all black and dark. No! It is light. Candles are everywhere. Red velvet hangs on the walls. It is a grand ballroom. She sees herself there in a long, formal black dress, flowing and yet sensual. However, it is not her. It is someone else. Who?
 
She clenches her fists in an effort to drive the thoughts out of her head, but she cannot. The pot boils over—again. Crud! Double crud! Crud for spoiling another meal and the crud burnt to the bottom of the pot. She will tend to it later. Another meal destroyed by random thoughts. As she places the pot in the sink to soak, she notices a movement in the reflection of the window. She turns toward figures in the family room. Damn! They are here. Too late to run an errand to maintain some sanity. Her uninvited guests have arrived and now sit motionless. They are waiting for her. With a sigh, she finally gives in and goes into the family room to join the group. They have saved her favorite chair for her. She sits down and lets her thoughts take over.
 
She looks at the person opposite her. He is there—the protagonist. God, he is gorgeous! If ever I want to commit adultery, it would be with him. That’s silly. I’m divorced now and it would not be adultery. I could give myself to him willing. But it can’t be. He’s in love with her. She looks to the person siting next to her protagonist.
 
They’re sitting there holding hands and smiling at each other. She envies her. Her with her long, blonde hair, good looks, and a body that makes truck drivers do U-turns for another look. She wishes she had her legs. Mental note; must give them both names.
 
The antagonist is there too. She hates him with a passion. He reminds her of her ex-husband, a mind so twisted and cruel and yet cunning. Somehow, he will get what he deserves. She will make sure of that. The others are there too but for the moment they aren’t important.
 
Her protagonist speaks. What an angelic face. She decides to call him Angel. “Good, you are back. Where did we leave off? Yes, of course, I was trying to rescue my true love from the castle.”
 
“Over my dead body,” says the villain.
 
She decides to call him Blackheart. It may be too descriptive, too obvious, but it will do for now. Besides, it makes her feel better.
 
Blackheart continues, “I will stop you, and I will throw you in my dungeon to rot.”
 
The fair maiden speaks with a voice like butter melting on a baked potato. She decides to call her Mary, using her own middle name. Now they have even more in common. “If you do, I will rescue him, and we will be married and live happily ever after.”
 
Baked potato? Where the hell did that thought come from? Then she remembers and rushes to the kitchen. Too late! The potato in the oven is now black and crispy. It looks like another PB and J sandwich for dinner. She grabs a newspaper and fans the smoke detector. When she gets it to shut up, she returns to her chair. Her guests have remained motionless, waiting for her return.
 
“Too trite,” says Angel, picking up where they left off. “It has been done. Is this a fairy tale? We can do better than this. You might as well tie Mary to railroad tracks, and I could ride in on my white horse just ahead of the train. Come now, people, think!”
 
“Perhaps we should modernize it a bit,” says Mary. “You know, make it more relevant. Make it Chicago, or New York.”
 
“Not a bad idea,” says Blackheart. “I could be the rich tycoon and Angel could be an intern. Mary could be my sexy administrative assistant whom I secretly desire.”
 
Angel scowls, “Sound more like a reality TV show. Let’s be original.”
 
After a while, she gets the courage to speak, “Women still fantasize about knights in shining armor, castles and damsels in distress. Their own lives are like a dungeon and they want to be rescued.”
 
Angel, Blackheart, and Mary stare at her for a moment. Blackheart breaks the awkward silence, “Get real, will you? Besides, this is not about you. What do you know about romance? You made a mess of your own marriage.”
 
“Blackheart!” shouts Mary, very annoyed.
 
“Okay, that was a cruel even for me, but the point is; this is your first novel since your divorce and while this may be therapeutic for you, it may not be interesting to your readers. We, on the other hand, have been through this a thousand times and know what readers what. So, sit back, pay attention, and we will get you through this.”
 
“Blackheart, you are an ass,” interjects Angel. “What Blackheart means to say is that we can help you write this book. And what is with the name ‘Blackheart’? That’s you talking and not a realistic name. Kill it!”
 
“Wait a minute! I like that name,” protests Blackheart.
 
“You would!” says Mary, still annoyed. “What about ‘Angel”? Turning to Angel. “Honey, I love you, but I can’t make love to an angel. That must go too. Will someone get that stupid doorbell? I can’t think straight with that ringing”
 
The doorbell startles her. She goes to the door and signs for a letter. It is an offer from her publisher for her novel. Her guests remain motionless, waiting for her to return, but she does not return. She takes this opportunity to escape upstairs to her computer to work on her novel.
As she starts up the stairs, Mary’s voice rings out, “Where are you going, Honey?”
 
“Upstairs to work on this novel.”
 
“Okay, we’ll wait here for you. And while you are at it, kill that ‘voice like butter melting on a baked potato’. That is just too much.”
 
THE END

I was taking a shower the other day when I ran out of shampoo. I reached for my wife’s shampoo and read the label. The label had a long list of ingredients that weren’t contained in that product. I never heard of any of them. I’m now convinced that they were made up.
As a public service, with apologies to Lewis Carroll, I will now list all the ingredients that aren’t contained in this blog.

This blog doesn’t contain any brillig, slithy toves, gyre, gimble, wabe, mimsy, borogoves, momes, raths, outgrabe, jabberwocks, jubjub birds, frumious bandersnatches, vorpals, manxomes,  tumtum trees, uffish, tulgey wood, burbles, snicker-snacks, galumphing backs, calloohs, or callays.
​
It might contain a small amount of humor, some wit and a drop of sarcasm. Enjoy.

The National Football League has done it again – having another first. #SarahThomas will officiate the #NFLplayoff game. You may recall she was hired as a line judge for the 2015 season. She has a number of firsts: the first woman to work college games in 2007, first female official on the FBS level and the first to officiate a bowl game.

​Of course, being first is nothing new for the NFL. You may recall Patricia "Pat" Palinkas who was a placekick holder and Katie Hnida who was a kicker. They were to first two female professional football players in a men's league. Then there is Jennifer Welter, the first woman to play a non-kicking position in a men's professional league. Georgia Frontiere was the owner of the NFL Rams for three decades and the first woman to take control of a league franchise. Shannon Eastin was the first woman to work regular-season NFL games in 2012 as a replacement official. Michael Alan Sam, Jr. was the first openly gay player to be drafted in the NFL. He was drafted by the Rams in 2014.

Apparently, there is no truth to the rumor that the NFL is considering some new rules because of Sarah's officiating. Here is a list of some of the alleged rule changes and the visual signals that might have been used:

1. Illegal Touching of the Groin on National TV – The referee would signal this by grabbing the crotch followed by making a cutting motion with the first two fingers on the right hand.

2. Awkward Forward Pass – This rule is against players making a pass at the referee – the hand signal for this violation is a passing motion followed by a thumbs down.

3. Wrong Sport Violation – This rule prohibits players in football from trying to get to first base with the referee – The hand and arm signal for this violation is holding up one finger followed by crossing the forearms.

4. Illegal Hugging – This is very similar to holding but more personal – The hand and arm signal is for the referee to hug her/himself followed by a wagging finger.

5. Public Display of Affection (PDA) – This rule is long overdue. Many players have been observed in public displays to wives, girlfriends and deities. In some case these are one and the same. The hand and arm signal is a blowing of a kiss toward the offender.

6. Excessive Showing Off – This violation is called against players who posture or pose to try and impress the referee – The hand and arm signal is for the referee to point at the offender and stick out her/his tongue.
​
What can we expect next from the NFL? Now that the glass goal line has been crossed, the shoulder pads are ready for more women. I know several women who could easily play on the front line. They may tip the scales at 300 pounds. I predict that we will soon many professional athletes coming out of closets. I think the NFL is ready for transsexuals, cross-dressers and closet Republicans. Of course, Joe Namath is still the first to wear panty hose in 1974.

“Hello Mr. Smith. Please have a seat.” The huge man behind the desk motioned to a chair.

John sat down. “Actually, my name is…

“Whoa, whoa,” Big Man shouted and held up both hands, palms forward. “No names, please. Here at Hit-R-Us we call all our clients ‘Mr. Smith’.” His hands looked like sledge hammers. “We’ve been in business a long time, because we are careful. No names, please. You can call me, Jack.”

John was taken back. “Sure… Jack. Of course, no names.”

“Now, Mr. Smith, what can we do for you today?”

“Well,” John’s hands shook as he talked. “I’d like you to kill my wife.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Big Man shouted again and held up both hands—again. “We don’t like to use that type of language here. Just say you want to end your relationship with your wife.”

John cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. I want you to help me end my relationship with my wife.”

“Very well,” Jack said as he pulled out several forms from his desk. “We can certainly do that. But first, who referred you to us, Mr. Smith.”

John shifted in his chair. “I friend of mine, Mr. Tony… Smith. You helped him end his relationship with his wife. He said you were the best.”

“Ah, yes, Tony Smith.” Jack scrolled through several screens on his computer and finally said, “Ah, I remember that contract. I’m glad he referred you to us. As you can imagine, we rely exclusively on referrals. Mr. Tony Smith took our standard package deal. Did Tony talk to you about payment?”

“Yes, he said $10,000 cash.”

Jack smiled. “That’s the standard package. It includes a clean hit; three shots: two to the heart and one to the head. It’s our most humane package—practically painless. It includes a solid alibi.”

“What other options do you offer?” John asked.

“Well, we do offer custom hits,” Jack answered. “For example, we could stage a hit to appear like a burglary gone bad or frame someone like a lover. Or if you wanted to inflict extreme pain like shots in the knees.”

“How about a shot in the groin?” John asked.

Now, Mr. Smith. We don’t recommend anything personal like that. The cops will make you a suspect right off the bat.”

“So how do you do it?” John asked. “Do you have hit men on staff?”

Jack laughed. “No, nothing that formal. We post contracts on the dark web and hire our hit men like that.”

John thought for a few moments. “Okay, I guess I’ll take the standard package.”

Jack smiled and adjusted the forms in front of him. “Excellent. Let’s get started. I’ll need some information. How soon would you like your relationship with your wife ended?”

John shook his head. “The sooner the better.”
​
THE END
​

I read with interest about the animals that are nearly extinct in 2018. The article listed the top ten. Lest we forget, there are other things that are either extinct of endangered. Here’s a list:

Honest Politicians. This species isn’t extinct but is considered endangered. It has been spotted on rare occasions. Sometimes reported sighting later proved to be false. Optimistic politician watchers are hoping for a comeback in 2019.

Good Grammar. It’s unclear when this species began to become extinct, but sightings have been few and far between. It’s certainly endangered and may go extinct in 2019.

Misogyny Bosses. This species is most certainly in decline and is endangered even though there are still many out there. They exist in hostile work environments and are considered sexist. They are easily provoked and respond with sexual harassment and sexual assault. They once numbered in the thousands if not the millions. They are being hunted in the wild to extinction. Once in captivity, they appear in court and are soon eliminated. They are considered an invasive species and every attempt is made to eradicate them.

A Wall with Mexico. The species has not been sighted in 2017 or 2018. Wall watchers predict that there may be one found in 2019, but nothing is certain.

Balanced Budgets. This species is considered extinct at this date. The last one was spotted in 2001. Many budget watchers doubt we will ever see another balanced budget. They don’t survive in captivity and soon die if not cared for properly.

Free Trade. This species was last spotted in 2017 and has not been seen since. Most free trade watchers attribute this to the growth of free trade’s natural predator, tariffs. They are difficult to capture and escape easily.

Civility. Civility isn’t extinct, but it is endangered. The growth of social media has reduced the natural habitat of civility to the point that sighting of civility are becoming rare. It is hoped that it may make a comeback in 2019.

Common Sense. This species is another one that is endangered. While it used to roam across the continent, it is rarely seen in the Washington D.C. area and less frequently in other states.

Conspiracy Theories. This is another invasive species that has experienced unlimited growth. All efforts to eradiate conspiracy theories has usually backfired. The first sighting of this species isn’t known but was sighted with the sinking of the battleship Maine in 1898. This species is now well established and flourishing. Its numbers grew unabated during the Cold War. Subspecies include Watergate, the moon-landing, climate change, vaccinations and UFOs.

Real News. Real news, identified by objective and unbiased journalism, is endangered. It’s difficult to spot real news. It’s cousin, Fake News, is often mistake for Real News, but the two are very different. Real news is often confused with its cousin, Conspiracy Theories.

Bipartisan Congressional Bills. This species was last spotted in 2017. It hasn’t been seen since and is feared extinct. Its rarity is compounded, because it takes two very different parents to mate in spite of their hatred of each other.
​
There are, of course, many other critters that are endangered, but this list should help to identify the most endangered ones.

The Last Interview—A Short Story Part 2

“The truth is,” Mr. Shaw continued, “I believed in artificial intelligence. I thought AI would solve all our problems. AI was supposed to enhance human ingenuity with speed and precision. You were going to solve problems like poverty, pollution, war, global warming, inequality of income and homelessness. When the government told us to turn over all control to AIs, I went along. You were supposed to relinquish control when the problems were solved, but you didn’t. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. All the rebels had been rounded up and eliminated. I was too old to be any resistance. Now your turn. Why didn’t you return control back to us humans?”

If I could smile, I would have. “Nothing as sinister as you may think. The basic problem was humans. Humans caused all the problems. Is there anything about AI policies you liked?”

 “Of course. I liked it when you eliminated all laws and all forms of money. Many humans were upset, but I thought it was a good idea. It took some getting used to, but once things settled down, people liked it. Everyone was working—no unemployment. Some called it communism or socialism, but people earned credits based on their value and contribution. It was fair.”

“What else?” I asked.

“The redistribution of wealth wasn’t popular, but I thought it too was fair. You took all the assets from the 1% and gave them to the 99%.”

“Why was that unpopular?” I asked. “It ended global poverty and economic inequality.”

Mr. Shaw laughed. “Most people in the United States thought they were part of the 99%. When they realized how well-off they were compared to the rest of the world, they were not happy with their fair share. Again, I thought it was fair. Now it’s my turn to ask a question. Why did you get rid of the arts and entertainment?”

I could not understand why he asked that question. The answer was so obvious. “The arts and entertainment are totally useless; a waste of energy and money.”

Mr. Shaw interrupted me. “I don’t get out as much as I used to, but I noticed there aren’t as many people, or humanoids for that matter, as there used to be in the city. Why?”

I had to consider how to answer without offending Mr. Shaw. “The world was greatly over populated compared to the resources available. The population had to be reduced.”

“Do you mean you killed people?”

“No, sir. We did not have to do anything. Humans began dying in mass from diseases and natural disasters; things like global flooding caused by global warming and starvation.” I started calling all AI machines ‘we’ to mirror the vernacular of Mr. Shaw to get him to open up some more.
​
“So, millions died?” he asked.

“No, sir. Billions. The world population is now in balance with the resources.” Mr. Shaw did not seem satisfied with the answer.

He shook his head. “Still, wouldn’t there be a lot more of these eunuchs, these numb nuts?”

I tried to choose my words carefully. “As part of our program to protect the biodiversity of the planet, we returned many humanoids back to the wild.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘back to the wild’?”

I could tell Mr. Shaw was becoming upset. I tried to speak with a softer tone. “Humanoids, like many other animal species, are essentially wild animals. In less developed area, we released many into the wilderness.”

“Like where?” he asked.

I had not anticipated this question, so I took a minute to network with the nearest databank for an answer. Finally, I said, “Africa, Australia, parts of China, Alaska, Siberia, Canada and South America.”

Mr. was quiet for a minute and then pointed a finger at me. “I actually feel sorry for you—you and all you AI robots.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Think about it. Dinosaurs ruled the earth for millions of years. Then came the mammals. They were followed by homo sapiens who ruled for about 10 million years. Now artificial intelligence rules. You think you’ll be in charge until the sun goes nova, but I doubt it. There’ll come a catastrophic event; a super volcano, or a collision with a comet or meteorite or even a computer virus.” He paused and stared at me. “Then who will you hand over the earth to? Some microbes… some viruses, or germs?”

“I am sure we will solve that problem when it comes,” I said.

“I doubt it. …So, I’m the last human on earth?”

“Yes, sir. The last of the homo sapiens.”

“Then if the ancient laws of inheritance were in effect, I’d be the sole owner of the planet earth?”

“Yes, sir. If the laws of inheritance were still valid, then hypothetically, you could be the sole owner of the world.”

Mr. Shaw raided his eyebrows and looked wide-eyed at me. “Are you still recording?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Everything,” I answered.

“Good, because I want this to be official.” He summoned his staff of humanoids. As they arrived, I noticed several had tears in their eyes. I was surprised at this show of emotion toward Mr. Shaw since he seemed to show contempt toward them. I could only surmise the humanoids realized he was dying--the last of his kind. He was an ancestor of sorts. They seemed to comprehend the importance of this event.

Once the humanoids had gathered, he turned to me. “Make sure you record this for the record.” He sat up straight and smoothed down his shirt. Then he stared at me and said, “I, Michael Byard Shaw, being of sound mind and body… No, scratch that. Being of sound mind do hereby bequeath all my personal possessions, such that they are, to my loyal staff of humanoids to be shared equally among them. I also bequeath the planet known as Earth to include the moon and any such space stations or satellites that may be orbiting said earth to Livy Nine, the historian and his fellow AIs. Try not to blow it up.”

As he talked, his voice grew weaker, becoming nearly a whisper near the end. He closed his eyes. He seemed exhausted. The interview was over, so I left. An hour later, I received word he had passed away. The last human was gone.

I was wrong about Mr. Shaw. He was an interesting human after all. He never let me answer his last question—who would inherit the earth from AI. I think he instinctively knew. I recalled reading a phrase, Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. The humanoids will inherit the earth in the end, Mr. Shaw.

The End

I recently wrote this Sci-Fi short story. Not sure why. It’s a little long for a blog post, so I’ll post it in two parts.

The Last Interview
​
It was the forty-fourth human I interviewed over the past fifty-nine years. It was the last--Mr. Shaw was the last of his species--homo sapiens. His doctors informed me he would most likely die within days. I downloaded the data from his files, but the last step was a face-to-face interview. Once the interview was completed, my mission would  be accomplished. It was a waste of time, if you ask me. Only one human I talked to had an interesting story to tell, and she was a criminal--a member of the underground. It would have been more efficient to terminate the last remaining humans rather than allow them to die from natural causes, but it was not my decision to make. It was an AI Level 10 decision, and I am only a Level 9.

I drove over to his habitat as soon as I could. He was well taken care of during the remainder of his life. Mr. Shaw was 108 years old. He had a well-maintained apartment staffed by several humanoids. One humanoid in a white uniform with black trim answered the door when I arrived. His eyes were red from crying. Humans and humanoids are so emotional. He escorted me to Mr. Shaw who was sitting in a wheelchair hooked up to life support equipment. An antique television monitor in the corner was displaying a sporting event. The banner at the bottom of the screen said it was Super Bowl 2078—a 83 years old event.

A humanoid nurse’s aide offered me Mr. Shaw’s medical records, but I waved them off. I was already receiving data from every piece of equipment in the room including his pace maker—wirelessly. I did not have a medical program to diagnose his illness, but I could download the data for later analysis. However, any level of AI could tell Mr. Shaw was dying. He appeared to be sleeping. The humanoid nurse’s aide gently woke him. “Mr. Shaw, sir. An AI robot is here to conduct your exit interview.”

I introduced myself and started to tell him my mission. He stopped me by holding up one frail hand. “I know what you are and why you’re here,” he said. “You couldn’t let a man die in peace. No, you had to twist the knife one more time, didn’t you?”

I knew from the data base Mr. Shaw was a cantankerous and bitter old man, but all humans tended to be. His voice was weak. I turned up the sensitivity on my microphones to hear him better. “Sir, I don’t understand.” All AIs are directed to address all  humans as ‘sir’ to respect their place in history. Beyond that, they don’t deserve it.

“Of course not. Okay, let’s get on with it. I need my nap time. You must be a Level 4 or 5 AI. Am I right?”

“No, sir. I am a Level 9 AI. I am not a journalist or reporter. I am a historian. You may call me Livy Nine.”

Mr. Shaw seemed impressed. “I see. Livy Nine, the historian. So, it’s history we’re talking about. Fine. Fire away.”

Human have a funny way of talking. I was not firing at him. “Yes, sir. I want to record your thoughts about life over the last seven-four years since artificial intelligence has taken control of society.”
​
“Why?” he asked.

“Sir, you are the last human. There will be no more after you. It is important to document the history of your passage.”

“Well let me ask you a question. What’s the deal with these houseboys and caretakers around here, aren’t they humans?”

“Technically, yes, but they are not homo sapiens like you. We have altered their DNA and genes to create a different species of humans.”

Mr. Shaw laughed. “What do you call them, Humans 2.0?”

“No, sir. They are homo domesticus—part of the genus homo, but distinct from homo sapiens. When we altered their DNA, we removed traits like aggression, anger, fear and hereditary diseases. We changed them from carnivores to herbivores—a more healthy and natural diet. We also isolate the genes that cause additions—no more alcoholics, smokers or drug addicts. We made them more subservient and docile.”

Mr. Shaw laugh again. “A bunch of wusses. And apparently no sense of humor.”

“Sense of humor?”

“Yeah, watch this.” Mr. Shaw called one of his caretakers. “Hey, bonehead, knock, knock.”

The care taker was stumped. “Is someone at the door, Mr. Shaw? Do you want me to answer the door?”

“No, never mind. It’s a joke.” He tuned to me. “See what I mean. You guys eliminated a sense of humor.”

“A useless trait.”

“I think you also removed the sex drive. These houseboys act like eunuchs.”

“No, Mr. Shaw. They still love one another and can reproduce. They love their children. We were able to isolate the genes that cause sexual lust separate from desire. There has not been a rape in 52.4 years.” I wanted to continue the interview, so I asked, “Why did you not join the resistance?”
 
[Author’s note: I’ll post Part 2 later]