Bar None

Man was fearfully and wonderfully made. And God looked at man, rubbed his chin, and said, “Man is lonesome. He needs someone who can remember to put a new bar of soap in the shower.”

So God made woman. A helpmate for the man; someone who could find the mustard behind the milk in the refrigerator. And who could produce two clean, matching socks from dust mites in the air at 6:30 a.m.

And who would emerge from the shower with a $20 hot oil frizz-reduction hair conditioning treatment streaming down her shoulders to locate and unwrap a new bar of soap so that the next person would not have to shower using the last bit of dandruff shampoo as a body scrub.

Only God knows why a man, who can remember the quarterly scores from every Super Bowl from the dawn of civilization to present day replays, cannot remember to replace the soap when he leaves the shower. Somewhere between reaching for the towel and stirring creamer into his coffee, his priorities shift.

But while God is chuckling over the soap sliver bit, woman is in the kitchen raising her hands to heaven and crying, “Lord, never mind the soap. Why can’t man learn to put the twist tie back on the bread? Why does he have to do that twirl and tuck thing with the bread wrapper? You know I hate that.”

And God smiled. “He’s innovative.”

Then woman heads to the laundry room to bring new life to dingy whites and to zap spaghetti spots with her miracle stain remover stick. And she cries to heaven again, “Lord, why can’t he simply place his dirty underwear in the laundry basket? Why must he do that foot-flip snatch and grab act with his boxers? You know I’m expected to applaud every single time he catches them.”

And God nodded knowingly. “He’s creative.”

“Okay, God, I get it. Those little things that make me crazier than a salesclerk on Black Friday are the things he uses to make a better way in life. But just between you and me, God, what about that thing with the remote? Why can’t he leave the TV on one channel for longer than it takes to focus on David Letterman’s tooth gap?”

“Oh, that’s easy, God replied. That’s to keep you from having to watch three straight hours of How to Make Your Own Bait on the Fishing Channel.”

“You ARE wise,” Woman whispered. “Tell me, though. In heaven will he wake up every morning scratching his backside?”

“I’m working on that one,” answered God pensively. “The trouble is we have a problem with everybody staying clean.”

“In heaven?” The woman was astounded. “How can that be?”

“Well,” sighed God. “Everybody’s so busy watching television and looking for the mustard in the refrigerator, that nobody ever remembers to put new soap in the shower.”

WiiCovery Woom

My kids are threatening to get me the Wii Fit for my birthday. The name Wii is a clever pun made up by people who think of English as a substitute language for people who don't use twenty dollar bills for Q-tips. It is pronounced “We” and means, “We will own your grandmother before your hip replacement heals.”

I wouldn’t worry, but these kids are old enough to find ingenious ways to get the money. They are fully capable of selling tickets and offering to broadcast my workouts via webcam to people in a position to share my humiliation worldwide or to the inmates of Folsom Prison who need just one thing like this to send them into a full Jailhouse Rock and Revolt frenzy.

For the last few of you who were involved in brain surgery or afterschool detention when the Wii Fit hit the shelves and are in a Wii Frii state, this is an exercise program that can determine, through your participation and cooperation, precisely what happened to the last piece of pecan pie that was in the refrigerator just yesterday.

The machine reflects your image on the television screen as an iconic picture called a Mii that is a computer determined reflection of your innermost fears. It sees you when you’re sleeping and it knows when you’ve been drinking whole milk. Back in seventh grade when we drew unflattering pictures of Fat Elaine, we got a visit to the principal’s office. This electronic fellow generates a quidmillion dollars in sales and markets another zillion units every time you waddle across the pixels.

The most frightening idea is the nauseating list of exercise opportunities that are available. I don’t know if the thought of watching my pudgy onscreen caricature rolling into yoga’s Downward Doggie position is more frightening, or the idea of getting stuck in a Hula Hoop loop. All I know is that the first time that wretched machine is foolish enough to flash my weight or body mass index in high definition on my widescreen television where both teenage boys and the Dachshund can see, it’s going to lose some mass of its own.

Now that’s Wii-assuring.