What I Believe

Surely you have things you believe fervently.

Me too.

I believe those supposedly healthful magnetic wrist bracelets do not do anything except set off airport metal detectors. I believe the main reason people wear the bracelets is because they look cool. Which they do, by the way. I believe Wonder Woman wears something like them—but I’m certainly not going to tell her my opinion.
I believe that astrology has about as much to with real science as pixie dust. I believe a Virgo is just as likely to behave like a Sagittarius. A Pisces is not demonstrably different than an Aquarius. And a Taurus would not be a thrilling car even if it were called a Leo.

I believe that there is no way to successfully eat a meatball sandwich—which by design is intended to squirt meatball bullets out all sides.

I believe that the main reason I don’t like the TV show Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? is because it constantly reminds me that I’m not. I don’t know what school the featured fifth graders attend, but I certainly didn’t go there. I wish those smarty-pants fifth graders would behave the way they should—spending less time doing homework and more time texting.

I believe that none of those golf videos and devices that you see advertised on TV will improve your game a bit. When the guy on-screen says he can make you into a great golfer by sharing a simple secret, he is lying like a bathroom mat.

Who would believe that a $29.95 video holds the key? Green fees for a single round on a so-so public course cost more than that. Tiger Woods never watched a golf video—unless he was on it.

I believe you will learn more by buying the ancient classic, Dorf on Golf. I saw a video copy at Goodwill yesterday. If you still have a Beta player, it should work for you.

I believe that all the fit people appearing in those exercise equipment and diet commercials—have never been out-of-shape or flabby in their entire lives. You know the ones I mean. The Bow-Flex guy with the Quonset hut abs? He was born looking like that. In fact, his stomach is a deformity. This I believe.

I believe it is possible—if you have a Costco card—to never pay for a meal again. Here’s how: Show up at Costco with several quick changes of disguise stuffed into your purse or coat pockets—things like fake eyeglasses, paste-on beards, etc. Once inside Costco hide the disguises somewhere in the store. I put mine behind the half and half in the dairy locker.

Then wander through the store stopping at every little sample food table in the place. The average Costco has a dozen going at any one time, hawking samples from butterhorn slices to little dollops of yogurt. After you visit each one, go around again—and then again.

After several trips, the people manning the booths might notice. “Hey, weren’t you already here?” At that point, you should head to the half and half, grab your disguise gear—and make your way to the Costco restroom. Change into a simple disguise and then start making the rounds anew. In a short time—and a few changes of disguise—you will be well fed and on your way home.

Speaking of Costco, have you seen those $89.95-and-up electric sonic toothbrushes that operate on rechargeable battery power and feature hundreds of twitching bristles? Customers circle them like crows around a freshly smashed roadside possum. Customers figure the toothbrush may be expensive but sure beats the cost of a trip to the dentist, right? Not so fast.

I believe that those so-called adult electric toothbrushes are easily trumped (or clintoned, if you prefer) by the versions for little kids selling for around five bucks at any grocery store. If an adult can just get past the fact they are brushing their teeth with a device featuring My Little Pony—they’ll get a brushing every bit as fine as one that costs sixteen times as much. This I really believe.

And I have long believed—and still do—that the greatest gig going is the one being enjoyed by local TV weather people. What a great set up!

Think of it! You waltz into a TV station, put some mousse in your hair, chitchat briefly with the news anchor—then turn to a camera and give a forecast.

The next day, should that forecast turn out to be completely erroneous—you waltz back into the station, put more mousse in your hair, chitchat briefly with the news anchor— turn to the camera and give a new forecast.
You offer no explanations and no apologies for the day before—just a new forecast.
How sweet is that job?

I believe it is the second sweetest. (See ‘astrology’, above.)