Car Problems, Part Four

As most of you know, I'm not exactly known for my healthy relationship with cars.

We've all been there, right?

But usually my problems stem from when I want the car to move (while I'm in it) but it resists my attempts to make it conform to the standards and purposes it was manufactured for. I've been putting up with this car's crap for a really long time. And thanks to my non-pyramid-scheme job, I was making enough money to think about getting a new one. But, naturally, my hand was forced by the inherent shitty nature of my car. It broke itself going through a puddle in the half mile from a restaurant to my apartment.

Seriously only a hundred feet from my apartment

And while trying to get it to the repair shop the next day, it stalled out and completely broke down at a red light. Which was super convenient and fun for not just me, but all the cars in line behind me. Thankfully, Dr. Woofers is a planner, so I had a friend driving behind me. They pulled over, got into my car and steered while I pushed the hunk of junk off to the side of the road and trying not to curse too loudly, lest some small child be scarred for life.

In lieu of my usual modus operandi of yelling "Fuck it!" and lighting it on fire, I calmly dialed the number to several tow truck companies, who all politely informed me how much time and money they were going to steal from me. I chose the least reprehensible of the several companies and soon my beloved car was being hauled off to rest in the bone-yard of old cars that was the parking lot of my apartment.

Seriously, it was like the Graveyard of the Gulf

Needless to say, I started looking for new cars pretty quickly. I didn't really have much in the way of specifics for my search. I wanted to spend a certain amount of money and get the best quality car I could for said money. I would prefer to get a fairly nice, kind of new car. Much like my often ridiculed taste in women (long hair & blue jeans), my taste in cars is fairly wide open. I'm easy to please in general, but picky in the details. Things like the way the steering wheel feels, the turning radius, acceleration, or the intuitiveness of the dash console.

After doing some semi-serious research on the interwebs, and strolling around some local car dealerships while salesmen tried to convince me that they were going to get me a good deal, I found my new car. I got a red, 2013 Hyundai Accent GLS. I got it for a pretty good price. Since I got it used, there were several thousands of dollars knocked off the price, but it was still under all the factory warranties.

There are only three downsides to the car thus far. First, it lacks cruise control. What is all that about? My 1999 hunk of junk had cruise control. Secondly, it doesn't have a sun roof. That was a feature that I've had in all three of the cars I'd driven previously. Obviously, I could always get one installed if I so desired, but I find the prospect of a DIY sun roof to be rather silly. Lastly, it is red. According to commonly passed around "wisdom" that makes my insurance higher. And subconsciously, I think it causes me to drive faster, so perhaps there's some truth to that.

When my passengers good smelling messes in their seats, I know I'm going too fast

So, after I got my new car, I basically just told my old car that it could go check it's own oil. If you know what I mean. I wound up moving apartments shortly after, and just kept my old car at my old apartment because I didn't need parking passes at the old apartment (and the parking lot was full of derelict cars anyway) and didn't have the money to tow and subsequently fix my old car.

I basically checked up on the car once or twice a month to make sure that it was still there, and relatively unharmed. And as Easter approached, I was planning on driving my old car back up to NC and then carpooling back down to LA with some friends who were coming to visit me. I had saved up enough money to get the car fixed, and was planning on getting it fixed the week before so it would have less time to screw me over and break again.

Because I'm sure it would have done it.

But then my car was gone.

I called the old land lord, he said he hadn't towed it. I called all the tow companies, they hadn't towed it. I called all the impound lots, including the police, they didn't have it. The whole process was fairly frustrating. For one, I didn't know when it had been taken within about a two week time window. Second, apparently telling someone that it was a gold, 1999 Ford Escort (sport edition) with a sunroof and North Carolina plates wasn't enough for them look in their databases and say if they did or did not have it.

Almost as frustrating as when that homeless mechanic couldn't find it parked, alone, in the only parking lot of the town's only library. Almost. At least in that instance one of us knew where the freaking car was. Here, at least there was a certain level of justifiable confusion as to the car's whereabouts.

But it seems that the car was stolen. By either a tow truck company, or a mechanic. Because that piece of shit car was not going anywhere under its own power when I left it in that parking lot. Unless...

Cue nerd joke/word play...

So when I called the police out to take my statement about the car, they of course said it would take an indeterminate amount of time for an officer to swing by and get my statement. Which of course could only be taken in person at the scene of the crime. Because there were soooo many clues to be had. But I did go there, and sat in my car for like an hour waiting for the cop to show.

Watched some kid try and get the attention of anyone in his apartment building to let him in. Threw stones, yelled, tried to jimmy the door with a stick. Got confronted by a sketchy dude who kept asking me what I was doing. And then some other dude who was going to call the cops on me because I seemed like a drug dealer. Coincidentally that's right when the cop showed up to be confused about the fact that I had a new car, but my old car had been stolen, and I would like the police department's assistance in locating it, or at least verifying my insurance claim on the missing vehicle.

Couldn't slip much past these modern day Sherlocks

So as of right now, my old car is missing, presumed dead, while Baton Rouge's finest are understandably nonchalant about trying to locate it. I've just accepted this as a fact of life. Sometimes things go wrong from time to time. And sometimes you're able to get rid of your piece of shit car without the need for a viking funeral.

You win some, you lose some.

Where you from, anyway?

I would posit that nearly every citizen of the United States of America (hereafter referred to as 'Merica) has met, or at least seen via television/film/radio (is that still a thing?) somebody from somewhere else. That somewhere might be anywhere from the city in the next county over, or a country halfway across the world.

What I'm getting at is that we've all met someone from somewhere else, and they say or do things differently than we do. Why? Because they're weird, that's why.

In some frightening place, it's normal for families to take photos like this.

The reason that this topic is on my mind is because for the past indeterminate amount of time (I'm guessing a little short of forever) I've been a visitor in a strange land. The sense of being an outsider is fun sometimes, especially if the natives are barely aware that I'm different. At times I even blend in seamlessly.

A ghost in the night. A whisper on the wind.

Other times... Not so much.

I could have sworn my disguise was foolproof!

But what's worse than the feeling of not belonging is the false sense of exclusion that some natives project onto you. Because it's not real, it's a division and discrimination that is only recognized by one party.

Exhibit A: Many humans in Louisiana are under the impression that since I hail from North Carolina, I'm not "southern". How they reach this conclusion, I'm not sure. Since I all but have an advanced degree in 'Merica (with a focus on "The South") I can only posit that because North Carolina does not touch the Gulf Coast that it is not "southern" in the eyes of these scholars.

This may be, but nobody in the history of ever has thought, "You know? Let's make only five out of the fifty states 'southern'." That region has been known as the "Deep South", but that definition implies that there is at least another part of the country that is either really fancy (the Top South?), or very appearance motivated (the Shallow South?).

That's a movie I'd see. So long as he can still be racist.

For instance, if I took a survey of all citizens of North Carolina and combined those results with similar data from other states, plus a panel of historians, sociologists and anthropologists, I would venture to say that the results would lean towards the "Of course North Carolina is in the South, dumb ass!" side of the spectrum. But what do I (or anyone not from swamp country) know about what constitutes being "southern"?

So, since I'm not southern, of course I can't have grown up saying "y'all" or any other parts of the southern dialect. I probably say things like, "Hey, yous guys want to put on your sneaks and mosey down to the bodega to get some pop to drink?" Now, I'll grant you that North Carolina is losing its dialect, especially the southern drawl around Raleigh. NCSU Language Project But we still have the right to day that we are southern in our speech patterns.

I doooo duh'clare!!! Etc.

And that's just the blatantly regionalist (is that a thing?) discrimination that people pull on me when they find out that I'm "not from around these parts". Some of it is a bit based in truth, like when they ask if I eat crawfish. To which I respond, "Uh... Yes? Is there a different answer? They're little tiny lobsters. And, I'm a dog. We eat all sorts of shit. Take that last part how you want..."

Chocolate? This is doo-doo, baby!

So it's not so weird to be asked that, because some humans down here don't eat them. To which, I am bound by the laws of bad jokes to say some variation of "that fish cray". But it's whatever. I just wish that seven people wouldn't ask me in the same night, as we're about to go to a crawfish boil, where (surprise!) the main course is crawfish. Use some freaking context clues people... Or at least clean your ears out when I answer the half dozen people before you.

But while we're on the subject of assuming that people don't imbibe certain substances, by show of hands, who associates sweet tea with the southern part of 'Merica? Everyone, right? In fact, I would venture a guess that anywhere folks say "y'all", they should probably be sipping on some sweet tea, whilst reclining in a rocking chair on their front porch.

Hound dog at the feet optional.

So imagine my surprise when some friends came to visit Dr. Woofers in Louisiana and were unable to order a sweet tea at several "acclaimed" "southern" "restaurants". (I'm the writer, I can put quotes around whatever I like. Get over it.) I had never really noticed this egregious faux pas (sp?), mostly because I'm more of a lemonade type guy. And forgive my language, but that's some ol' bullshit!

For all the "You're not southern" crap I'd taken for the past couple of fortnights, and then come to find out they don't even have the decency to serve something that mother fucking McDonalds realized was awesome and shouldn't be confined to the southern parts of 'Merica?

"That honky grandma be tripping!"

In Which Dr. Woofers Works for a Pyramid Scheme

I would like to apologize for the immense gap between my last post and this one. I would like to say I'm sorry and promise to post more regularly in the future. But honestly? I've been busy. And am often lacking in the motivation department. So, I'm not really that sorry. But I hope you enjoy this post, and maybe (if you don't do bad things at night) I'll write some more posts at some point.

I'll know...

Nearly a year ago, I moved my primary residence to Louisiana (a move completely unrelated to a malpractice suit involving a certain chew toy allegedly being "misplaced" in the operating room), which was a bit of journey from my native land of North Carolina.

An "incredible" journey? Maybe? Okay.

Anyway, so since most of the things that we need in this life require some form of money or a sketchy goods/services barter system, I set about finding employment. Many of you might recall from an earlier post that I had briefly herded large groups of human adolescents (while attempting to indoctrinate them with historical knowledge and the "hidden curriculum") in exchange for payment. 

Not the hidden curriculum you were thinking about... Pervert.

Sadly, the great state of Louisiana was fresh out of education jobs. Because clearly they had done all the educating they needed to get done that year. So what's a dog to do? Turn to the interwebs for help, of course! 

After checking a few scary sounding websites (and Craigslist) I stumbled across a job opportunity that promised me everything I never knew that I always wanted. It had performance rewards, leadership training, entrepreneurial opportunities and they were looking for college graduates. I was a college graduate! It seemed like a match made in heaven.

And 100% fact based, just like "Space Jam"!

Well, of course, being the lovable scamp that I am, I got the job. The job being in something called "direct sales" representing the small business branch of Staples, known as Quill. And that's how I began to work for a pyramid scheme version of Dundler Mifflin. For the sake of the story, I'm not just saying Dunder Mifflin because I want to make some references to "The Office". I'm saying Dundler Mifflin because I literally sold Dunder Mifflin paper. If you don't believe me, check this link to the company's website.

Dunder Mifflin Paper

Also, I'm not in any way trying to bad mouth Staples, Quill (or even Dundler Mifflin) in this post. I'm just letting you know that my actual employer was a supplier of cheap door to door salespeople for hire, and our particular branch was currently being paid by Quill. Where it gets to be a pyramid scheme (maybe even cult?) is where the rituals and hierarchy were concerned. 

Yes, I said rituals. Creepy, huh?

Essentially I was getting paid next to nothing (working on commission) to traipse around southern Louisiana during August while wearing a shirt and tie and being told "No", often in a rather rude tone, for ten hours a day. No, we were not compensated for gas spent. No we were not given a base salary like waitresses. There were days where I made no money while spending ten dollars in gas to have people tell me that they didn't want any office supplies. Sometimes the sales I made didn't even get me a commission, because the business didn't "Quill-ify" for the promotions. 

And yes, I was supposed to say "Quill-ify"....

My co-workers were an interesting group of ne'er do wells. They ranged from the fresh out of college with a communications degree types to the sixty year old used car salesman that was trying to strike it rich. I even worked with a member of the LSU SEC championship team from the previous year. He was actually probably the most thoughtful and articulate person I worked with. Go figure. Almost all of them were drinking the Koolaid and were sure that they would be millionaires in a few years. And who knows? Maybe one of them will. But I very much doubt it.

Our boss was a bro in every sense of the word, but he meant well, and was only perpetuating a system in which his hard work had paid off, netting him some of the pyramid's benefits. Those benefits being that once you've made some sales, you start recruiting a team, and once your team has made some sales, you get to be an assistant to the regional manager.

Okay, fine. I had to work in one reference.

Then once you had been doing that for a bit, you got to become the manager of your very own new branch, making a cut off the top of whatever capital your branch produced. But the person who promoted you also gets a cut of what your branch produces, all the way up the ladder (or pyramid rather) until the CEO of the company is just diving into a swimming pool filled with money like Scrooge McDuck. 

And no, I'm not going to include a picture of that, because you all know damn well exactly what that looks like. And if you say that you don't, that's what our benevolent overlords at Google are for.

I would have to say that the only redeeming aspect of this job was that it helped me land my current job. One sweltering, sweaty, sunny, summer day I was going through my shtick and the manager I was speaking to basically interrupted me and said that she didn't want to buy any of these office supplies, but she was willing to offer me something else...

Again, not THAT hidden curriculum. Weirdo...

She offered me a job. A real job. As in, I would come in to work every morning and sit in my air conditioned office and make lots of work related motions and sounds in exchange for a paycheck every month. 

Fun fact: I don't actually need glasses. I wear them to look smart.

I didn't even really wait to see how much the pay was before being like, "Yes. Yes I'll take that job. I'll take that job so hard. No. No, I didn't mean that to sound desperate and/or sexual." 

And I worked there for the rest of my days. Or at least until I stuff all my belongings in a sack and start thumbing my way back to North Carolina.

My Day Was Worse Than Yours

One day, my room mate came home from a day at his job at the hospital, and walked straight to the refrigerator. After opening the fridge and seeing that there was no longer a beer left, he stormed into the living room where I was sitting on the couch drinking said beer. "You're drinking the last beer? I had a tough day at work, and was really looking forward to that beer."

My retort? "I had a kid piss in a trash can today. Get off my case."

*Disclaimer* I don't normally wear a hat.

With that said, here's how my day went.

7:00 am - Alarm goes off. Promptly hit "snooze".
7:08 am - Alarm goes off again. Actually get up this time.
7:10 am - Eat breakfast.
7:20 am - Get changed into work clothes. Tan socks. Brown shoes. Khaki pants. Brown belt. Yellow shirt. Brown tie.
7:27 am - Admire self in mirror.

"You handsome devil, you..."

7:30 am - Drive to work.
7:40 am - Arrive at work.
8:30 am - 1st Period begins.
9:26 am - 2nd Period Planning begins.
10:14 am - 3rd Period begins.

Let it be known that up until this point, everything has been proceeding nearly exactly the same as it does every day. My kids are a bunch of whiny brats who couldn't learn their way out of a paper bag.

Imagine "Eye of the Tiger" playing in the background.

Then things go south. Waayyyyyy south.

Further south.

For those of you who have no idea what a "Code Red" or "Lockdown" means in public schools, these words mean there is a serious threat to the school in question. Serious threats like armed intruders on school grounds. Essentially you hide all the kids in the room, lock the door and wait for the police to clear the building.

Just minutes before the end of 3rd Period, the intercom comes on. My principal calmly says "Teachers, at this time we are going into lockdown. Lock the classroom door. All students should remain in their classroom until otherwise directed. Please remain calm."

My response?

"Alright students, please make your way to the corner of the classroom furthest away from the door and windows. Please remain calm, keep quiet and we'll get through this. In all likelihood, this is just a drill, in which case we should just be calm. If it isn't, we should remain calm and let the authorities sort it out."

So naturally the kids freaked the fuck out.

Aahhhh! Panic! Loud noises!

After about ten or fifteen minutes of me scolding children about not talking, texting, throwing balls of paper at each other, giggling, farting, etc. the principal comes back on the intercom to let us know that "The current situation is this: a gunman was seen near the local college campus (about one block away). We are taking this very seriously, and suggest you do the same."

Now, for the past thirty minutes, one of my students had been asking to use the bathroom. I wanted to finish the particular part of the lesson before I let him go. Now, with the school in lockdown, there was no way to get to the bathroom until it was over. This would quickly become a problem.

Quite soon the kid was like, "Dr. Woofers, I really have to go the bathroom." And I was like, "Well, unfortunately that isn't feasible at the moment, what with the lockdown and all. I'm not supposed to let anyone out of the room. And I won't. For both your safety and the rest of the class'. If you absolutely have to go, you can either pee in your pants or use the trashcan over there in the corner." That shut him up right quick.

Guess he didn't want to be really cool.

Some girl piped up and said she had to go to the bathroom like fifteen minutes later, and I told her the same thing. She got really pale when I mentioned peeing in a trashcan. Like most normal people with proper societal norms would.

But here's the things about societal norms. When shit hits the fan, sometimes they get tossed by the way side. And once you pissed in a trashcan, what's to stop you from deciding that perhaps other things that were deemed weird or morally wrong by society can also be cast aside. Like when and where it's acceptable to be nude. How much cursing is too much cursing. If murder is okay so long as it's in a justifiable rage.

How far down the rabbit hole is too far?

But suffice it to say, we eventually reached that tipping point. The event horizon. The point of no return. The breaking point. The crossroads. The pivotal moment in time. If you'll allow me one last synonym slash pun: the watershed. That moment when my student felt the fluids in his excretory system would soon escape, with or without his consent.

"Dr. Woofers, I can't hold it any longer" he blurted out. "I need to pee in the trash can." After this admission of biological inevitability, he hung his head in shame while his classmates that overheard began snickering.

So we put the trashcan in the corner, had a few other boys form a protective detail around him, and proceeded to let that poor little kid piss away any dignity he might have ever had. If you've never heard the sound of urine falling in a trashcan, it is quite difficult to describe. I would say it was distinctive, but I can't really pinpoint what it sounded like.

But it haunts my dreams.

Then after that was done, we had to sit in the same room as that piss trashcan for another hour and half until the lockdown was ended. My room normally isn't the habit of smelling like a cupcake factory, or any such delicious sensory bouquet. But it's never been succinctly summed up as a squalid cesspool of scents. The smell of urine really does take the classiness level of any establishment down by about a factor of "homelessness".

I call it "Eau de Mad-Dog 20/20".

Now that you've heard how bad that part of the day was, imagine that I still had to try and teach a bunch of seventh graders who had just been cooped up in a room for the better part of three hours. It was like herding cats.

And simultaneously trying to teach the cats about the Congo.

But wait! The good news isn't over just yet!

The gunman who was spotted near the local university campus was merely a student with an oddly shaped umbrella handle sticking out of his book bag. So all of the past several hours had been all for nothing. Less than nothing really. The only thing that the university should have done upon seeing him walking around on that security camera was boot up the Bat Signal.

That or just check the weather forecast.

In Which Dr. Woofers Teaches Middle School

Many of you know Dr. Woofers as the fun loving golden retriever who also happens to be a doctor of internal medicine. Or, rather the nom de plume that I use for this blog. For the past few months, as seems wont to happen, I have lapsed into not chronicling the adventures of the good doctor. In those months, there have been many changes, not least of which has been my transition from graduate student to teacher and role model for America's youth.

Now, it has always been my intention to be captain of my own classroom someday. I had just always planned for that classroom to be populated by teenagers approaching normalcy, not a bunch of cretinous tweens.

Cretinism is a thyroid related medical condition. My students are just dumb.

But here we are. So lets just make the best of this situation and make fun of those kids. Deal?

For the past several months whenever someone asks me how teaching has been, I reply with one word: "interesting". Because that's really all I can say without telling them about the minutiae of my job. I have a few rather singular stories that I share whenever I have time, and a thousand little commiserations when I have time to speak to somebody else who has to deal with children for a living. Today I'm going to start to share some of those noteworthy stories or opinions.

Let's begin with the opinions. Or as I'm going to call them "Facts".

"Kids are the worst! Am I right? Of course I'm right."

I teach roughly 170 students, give or take how many are suspended, across six classes. There are only 25 students in the 7th grade that I have not taught. That means in just my first year of teaching, I have taught roughly a fourth of the entire school's population. So I feel like I have a fairly accurate assessment of what my school has to offer.

*Disclaimer* I like my job. It's what I spent years of college preparing for. History and teaching are two things that I like to think I'm pretty good at. I have no thoughts about quitting, despite some of the kids taunting to the otherwise. I tell the kids that they pay me too much money for me to quit. This is just a chance to do some good-natured griping about my students.

Fact Number 1)

Middle school students are terrible, terrible people. Seventh graders are the worst of the worst. Keep that in mind when you read the things I say about them. They deserve it.

For serious.

Let me be clear: kids love Dr. Woofers, and Dr. Woofers loves kids. But these sub-humans are not, NOT kids. Middle school kids have all the worst qualities of children and adults. With none of the perks. They're like the opposite of sporks. The opposite of boat-planes. The opposite of surf and turf. I think you get the point.

Gross...

Fact number 2)

My school has some of the lowest of the low. I teach nearly all of them. There is not a moment in the day where I don't have at least five problem students in the classroom. In addition to behavior problems, I have students who read at a 2nd grade level. Not to be cruel, but one class also has eight students who are classified as being "high functioning" members of the special education program.

Gold medal level high functioning. Seriously, they're awesome.

We also have some really bright kids. Every school has the honors program, the gifted kids, the advanced class, whatever you want to call it. Our school is no different. This school has a robotics team. My high school didn't have a robotics team.

Don't get me wrong, those kids are terrible too. They think that they know everything. I had one kid try to tell me the historiography of the American Civil War. These kids can't stand to make bad grades. They whine more than the "dumb" kids when a study guide doesn't tell them every single answer they'll need for the upcoming test.

I don't even know what to do sometimes...

The lesson of the story is you can't win with middle school students. They are the quintessential Pyrrhic victory. You can't win for losing.

Fact Number 3)

Middle school kids seem to have a problem with converting their short term memory to long term memory. It's like every time they go to sleep at night, they forget everything that happened the day before. They have the memory span of Drew Barrymore in "50 First Dates". Not just things like not remembering what they learned during elementary school. But things that they just learned last period.

"What does "simile" mean? Think. Think. Think."

Anyway, this is just the start. I'm sure that at some point I will have the time to write up some of the anecdotes from my time in the crowded classroom. In the crowded hallway. In the crowded lunchroom. You get the point.

Things To Say In Certain Situations

One of the classic forms of humor is when there is an incongruity between something that happens and what you'd expect. If you think about it, a large percentage of the jokes you know stem from such a mismatch between situation and reaction. But like any aspiring funny-person knows, sometimes good laughs need preparation.

I don't mean that you purposefully rent a giraffe and take it to the local pub or anything, I mean that you try and focus on wordplay, double entendres, or at the very least making a funny face here and there.

That's the stuff!

Those are all great ways to get a chuckle, a giggle, a tee-hee, a chortle, a guffaw, or some manner of mirth-induced vocalization. And just because I happen to like you, and am a fan of spreading laughter in general, here are three things that you can say whenever you want to (hopefully) get a decent laugh in specific situations.

"Again?"

Seriously?

Have you ever had something bad happen to you? Who are you kidding? Of course you have. Unless you've lived a charmed life up until now, something bad has happened to you. Odds are, many bad things have happened to you. In fact, I'd wager that something bad has happened to you multiple times.

For instance, my POS car has decided to not shift out of park and had to be fixed on 3 separate occasions. People who know me well know that my car is unreliable. And I'll be like "Again?", because I'm just so exasperated with the constant disappointment of my car. But what if something happens that has not happened before, and you still say "Again?"?

I don't just mean that the first time you go to a new restaurant and the waiter accidentally forgets that you specified that you didn't want onions with your steak. I mean some CRAZY shit. Like you're sitting around your apartment watching a DVD, and a SWAT team crashes in through the windows and front door. After you overcome the residual effects of the flash-bang grenades, you look around and utter an exasperated "Again?".

"Who's retarded now?"

"If you ain't first, you're last."

Have you ever won an award? Or been recognized in front of a group of people for doing something that perhaps your parents wouldn't be ashamed of? If you're reading this right now, sadly you might not have.

Well, think back to the last time you witnessed somebody accept an award or honor. What happened? They got up to the stage, thanked some people (maybe a flying spaghetti monster) who helped them out, or inspired them, or whatever. The point is that they normally go on and on about how lucky they are, or how hard they've worked, or some other humble pretenses.

Or have some black guy steal your mic. It's whatever.

The first thing you need to say is "Who's retarded now?". Instantly, everyone watching you will honestly assume one of two things. One, that at some point your teacher, parent, mentor or whatever has told you that you were mentally handicapped and would never amount to anything. That is a little disheartening, but still really funny. Or second, that you're calling them (the audience members) retarded. That might not be too funny to them.

"Are you faking it?"

"This better not be a plea for attention..."

Everyone knows that a time honored tradition of "playing dead" in order to avoid being eaten by a bear. How that advice came about (maybe the bears?), nobody knows. Possums do it, hog-nose snakes do it, lots of animals pretend to be dead in order to avoid danger. How it works, nobody knows. Isn't the point of being a carnivore to hunt, kill and subsequently devour the prey? So if your prey takes some of the work out of it for you, no big deal. Right?

"Can we get some Diet Cokes with this?"

As a bear, or whatever, I would immediately go up to the "dead" prey and poke it with a stick or something. Maybe pinch it. I want to be sure that it's really dead before I start to eat it, because eating something that isn't dead might be kind of tough. Don't believe me? Try some extreme sushi some time.

Hint: it involves goldfish, but not sunglasses...

Now apply that to other situations. Situations where you know that the person is not faking whatever it is that you're accusing them of faking. Good examples include: people confined to wheel-chairs, an obviously pregnant woman undergoing labor pains, or in the worst case scenario: somebody who is clearly dying...

Yeah, that got kind of depressing there.

Perhaps we shouldn't make jokes like that all the time.