Keep Your Hands Where I Can See ‘Em

Having left the practice of public accounting over five years ago, I now enjoy a reputation as the CPA that freely dispenses tax advice, no charge, to all comers. After all, since I amassed my fortune and retired young, I should be willing to offer myself up as a public knowledge resource to any schmuck who taps me on the shoulder. Why pay a competent, working CPA a couple of bucks an hour when you can access me for free? Sure, I’m a little eccentric. I pull my hair back and secure it with a pink ladybug barrette. I wear a tee-shirt emblazoned with "Bad Attitude." But I’m a CPA, and the price is right.

When I was making a living at the crafty craft, I often dealt with clients who were disappointed, if not downright enraged, with the advice I dispensed. Kill the messenger. However, I didn’t legislate the tax laws; I just interpreted them for clients. The correct answers were not necessarily the warm, fuzzy right ones.

I don’t have that problem anymore. Now I always give the right answers, whether correct or not. My complimentary advice carries tremendous intrinsic value. Everybody walks away happy. They feel good and it didn’t cost them anything.

And there’s no such thing as a stupid question. Sure, that’s deductible. Just write it in under miscellaneous itemized deductions and clearly label it GREENS FEES. No, you don’t have to declare your early withdrawal of IRA funds and pay a ten percent penalty; it’s your money, isn’t it? Don’t want your estranged husband and his lawyer to know about the rental real estate you purchased? Don’t declare it. You’re protected under Internal Revenue Code Section 6013(e), Innocent Spouse Relief.

Lots of happy customers. Although I’d never sign their tax returns.

My office is always open. Yesterday, at the gym, I was standing at the urinal, peenie in hand, trying to squeeze a few drops of distilled coffee past a prostate long past warranty, when one of my regular "clients" dropped by for a consultation. He nuzzled so close to me I considered asking him to reach around and hold my boy while I adjusted my barrette. This guy had been badgering me with questions for a couple of weeks now, and I could run but I couldn’t hide. He is in the throes of negotiating the purchase of a small business. I think. I don’t pay that close attention. But I gave him all of the right answers again. And he was happy.

Done with my dribble-fest, I rounded the corner to the locker room and was met with the incredulous facial expression worn by a partner at the CPA firm that used to own me. He’d overheard my consultation, and couldn’t wait to correct me.

"Brad, you can’t amortize goodwill over a period of…"

"I know."

"But you told that guy he could use a term…"

"So what?"

"Purchased goodwill must be amortized over…"

"Look, Mike, are you familiar with the tenet of Caveat Emptor, applied in conjunction with the Reasonable Man Standard? It’s a foundational legal concept, and it means you must be leery of advice proffered by a man holding his wiener in his hand. Conscientious fellow that you are, you will probably be surprised to learn that I care even less about dispensing accurate tax advice now than I did when I was in your employ."

His jaw was now resting comfortably on his distended belly. I had to finish him off while he was woozy.

"Remember how I always looked pissed off at work? That’s because I was pissed off. You know that area on the fifth floor you call a file room? I call it a minefield. I forget, what’s the statute of limitations on inaccurate tax filings?"

CPAs are nervous blokes to begin with, and I could hear the acids churning in his enormous gut. During my tenure at his firm, I generated thousands of pages of time reports. Every client file I touched is detailed in those reports. They comprise my Autobiography of the Lost Years.

I imagine my life story is flashing before the eyes of corporate legal counsel as I write this. They won’t find anything. Trust me on this one. I’m not holding my wiener.

Must Be Neat In Appearance And Good With Dead People

Monday was a good day.

Four more carcasses in the ground. Four fewer people to flip off in traffic. Four fewer Early-Bird Specials. Four fewer Social Security checks draining the coffers. More oxygen for the rest of us.

And what a beautiful day for body disposal duty. Sunshine. Seventy degrees. I shed my shirt and started loading the first vault of the day. The vault is a one-ton-plus concrete box that encases the casket that encases the body. One more layer of profit for funeral directors. A sticky butyl rubber compound fills the tongue and groove fitment between vault box and vault lid. Seals in the freshness. Don’t even need to burp the lid.

My morning striptease caught the eye of the Ridin’ Boss, and he damn near spilled his coffee as he made a beeline for my nakedness. I thought I’d turned the pretty little bastard, and he was going to have his way with me right there in the boneyard.

I thought wrong. Seems the Scandahoovian Bonedump had adopted a new dress code. A gravedigger’s dress code? Corporate America is going casual and gravediggers are pouncing upon the opportunity to take up the slack? Are we taking class pictures today? I suppose this means no more farting while pulling stumps, either. No more pissing in the bushes. No more pissing in the graves.

Gotta wear a shirt, according to the human landfill board of directors. It’s only proper.

I explained that, while the board of directors has a right to implement any policy they so desire, my personal policies supercede any and all policies implemented on domestic and foreign soil. My policies universally reflect the fact that I don’t care about policies, and I am willing to sacrifice my upward mobility in the carcass disposal profession in order to feel a little sun on my back while I perform grunt manual labor. If the board of directors can find a genteel, gentile, dainty gentleman in khakis and polo shirt who is willing to dig graves and plant bodies for a buck-two-fifty an hour, by all means they should hire that candidate. While they conduct an executive search for the applicant fulfilling that pedigree, I’ll be the naked, farting, pissing guy getting these corpses in the ground before the neighbors start complaining about the stink. Or I can just go for a naked ride on my Harley. Your call. By the way, fuck you.

Like I said, Monday was a good day. Four more carcasses in the ground. Lots of sun on my back. No customer complaints. Job security that comes with a job nobody else wants to do.

I promise to wear my finest pinpoint oxford to the Gravedigger Awards Luncheon.

Quality Cum Control

"Those people shouldn’t be allowed to have children."

The long-awaited social-engineering version of Ronny’s trickle-down theory had arrived. And it chose, as it’s destination gate, a boutique-filled strip mall near me. It’s only a matter of time before my friendly Ace Hardware man is cast aside to make room for yet another purveyor of fine fashion.

Rich people have all the good ideas. They always have had. For so many years, their ideas were repressed by the social do-gooders populating the ranks of our political representation. As a result, the really good rich-people ideas were cloistered in the boardrooms of Fortune 500 companies, and the purity of their genius was deftly and subliminally cloaked within advertising campaigns for pharmaceuticals and soda-booze. Our medicine was delivered Mary Poppins-style: with a spoonful of sugar. Stupid poor people had to be fooled into accepting what was good for them.

No more. The Bush-Frist-Delay hubris has set rich people free to demand that we recognize what they know. Rich people have always known what’s best for us. The way things should be. The way they should always have been.

And it’s not just jowly, fat, penis-bearing corporate and political movers-and-shakers who are feeling the machismo. Their wives are also basking in the splendorous freedom to unleash their views on the state of the family in America. Out loud. In public.

Right down to purification of the species.

"Those people shouldn’t be allowed to have children."

There you have it. Two highly-accessorized women of prominent marriage summoning the courage to solve yet another problem plaguing our country. While their children are shuttled from private school to dance class by their nannies, these women were sidewalk-café-lunching on salmon-to-die-for and brainstorming the solution to poverty. Poor people just shouldn’t have children. When the last of the poor people die of the things that poor people die from, the poverty problem is solved.

But wait, ladies. There’s a hitch. "Those" people have to breed. If they don’t, from where will you cull the next generation of country club wait staff? Certainly not from the pool of children with whom your children attend private school. Who will powder the assholes of the Class of 2020? Who will man the short-order grill while your children lounge at poolside? Who will fetch their wine and condiments? Who will bus their tables?

You are wishing a hell on earth for your own children. Enjoy your new-found power, but that power bears a weighty responsibility. You must preserve the class structure. Without it, the mirage of supremacy will vaporize before your children’s eyes. Do they not deserve the swell of pride that accompanies looking down their nose at those of questionable heritage? Have they not earned, via their blue ribbon genetic mapping, the unalienable right to flaunt their inherited resources before the masses? What’s the fun in having lots of stuff if everybody has lots of stuff?

Remember, ladies, that many must lose in order for your children to gain. You should promote the prolific breeding of the next generation of servers, lest your legacy disappear.

I scored my three bucks worth of hardware and hammered the Harley as I pulled from the parking lot, setting off every car alarm within twenty yards. Just to remind the ladies that I am here for them. Everybody’s gotta have somebody to look down on.

Pomp and Circumstance...Live and Uncut

Graduation season is upon us. Mortarboard manufacturers rejoice and ribbon-wrapped receipts are issued. Countless fresh-faced students are jettisoned into the world, poised to parlay their intellectual property into fame and fortune. Deans, principals, and hired-gun circuit speakers deliver stirring messages to stoke fire in the bellies of America’s youth.

Dear graduates, those messages are but the liner notes preceding the endless text of lies that will become your life story. Allow me to season the fiction with a pinch of fact.

As you embark on your voyage through the limitless time-space continuum of opportunity, find something you love to do and pursue it with abandon. Tilt at windmills, question authority, follow your dreams. Then, when your parents kick you out of their basement, try to find something you don’t suck at too much and do that in return for food and rent money.

Craft your resume with the eye of an obituary writer. Good stuff in, bad stuff out. Study the works of history’s greatest fiction writers.

Participate in pseudo-democracy. Vote in your local, state and national elections and pretend that your vote counts. Empower yourself with powerlessness.

Buy stock in McDonald’s and Merck Pharmaceutical. Heart disease is an ever-growing component of our domestic economy, and will soon be the only product we export into the international marketplace.

Remember that money can’t buy happiness. Happiness is derived from the friendships you cultivate as you wend your way through life’s trials. Money can buy those friendships.

Believe in the generosity of your fellow man. When he delivers a crushing betrayal of your trust, know that revenge is petty and foolish. But it feels good.

Every cloud has a silver lining. In fifteen years, your valedictorian’s doctoral thesis will expose the link between silver and cancer.

Life is so much grander when shared with someone you love. Find your soulmate and get married. Then find another one and do it again as time and money allows.

Be a good parent on visitation weekends.

Stop and smell the roses. It helps pass the time while waiting in line at wakes.

You will often question the meaning of your life. There will be times when you feel awash in an ocean of iniquity, with waves of despair pounding at your very soul, and you will exasperatedly argue the inherent wisdom of continuing the good fight against such insurmountable odds. Hold that thought.

In closing, accept my assurance that each and every one of you was placed on this earth for a reason. Don’t ask; nobody knows what it is.

Good luck anyway.

It's No Wonder That Anybody Can Be President

Steve had the dream job.

Steve was a member of the crew of cleaning gnomes that visited my accounting office every night, excavating the waste left by about 50 CPAs who spent the day spilling coffee on the carpeting and piss on the linoleum. The other CPAs in the office never met the cleaning crew that cleaned up their messes, but I met Steve as the result of deftly morphing my work schedule over the years. I had trained the firm’s partners to tolerate my propensity to wander in about 10 a.m., then work late into the night. This schedule allowed me to minimize time spent in the company of other CPAs, a motive that begs no explanation if you’ve ever met one. It also allowed me to introduce a casual dress code for myself, long before casual dress codes became fashionable, after all of the silk ties had gone home for the evening.

Steve’s responsibilities included emptying the wastebaskets in my little corner of heaven, and I always looked forward to his rounds. He covered ground quickly and he was always in the midst of a heated verbal exchange, although his debate opponent was invisible to the naked eye.

Steve rode the short bus to work. Apparently he was mentally retarded, but I saw through the sham. I think he used the retard thing to land a plum job, and I regularly accused him of such. He got a kick out of it, and we shared some good conversation night after night. We didn’t talk about pension benefit accruals or deferred tax liabilities. That’s the kind of stuff I discussed with the college educated retards I worked with during the day. Steve and I talked about interesting stuff, like cars and broads.

Occasionally, Steve’s supervisor would show up out of nowhere and take him to task for neglecting his wastebasket-emptying duty to talk to me for a few minutes. Steve called her The Bitch. I did, too. And she was. She rode shotgun on the short bus, and was proof of the Principle of Hierarchy. No matter where you work or what you do, there’s always somebody who gets to ride shotgun on the short bus and hold it over you. That somebody may be the cleaning crew supervisor or the Director of Human Resources, but they’re damn proud of riding shotgun on the short bus.

Steve and I were above office politics, though. Neither of us were strangers to negative performance evaluations, and neither of us cared. Neither of us had careers; we had jobs. So we hatched a plan.

One night, The Bitch was on another floor of the office building, lording her 3 point IQ advantage over the urinal-scrubbing crew. Steve and I seized the opportunity to cast our own Eddie Murphy/Dan Ackroyd Trading Places sequel. I was preparing the personal tax return for one of my community’s elite industrialists, and I thought Steve might want to get a feel for the glamorous work of a CPA. I needed to input a list of miserly charitable contributions into the tax preparation software, and I was sure Steve was up to the task. I sat him down at my computer, gave him a quick indoctrination, assisted him with the first few entries, and off he went on a bean-counter spree. And off I went on a wastebasket-emptying spree.

As I traveled the perimeter of the office with my rolling master garbage can, I could hear Steve cussing and complaining in his usual manner. Only now he sounded like every other CPA sounds while inputting a monotonous string of numbers into tax preparation software. More proof that Steve was faking the retard thing!

I think, as a result of our little role exchange, Steve developed a greater appreciation for emptying wastebaskets. I know I did.

Steve has since transcended wastebasket duty, and I have transcended public accounting. He now works as a box boy at a small, independent grocery store about a half mile from my house, and I dig graves for fun and profit. Whenever Steve’s employer has Jack’s pizza on sale for two bucks, I stop in to load up a cart and check in with Steve. It’s been about 12 years since his CPA gig, and I recently revealed to him the name of the mucky-muck whose tax return he helped prepare.

Steve’s eyes widened in recognition, given that this client was, and still is, a member in stellar standing of our town’s celebrated, elite Mutual Admiration Society. He seemed nervous. "I didn’t make any mistakes, did I?"

"I don’t know."

"But…but…what if I did?"

"Who cares? We’re both out of the business now. You now handle foodstuffs before they’ve become garbage, and I handle people after they’ve become garbage. I’ll tell you what, though. It’s highly unlikely that this honcho will ever come into this store, since he employs a bevy of illegal aliens who take care of everything from shopping for his groceries to wiping his ass. But, on the off chance that you ever see him, here’s what I want you to do: introduce yourself to him and tell him how much you enjoyed preparing his 1993 tax return. Then you ask him if you made any mistakes."

That’s the headline I want to see:

Community Leader Stricken With Heart Attack In Grocery Store

And I Got Naked At The 19th Hole

There are only two things worse than golf: golfers and golf jokes. I was cornered at the gym yesterday by a package deal of the two worse things: a golfer telling golf jokes. As he yammered on, I drifted into one of those B-movie dream sequences and fondly recalled the now-interred Wonder Bread days of my previous life; specifically, the day I conquered the Sport of Kings.

I have played golf once in my life. About ten years ago, I was working for a "Big 6" public accounting firm. I don’t think there are six of them anymore, due to mergers and lawsuit-induced insolvencies. There would be even fewer if not for the fact that the public believes the Enron/Arthur Andersen affair was an isolated, aberrant situation. The same public that believes in Santa Claus, Creationism and the Easter Bunny. The same public that believes Bill Frist is presidential material. The same public that believes the U.S.A. is a democracy. If you don’t get my gist, you have probably already stopped reading this to chase down that despicably offensive porn popup, just to solidify your stance on the censorship issue.

Oh yeah, golf. I had always blown off the firm’s golf playdays and spent those days far away from other accountants, goofing off in other unproductive ways. This particular year, I was shamed and chastised into participation. If I were a true team player, I would get out there and build camaraderie with the bloated-belly CPAs that shared accommodations with me in the cubicle jungle. We’d be one happy family the rest of the year, chasing deadlines and time budgets and documenting our lives in six-minute increments for the good of the firm. All for one and one for all. And golf would be the tie that binds.

I was planted in a foursome with a kid who was a heart-attack-serious-little-white-ball-hitter. He wasn’t pleased with me. Nobody told me I was supposed to show up at this thing with clubs and balls. I rented clubs, and I borrowed a ball from the kid. It disappeared in the forest. He wasn’t pleased with me. I borrowed another ball. It drowned. He wasn’t pleased with me. I peppered that landscape all day with little dimpled mortars. He wasn’t pleased with me. How much can those stupid little balls cost, anyway?

I had not been informed of the dress code. I had not been issued pink pants with a stretchy waistband, so I used my own judgment in choosing an ensemble suitable for a go-cart ride around a park. Cut-off jeans and boots. Freeballin’ so as not to impede the drainage of crack sweat. It was hot and sunny, and I don’t wear a shirt when it’s hot and sunny. Would a yarn tassel have made my Yankees cap more appropriate?

On the third hole, I made an effort to engage my playmates in conversation. I wondered aloud about how many holes we would be blessed to play on this fine summer day. Actually, I asked, "Why the fuck do we have to do eighteen of these? They’re all the fucking same! Why not eight? Why not two?"

We were playing what the pink-pant set calls "best ball," which means the kid drove, chipped and putted a par round of golf and I got credit for it! Meanwhile, I swatted, kicked and threw his golf balls anywhere I wanted to. "Betcha I can hit that cart on the next fairway. Why do I have to aim for that flag way down there when this one’s closer?"

I got a trophy. First place. No shit. That kid is a skilled golfer! Kinda cranky, though.

I retired at the top of my game. No Michael Jordan bullshit for me. The trophy sits on a shelf next to my CPA certificate. Every time I look at that square foot of proud accomplishment, I feel like a chubby little affluent guy on Lipitor.

Ah, what could have been…

Your Servitude Is No Longer Needed

I actually watched Dennis Miller’s monologue tonight. Now that his ill-fated show, "Meet The Puss," has been cancelled, I want to watch him try to squirm his way back into the good graces of the fan base he shat upon to become the poster boy for Benedict Arnold’s Lap Dog Society. He came close to making a joke about your President tonight, but the microchip implanted in his brain delivered a visible jolt and he redirected the jab to Russian President Putin. Safe play, Dennis. You slid into third, but the roar of the crowd provided the necessary distraction for your republichristian buddies to move home plate out of your ballpark. Game called on account of duh.

Your handlers gravely mistook your new audience’s level of comprehension. You may as well have spoken Esperanto. The educated, broad-minded audience that you divorced years ago was able to follow your rants. But once you rolled over like a puppy seeking a belly scratching, you should have traded your dictionary for haircuts. There’s no point in preparing a finely-cooked steak of a commentary when it’s destined for smothering with A-1 sauce. You should have spoken their language. Monosyllabic words in short sentences.

Will you be given a consolation job now that you are in exile? Fox News expert analysis of First Lady fashion? Warm-up act for GospelPalooza? Stand-up gigs and valet parking duty at Bill Frist’s mansion parties?

Don’t come a’ runnin’ back here, Denny Boy. Burned bridges can’t bear the weight of lobster and bourbon sell-outs. Loosen your tie and cuff-links, kick off your tasseled loafers, rent an anthology of your Weekend Updates, and cry yourself to sleep.

I Got Your Regrets Right Here

Look at me, lady.

What is it that you don’t get?

I haven’t received a postmarked party invitation since I was in the sixth grade. Po’ white trash don’t grace no fuckin’ guest lists. My social circle is a dot. How did I compromise the integrity of your Rolodex?

We have met. We have spoken. I know that you know that I don’t shave, I bathe when I itch, and four-letter words are the parentheses around every ill-conceived sentence that I utter. So you invite me to a party with your friends and neighbors? Don’t you like them?

Is this my golden opportunity to make more friends who can borrow my tools? I already have enough of those friends. Is it my chance to meet more people who are marginally lucid and magnanimously boring even before they become inebriated? I already know enough of those people.

How perceptive you must be, how grand a judge of character, to pierce my transparently surly facade and recognize that I just gotta sing, gotta dance. There’s no fooling you; I am the embodiment of a gay and spirited reveler.

And a costume party at that? I’m staggered by your extraordinary uniquity. Marginally lucid and magnanimously boring middle-aged people suited up for a Hawaiian luau. Lots of pasty skin and moles draped in floral fabrics.

Bring a dish to pass? I hope I haven’t misplaced my recipe for that scrumptious artichoke frittata. Or the apple cranberry cookie cobbler that was all the rage at the spring potluck.

Kids are welcome, too? You’re not just doing that for me, are you? I can think of no better way to fill the gaping hole left by my own childlessness than to spend a Saturday evening enjoying the youthful exuberance of a stranger’s spooge production.

You’ve requested an RSVP, so I now have a to-do list where previously there was none. I have acquired a task simply by virtue of opening my mail. Tag, I’m it. It’s now incumbent upon me to feign the previous engagement that I oh so wish I could cancel. Had I only known you were planning such a festive affair.



Dear Gracious Hostess:

No.

I can’t come. I’ll be watching TV.

I don’t want to meet your friends and neighbors. I don’t care about their new cars, new houses, new businesses, new wives, new knees, new hair, new pacemakers and new tits.

I’m in costume every day. I’m dressed as an asshole.

The only dishes I prepare are cereal and frozen pizza. I pass them from my throat to my colon.

Children make good speed bumps.

Look at me, lady. I am forty-nine years old. No wife, no kids, no job, no goals, no hopes, no dreams, no sharing, no caring, no interest. No way.

But thanks for the invite. We’ll do lunch.

PUBLIC NOTICE: Change in Policy for Medical Personnel

Step away from your computer monitor and shield the ears of your young ones. This could be a messy tantrum.

I just received the annual renewal notice from my health insurance carrier, Bob’s Insurance and Live Bait Emporium. Bob was made aware of my existence 12 times this past year, when he electronically zapped into my checking account in the middle of the night and removed my premium payment. He received no claim forms and nary a single question about my coverage. I continued to maintain my healthy diet and exercise regimen, and I feel somewhat neglected in that he never complimented my efforts to please him. However, in the love letter I just received, he expresses his deep affection for me and gushes with the anticipation of our continued close relationship. He has offered to remain my very bestest friend in the world in return for a 17% premium increase and 33% deductible increase for the next year.

Apparently Bob is on a mission to creep my deductible up to $250,000, which is my life’s market value according to the mathematical computations of the physicians who are vehemently lobbying for tort reform in my state.

Congratulations, Bob, for having cherry-picked an insurable risk that has rewarded you with an infinite return on investment. Your Chief Underwriter and Bait Inspector should be bonused handsomely for caving in to my pleas for crappy, overpriced health insurance coverage. May you be blessed with many more years of my good health before I am stricken with the illness or injury that will precede the cancellation notice bearing my name. And my medical professional thanks both of us in advance for the red Carrera convertible that my misfortune will deliver to his door.

The following may contain scenes of graphic violence. Parental discretion is advised.

The next time a Mercedes/Hummer/BMW/Porsche-driving doctor whines about his spiraling cost of medical malpractice insurance while within earshot of me, he will be duly rewarded with a Brooks Brothers shirt painted with blood and flying snot from his own nose. I will raze his delicate facial features with surgical precision. I have nothing to lose. As a prison inmate, I will be enrolled in the only comprehensive health insurance program in this country.

Consider yourself served. I am everywhere, I am listening, I am fit, I am strong, I am pissed. Sleep with your eyes open and don’t travel alone. I am ready to test for my Felony Merit Badge. Don’t fuck with me, doctor.

And, Bob, please continue to check in monthly. I promise to love, honor and cherish you, in below-the-deductible sickness and in health, until a claim do us part.

Drop The Book, Or I'll Shoot

Illinois House Resolution 0186, April 2005:

"WHEREAS, In 1999, more than 3,400 pupils between five and 16 years of age, inclusive, sought treatment in hospital emergency rooms for injuries related to backpacks or book bags according to the United States Consumer Product Safety Commission; therefore be it RESOLVED, BY THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE NINETY-FOURTH GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF THE STATE OF ILLINOIS, that we request the Illinois State Board of Education to conduct a study of the issues involved concerning the weight of backpacks carried by elementary and secondary school pupils and consider adopting maximum weight standards for textbooks…"

Apparently our kids are being crippled, before our very eyes, by the physical weight of academia. My state’s legislature, our very own Ministry of Silliness, is poised to tackle heavy backpacks with a Schiavo-like fervor.

"WHEREAS, Backpacks of elementary and secondary school pupils often contain textbooks, binders, calculators, personal computers, lunches, a change of clothing, sports equipment…"

Not to mention cell phones, iPods, Ritalin, Zoloft, handguns, ammo clips, pipe bombs…

"WHEREAS, Chiropractors and pediatricians recommend that backpacks not exceed more than fifteen percent of a pupil's body weight…"

Finally! The fat kid’s revenge! Spending the entire summer vacation snarfing Whoppers and Ding Dongs while playing video games has a scholastic payoff. An academic advantage via obesity. With the fifteen percent load limit in place, Porky can haul books like an eighteen-wheeler while the scrawny kid is sent home with a spiral notebook and a number 2 pencil.

Skinny kids will be shaken down by border patrol agents manning the perimeters of school grounds. They’ll be weighed, relieved of contraband textbooks, and charged with misdemeanors for attempting to abscond with scholastic payload in excess of the weight limit. Ectomorphic kids will be mainlining steroids to bulk up for final exam preparation. They’ll pay mules to ass-smuggle textbooks through kiddie customs. "I tried to make the honor roll, mom, but I got busted tunneling out with a history book. I’m just not big enough to study!"

The Illinois General Assembly is opening a can of worms. Will we administer ACT exams by weight class to compensate for the unfair homework advantage held by hefty students? Otherwise, skinny kids won’t matriculate at their college of choice, and will be relegated to working at McDonald’s and Dairy Queen. Such a cruel and ironic fate! The fat kids will become doctors, and the new food pyramid will be shaped like a hot fudge sundae.

Gain three pounds, carry another book. Chubby kids will emerge as intellectual prodigies, aided and abetted by funnel cake vendors. Libraries will ban wiry patrons for fear of being shut down by sting operations with scales. Parents will chide their children to skip the vegetables and take another helping of dessert. Choco-Tacos will be the new brain food.

I’m damn proud that my state legislature is the first to recognize the horror of heavy textbooks piled upon lean physiques. Illinois is bellying up to the bar to lift the ponderous weight of literacy from the backs of slender children. If we can’t ban the dirty books, we’ll just ban the heavy ones.