Dino diets are a gas, gas, gas

Did anyone else notice frightening parallels between the two seemingly unrelated headlines I spied this morning on the Google News round-up?

First up from BBC Nature: “Dinosaur gases ‘warmed the earth.’”

Then this from the L.A. Times: “42 percent of American adults will be obese by 2030.” Writer Melissa Healy uses the playful verb that the ranks of obese are bound to “swell.”

Very clever.

The obvious connection is that some future species will one day report that noxious gas from sauropod-sized humans rendered the planet wholly uninhabitable to all but fraternity house refugees used to dwelling in hot, smelly environs.

Researchers estimated that the dinosaurs produced 520 million metric tons of methane gas annually. As part of my vow to be less politically antagonistic, I’ll refrain here from making a cheap Rush Limbaugh comparison.

It’s a truly stunning figure considering that dinosaurs were a species who were physically and intellectually incapable of playing the old pull-my-finger stunt my father taught me when I was a boy.

Questions bloom rose-like when you consider scholarly men and women are today paid to speculate about the metric tonnage of long-spent dinosaur farts and how the gases ravaged the globe.

As boys, did the men once dream of growing up to be storm chasers before opting to pursue more Jurassic sorts of winds? Does dinosaur gas research lead the women to be extra careful in choosing perfume for that all-important first date?

Of course, we’ve known for years that cow flatulence is wreaking havoc on our ozone layer.

Or is it reeking havoc?

Maybe it’s that scientists are too polite to bridge the subject, but I’ve never seen a study that says how much human-produced methane is harming the environment. It’s got to be substantial.

I know guys who are so fluent in flatulence you’d think they were conversing in a secret language. 

That brings us to the second study, the swell one that says that 42 percent of Americans will be obese by 2030.

I read that twice to make sure it didn’t say “by 2:30,” which seems as likely. 

I golfed this weekend with three stout gents who were concerned about burgeoning weight. 

They talked about the diets with which they were engaged, their exercise regimen and the importance of portion control.

Like most middle-aged people, I share their concerns. That’s why I was flattered when one of them turned to me and said, “I guess you never have to worry about your weight, do you?”

It was such a kind observation, I felt immediate shame when I blurted out, “Not as long as I’m standing next to three lard asses like you.”

The remark led to an unexpected burst of physical fitness as the tubby trio chased me with their clubs intent on killing me for 14 feet until they got too winded to pursue. 

I spend a lot of time wondering about the long-term impact mankind has upon the planet.

It’s a pet theory of mine that if our march toward mass obesity continues our aggregate weight will soon be so great the exhausted earth’s rotation will slow to a crawl and each day will last 28 hours. I’m hopeful with those four extra hours our scientists will have more time to devote to solving all our most pressing environmental problems.

Me, I’d probably devote the extra hours to watching eight more daily “Seinfeld” episodes I’ve already seen on average 197 times each.

Still, given the cataclysmic consequences, it probably makes more sense for us to watch what we eat, exercise and ignore the cow when she asks us to pull her finger.

Count me as among those who believe our jewel-like earth is a fragile and should be preserved. We need to keep it as pristine and odor-free as possible.

We don’t want to be the generation responsible for putting the stink in extinction.

Re-run: The skinny on bomb implants

News that the CIA disrupted a plot to sneak a concealed bomb aboard a trans-continental flight led to a mini-surge of readers stumbling upon this July 2011 post. It's about the zealots who'd try and smuggle surgically-implanted bombs on planes. I re-run this today in honor of Casey, a canine perfectly suited to foiling those plots. Or should I say perfectly "snooted."

News that terrorists will be soon be smuggling bombs surgically implanted in their bodies has me again realizing I have commitment issues.

Where do they find these zealots? Where do they find these doctors? Is this sort of procedure covered under the new health care law?

The Republicans will go ballistic if they find out really going ballistic is addressed on page 1,293.

My body is my temple and I’m picky about its desecrations. No matter the cause, I’d never smuggle a subcutaneous explosive device to a public event.

I save my zealotry for screwing millionaire mullahs -- or is it moolahs? -- who charge $8 for warm domestic beer at professional sporting events.

It’s impossible to count the number of times I’ve inserted beers and liquor in my body and surreptitiously sneaked them into various Pittsburgh sports arenas.

Of course, I don’t surgically insert them. I pour them in my stomach before entering the buildings (and, as always, thoughtfully recycle the cans). I’d never dream of going to some back alley quacks to have them zipper full cans in my hip for halftime removal. 

Unless they’re talking about a single stick of dynamite, the scheme sounds to me as farfetched as it does impractical. 

The whole thing again convinces me jihad recruiters must be diabolically persuasive.

“We want you to join the movement!”

“Yes!”

“We want you to be prepared to sacrifice!”

“Yes!”

“We want you to see Dr. Zawahari tomorrow at 10 a.m. He’s going to remove a kidney and fill the vacancy with TNT. If that doesn’t kill you, we want you to board the red eye to London and detonate your new explosive kidney over the Atlantic. Cool?”

“Uh, couldn’t I start by just firing up the internet chat rooms and work my way up?”

And you thought airport pat downs were already too invasive.

A radio report said specially trained dogs will be deployed to the airports to combat the threat. I heard this and immediately thought of my old dog, Casey. A sweet, aggressively affectionate golden retriever, he’d be perfect.

Then I learned I’d misheard. They were talking about bomb-sniffing dogs.

Casey was a bum-sniffing dog.

Still, a dog like him would be perfect in tedious security lines.

Think about it: any doctor who’d agree to perform this procedure couldn’t possibly have the refined skills of the pros who work at places like the Mayo Clinic.

After all, what they’re doing is a clear violation of what Homer Simpson calls their hippopotamus oath.

So if you’re going to get a dangerous explosive implanted in your torso, timing is key. You’re likely going to go on a beeline in still-tender condition from the operating room straight to the airport.

That’s when you’d say hello to Casey. 

I always enjoyed introducing Casey to refined and dignified women (I had that rarified opportunity, I think, twice).

“Oh, what a beautiful doggie!” they’d gush while bending way over to pet his luscious blonde fur.

Then, quick as burglar, Casey was behind them goosing his snoot in places where only the boldest proctologists go.

The effect was similar to what would happen if a surgically implanted explosive device went off in their rear ends. Their arms would flail, their hair would instantly Einstein and they’d scream in equal parts terror and delight.

They’d emerge from the intimacy looking disheveled, but oddly invigorated.

So a dog like Casey would be an extraordinary boon to airport security.

He’d be sure to startle any would-be terrorists into post-surgical heart attacks.

And he’d appease ACLU busybodies by never racially profiling.

Christian, Muslim, Hindu, it wouldn’t matter. All God's children would get a vigorous butt snuffling from a dog I’ll always remember with fond affection.

As security dogs go, he’d be what could best be described as a true asset.

I miss that dog.

With him it was just the opposite.

That dog never missed.

Deer me, a story of venison & valor

I ate so much deer meat this weekend I fear I’ll be crapping antlers. I had venison steaks for dinner, venison sausage for breakfast and venison leftovers for lunch.

And it was uniformly delicious.

Me and some buddies were on a golf weekend near Fredericksburg, Virginia. Our host, a Pennsylvania native, said he kills and butchers 11 Old Dominion deer a year, the deer population being an-out-of-control nuisance. He gets another two every fall here in Pennsylvania and enjoys hunting all around the world.

He prepares venison for stews, steaks, jerky, ground meat -- you name it. I think if we’d have stayed another day I’d right now be writing about what it’s like to eat deer donuts.

Deer aren’t the only out-of-control nuisances he’s been ‘round the world to kill.

For 40 years whenever Uncle Sam decided someone belligerent needed killing they’d summon the man I call “The Captain.”

As nicknames go, it’s even slightly less clever than calling the big guy “Tiny.”

He’s a retired captain of a U.S. Navy guided missile cruiser and has been a lethal participant in every conflict in which America’s been engaged since Vietnam where this Naval Academy graduate served as a battle group Air Warfare Commander.

His dress uniform has more decorations than a hillbilly Christmas and he is one of the most engaging men I’ve ever met.

I can see why brave men and women follow him into battle.

Me, I followed him to three different Dixie golf courses where I reflexively trembled for the creatures’ safety every time I saw grazing deer.

Really, I’m surprised the Captain didn’t want to kill me. I’ve never spent that much friendly drinking time with someone so powerful and tolerant of idiot questions.

When he told his stories of fearlessly navigating his Ticonderoga-class warship around the world to far-flung ports I asked if ever even once he had to stop and ask for directions.

One of our buddies asked about the re-fueling procedures and he described what he said was a ballet-at-sea between his ship and the fuel mule. He said how in rolling seas the massive ships would settle as near as 30 feet of one another as tethers and high-capacity fuel lines were fed across the breach.

Then some insane amount of fuel -- hundreds of thousands of gallons -- would be transferred in fewer than 30 minutes.

Once during the Gulf War in the Straits of Hormuz, a random Iranian mine drifted right between the ship bellies and, thank God, potentially catastrophic consequences were through luck averted.

“Let me tell you, boys, that was a real nail biter,” he said. 

It fell to me to break the ensuing reverential silence with a question that screamed for an answer: “Did you have to board the refueling vessel to give them a credit card or did they let you read your number over the radio?”

I thank God America has men like him and I thank God they’re rarely sober when they’re around men like me.

I did see evidence of one gruesome killing. I saw it, or what little remained of it, after I hit my ball deep into the woods on one course.

To be factual, I hit my ball deep into the woods on every course on practically every hole but only once did I encounter what looked like a crime scene.

It was the tiny hind legs and gnarled socket joints of a baby deer.

I immediately thought The Captain, who was in the foursome ahead of us, was the culprit. I’d heard him shouting profanities the previous hole and figured something was due to die.

I asked him about it later.

“It sounds like a coyote to me,” he said. “They’re a real nuisance around here.”

I think he was trying to deflect blame. I scoured those woods and didn’t come across any ACME explosives, ACME giant slingshots, or ACME gunpowder disguised as deer food -- all CSI hallmarks of every coyote attack I’ve ever witnessed.

I didn’t dare question him about the discrepancy.

Dear me, I dread the thought of this deer man concluding I’m some sort of nuisance.

On the plus side, I’m sure people would remember me as a man of good taste.

Or at least a good, tasty man.

You see, The Captain cooks as good as he kills.

Rock on, Captain, and same goes to all our fighting men and women serving around the world.

Giving away my book a blue chip idea

I had a George Bailey moment last night when I reached into my pocket and discovered my free beer chips outnumbered my cash by 5-to-1.

In my mind I heard old Potter cackling, “You’re worth more in Pond beer chips than you are in money!”

That led the Homer Simpson in my mind to exalt, “Woo! Hoo!”

It’s a situation that justifiably alarms the wife in my house.

Me, too, of course.

Big boxes of my new self-published book arrived a couple of weeks ago. I’m awaiting the unveiling of a snazzy new website to make a promotional push. Any day now.

I decided to self-publish after three interested publishers told me their lawyers wouldn’t let me include a passage on the very first page of any book they released. So there it is, a passage headlined “This Book Is Free,” on the first page of my book, the one that purports to show the world how you don’t need money to be happy.

It became important to me after I became enamored with the example of Dr. Jonas Salk, the miracle researcher who turned his back on millions when he discovered the cure for polio and gave it away for free. He believed no man or woman should profit when he or she had something that could so help humanity.

I’ve fearlessly co-opted his altruism. After all, isn’t soul-crippling unhappiness as devastating as polio?

I say yes.

Here’s the passage:

“Anyone who wants a free copy mailed to his or her home, no charge, is welcome to one. Just ask. Author Chris Rodell, of course, encourages you buy it and hopes you’ll support him and the people who distribute, promote and sell books. But if you’re one of those Americans who are out of work and having a tough time or if you know a U.S. serviceman or woman who might benefit from a book that aims to brighten daily lives, then Rodell wants you to get in touch at storyteller@chrisrodell.com. He doesn’t believe a book that at its heart aims to help people be happy should be withheld from anyone over a few dollars. “It’s said the best things in life -- love, friendship, laughter -- are free,” Rodell says. “I don’t presume that this book is one of the best things in life but, by God, there’s nothing to say it can’t keep good company.”

It’s 448 words audacity connoisseurs are bound to admire.

But that’s the way I feel. So when the boxes of books began arriving, the first thing I did was sign and personalize about 20 of them to my good buddies here at The Pond. 

When a couple of them tried to pay me, I said, no, I want you to have this because I could never have written a book about happiness without friends like you in my life.

And I meant it. I’ve since sent another dozen or so around the country to distant gigglers.

I couldn’t be more pleased by the reaction. My many friends are genuinely touched, I think because so few of us -- me included -- ever take even a moment to tell the people who mean so much to us how much they matter.

It’s been very gratifying and I urge you to follow suit.

But here’s the so-far bottom line my decision to make available for free a book I need out of financial desperation to sell: I can’t buy a beer in my bar -- which is good because I can’t afford one either.

My friends are buying me more beer than I could wisely consume in a sitting.

That’s where the blue beer chip comes in. If someone buys you a drink at The Pond  while you’re already engaged with another beer, they give you a little blue poker chip representing the on-deck beer.

My friends are eager to compensate me for my gesture and are going above and beyond to express their thanks. That’s as I suspected.

Yesterday came a true affirmation that giving something away for free can lead to real profit.

It came in a card from the bar owner’s father, the man who in 1954 built and opened this cornerstone community tavern. The gracious note included a check for $50 for a $15.95 book I gave him for free.

Normally, I’d piously donate such surplus to a worthy cause but since the check is from the bar I patronize near daily, I’ll cash it and likely spend it on meals in there.

Circle of life, baby.

But there was more. Taped to the note were six more beer chips!

I’m convinced people innately respond to gestures of kindness with reciprocal kindness. In fact, I’m counting on it.

I guess this moony hypothesis has Biblical roots echoed on The Beatles’ “Abbey Road” when Paul McCartney sings, “. . . and in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

I’m perfectly happy staking my solvency on the notion.

And if that doesn’t work I have a Plan B. 

I’ll try to convince the bank that little blue beer chips ought to be considered legal tender.

I’ll be the richest man in Latrobe.

By some measures, I already am.

When north Dakota & south Dakota are different parts of same kid

So I was watching a news show where Savannah Guthrie was slated to talk to Dakota Fanning and wondering why some cities and states rate baby names and others do not.

I love Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but I’ve never heard of man named Pittsburgh Smith or a woman named Pennsylvania Barnes. But I’ve heckled retired baseball manager Dallas Green, read Virginia Woolf, and maintain one of the great names in movie history is Indiana Jones (character’s real name: Henry Walton Jones Jr.)

Would the hero have enjoyed nearly half the dash if he’d been nicknamed after either of the Hoosier State’s immediate neighbors? Ohio Jones? Illinois Jones?

Not a chance.

The United States of America were named in honor of explorer Amerigo Vespucci (1454-1512), the Italian mapmaker/explorer who proved that the New World wasn’t Asia, but a previously unknown fourth continent.

It’s an historic legacy, and I wonder how differently our patriotic iconography would be if Mr. and Mrs. Vespucci had named their boy Burt.

Think about it. We’d be the United States of Burt.

U.S.B.! U.S.B.! U.S.B.!

Doesn’t quite have same ring to it, does it? Plus, for the past 15 years or so international audiences would have been confused over whether we were cheering our native Olympians or useful computer ports.

And I’ve never met anyone named America. That’s surprising. You’d think the uber-patriots would name all their children America, a sure way to secure them internships at places like Fox News.

I think people shouldn’t name children after cities and states unless they were conceived there. Or maybe, like the old days, the birth city should just be included in the name like Jesus of Nazareth or Paris of Hilton.

Jordan’s a very popular name for both baby boys and girls, but I’ll bet no one ever associates the name with Middle Eastern connotations. You’ll likely get a big blank stare if you ask any old Jordan if the name gives he or she any ancestral pull with the ancient Hashemite Kingdom.

New York is one of my favorite cities, but naming a child New York would be a real clunker. Not so with some of the boroughs. There’s supermodel Brooklyn Decker, and Ashley Simpson and ex-husband Pete Wentz named their son Bronx Mowgli Wentz.

It’s unlikely NFL Hall of Fame quarterback Troy Aikman was named after the once-factual and now legendary city of Troy in Turkey, site of the Trojan War, or that “Baywatch” babe Alexandra Paul’s ever been to Alexandria, Egypt.

I’d thought a basketball superstar’s father must have served in the military and had fond memories of Kobe, Japan, to name his offspring Kobe. Wrong! Turns out Joe and Pamela Bryant were inspired to name their son Kobe after seeing the marbled beef delicacy on a restaurant menu.

So I guess it’s perfectly okay for a boy named after steak to occasionally act like a hot dog.

Chris isn’t the easiest unisex name in the world to lug around, but I wear it with pride because I know how much it meant to my parents when they yelled it and I came running.

That’s the way it is with parents. The kid doesn’t become the name.

The name becomes the kid.

Still, I’d advise parents against naming their daughters Dakota or Savannah. I just know puckish doctors would be forever joking about whether perceived ailments were in North Dakota or South Dakota.

And Savannah’s a great city, but I’d be weary about naming a girl Savannah for fear that one day an insensitive physician might joke that Savannah’s congestion might stem from too much traffic downtown.

Rap culture has given us an interesting example of how one state name can be morphed into an interesting handle. That would be Flo Rida, a nifty homage to the Sunshine State where singer Tramar Dillard was raised.

Of course, that clever kind of deconstruction wouldn’t work at all with some states.

For instance, woe be unto the father who risks the future virtue of his daughter by naming her, say, Idaho.

Steelers get a head with draft (a big one)

Steeler fans have spent the last four days micro-analyzing No. 1 draft pick David DeCastro, an offensive guard from Stanford.

They want to know if he’s agile in picking up the blitz, if he can pull to block on the sweeps, and if he’ll protect the quarterback’s blindside.

My question has more to do with wardrobe: where will they find a helmet to fit him? His head appears big and durable enough to, with proper modifications, serve as an actual helmet for other professional football players.

I swear, I can’t recall seeing a larger tusk-less head in my entire life. I’ve lived in less spacious apartments.

News reports say he’s 6-5, 316 pounds. Judging from the pictures I’ve seen, that’s just from the neck up.

The average human head weighs 10 to 12 pounds. For those of you who’ve never seen or picked up a severed head, try to imagine a lop-sided bowling ball with ears and two extra holes to stick your fingers in.

DeCastro’s head reminds me of Abraham Lincoln’s, the cement one on the monument in Washington.

He’s spent the last few days answering questions about his work ethic, his goals and his eagerness to be a Steeler.

If I were a sports reporter, I’d ask how many years his mom walked funny after he was born.

Having witnessed the births of two dainty-headed daughters, I have a vicarious inkling of the physical difficulties involved in delivering a child. That’s why I always congratulate expectant mothers with the salutation, “May your pregnancy be tranquil, free of hormonal insanities and may you be blessed to deliver a healthy child whose head is no bigger than a baseball.”

This doesn’t always go over as well with first-time mothers as you’d think, but the more children a woman has delivered the more grateful she is for my concern.

I think part of the problem is some women, many of them in the throes of hormonal insanity, confuse small heads with lack of intelligence.

This couldn’t be further from the truth. There is no correlation between a child’s head size and how intelligent he or she will become.

That the majority of children, indeed, grow up to be adult morons is beyond my explanation.

A small-headed child is truly a blessing for a mother, especially the earthy ones who foolishly shun epidurals.

I tried to persuade our OBGYN to administer a second epidural, this one to me, and the only pain I was feeling was from my wife squeezing my hand too tightly.

It would be a lot easier for the prejudicial among us if all the stupid people did have baseball-sized heads. Imagine how much more efficient it would be for an employer to weed out unqualified applicants if all he or she had to determine was cranial capacity.

“All right, I want the first 50 of you try and fit this barrel hoop over your heads. If you can get it comfortably down to around your neck, please remove the hoop and you can be on your way. I understand they’re hiring down at the car wash.”

Some very cursory research reveals that most of our presidents would have failed the barrel hoop test. In fact, if his nose were just a bit less prominent, you could have played ring toss with Andrew Jackson’s post-like head.

One of our most cerebral presidents, William Howard Taft, had a huge head and there was lots going on inside of it. He’s the only man to have been elected president (1909) and then be appointed Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.

And here’s something the historians won’t share: Taft would have made an outstanding Steeler lineman. At 335-pounds, he was our country’s largest president and had served as U.S. Secretary of War from 1904-08.

Those are the kind of credentials draft experts find impossible to ignore.

All this overlooks one fact that leads me to believe big-headed DeCastro is, indeed, super-intelligent. He attended Stanford, one of the top schools in America, and studied management, science and engineering. 

In fact, it’s not impossible that a man imbued with his combination of brain power and brute strength will be propelled to national popularity that one day might lead him into politics and a legacy even larger than that of ample old Taft.

But that, for now, is wild speculation.

Despite the topic, we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.

Re-Run Sunday: Horsin' 'round in the ol' breed barn

In honor of Derby week, I'm re-posting this 2009 piece about the randy fate that awaits all champion horses. They are used for base reproduction purposes. Sounds like it beats what Michael Jordan's been doing since he retired.

For what it's worth, I like Bodemeister for his eye-catching win at the Arkansas Derby.


Enjoy your Sunday!

I admit this is going to sound sexist, but when I learned what was planned for Rachel Alexander’s future, my first thought was, “That slut!”

I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s the way of the world. Already, the girl really gets around. She got around Pimlico on Saturday in 1:55:08. She’s the first filly to win the second leg of the Triple Crown in 85 years and only the fifth in the 134-year history of the Preakness Stakes.

Those are the kinds of numbers that get pulses racing. Jess Jackson is the filly’s owner. One report described him as the Kendall-Jackson “wine magnate,” a term they left undefined. I know it's a different spelling and all, but I still like to think the description bottles of Cabernet and Merlot fly off the shelves and bond to the 79-year-old entrepreneur whenever he strolls down the aisles of the liquor store.

Despite his advanced age, he spends a great deal of time thinking of horse sex and this in no way means he’s deviant. The fourth most famous race in the sport is tastelessly called The Breeder’s Cup.

How the refined men and women who dabble in what is renown as The Sport of Kings aren’t lumped in with common pimps must be just another exception of privilege.

That’s what struck me when I read that Jackson is eyeing a breeding jackpot with the filly. He also owns the stallion Curlin, winner of the 2007 Preakness, and insiders say it’s a sure thing he’s going to usher the pair off to the breeding barn.

As a romantic who’s always eager for new techniques to please the missus, I decided to research what goes on behind the big doors of the breeding barn.

You can check it out at this highly entertaining segment from Mike Rowe’s Dirty Jobs show on the Discovery Channel.

There are no roses. No sonnets. No sweet nothings. It’s all very clinical. The stud comes in, does his business and, I guess, leaves behind an insincere note with a made-up phone number for the spent mare.

Then there was this disturbing passage that could have easily applied to me and any unfortunate date from back when I was about 24. Try this: whenever the paragraph mentions the “stallion” or its male pronoun, just substitute “Chris” and read on:

“Make sure the stallion mounts the mare in a controlled and reasonable fashion. Too many overenthusiastic or fresh, young stallions will be so anxious to start copulating that they will try to mount from the side and/or thrust with no rhyme or reason. This can frustrate both the stallion and the mare, and neither option is particularly desirable. A frustrated mare can start lashing out at the stallion, and a frustrated stallion will only perform worse as he allows his frustration to cloud his mind.”

Boy, does that take me back. It might have risked ruining the mood, but I’ll bet my dates would have been thrilled I’d have brought along a squad of white smocked veterinarians to show me what goes where.

Not all the research was so grim and sterile and, yes, I realize that’s a poor word choice when dealing with story about horse fertility. I found there’s a sporty-looking human supermodel named Rachel Alexander and she’s often topless.

I’m going to start trying this research thing more often!

I’m unable to reconcile why I feel the equine Rachel Alexander is such a cheap slut for her role in the breeding process when I always feel I should congratulate the male counterparts with cigars and bourbon toasts.

I guess it’s just the primal differences between men and women, stallions and fillies. I’ve been a bystander to enough Lifetime movies to know that women who wind up like Rachel Alexander always come to a moment when they realize what they’ve become. It destroys their self-esteem.

They say they feel used.

And I know what most men will do if we ever find ourselves in the stud role and in a moment of clarity realize we’ve been used for the most base reasons.

We’ll say thanks!