Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Execute!

People waste a lot of goddamn time. They waste a lot of time dithering about this or that. I'm tired of all the indecision, chief, and I'm here to show you how cut out unneccessary mental processing so you stop wasting my time.

I always hear you talking about giving people "the benefit of the doubt." This means that you start every interaction trusting people. There's your first mistake, Johnny. You've got to let go of that instinct that everyone has some good in them. That kind of thinking may have worked for Anne Frank, but it won't work in this day and age. People need to earn their credibility.

If we all assume we are all untrustworthy from the get, there'd be a lot less heartache and drama, I guarantee it. And a lot less time wasted on waiting for these cheeseholes to follow through with what they promised to do. There's many a scoundral who count on your credulity, sport, and use it to their benefit and your expense.

Next step to saving time: never order Italian food in a restaurant in the Bible Belt. My neice dragged me to Nashville for her annual nerd migration. Jesus Christ, you'll never seen more buttheads in one room than you would at the Nashville Comic Con. But we were staying at a Hampton Inn and didn't have a car. So, we had to rely on the hotel bus to get around. My neice, being the kind of girl who tromps along where the wind blows her insisted that we get the driver's advice about where to eat. "He's a local," she said. Local, schmocal, says I. I mean, he was wearing diamond encrusted horseshoe ring, for Chrissake! What the hell does he know about a decent place to eat?

He asked us if we liked EYE-talian food; he had a favorite in mind for us. My neice of course said yes. She loves Italian food. We're from the northeast and we've got real Italians in our town who make real Italian food. What's not to love? I was skeptical. I didn't recall seeing any Italians wondering around the Nashville Music Center. I didn't see any Italian restaurants between the airport and the hotel, other than 'Sbarro, if you can count that, which I don't. I don't remember seeing any shows on the History Channel about any "Great Italian Migration" trapsing through the south, dropping pockets of immigrants who carried with them hundreds of years of traditional Italian cooking. There is no reason in the world that the meal we were about to eat would be memorable other than by the misery it would cause.

And I was right.

I might as well have ordered ramen noodles with ketchup on top. When I asked for crushed red peppers, our waitress looked at me like I'd asked for an Alpha Centauri Whoredog. But rather than admitting she didn't know what the hell I wanted, she suggested that she could come back with some fresh ground pepper, the old condiment standby. But I ate this abomination abondanza and thought of my possibilities in the afterlife as a distraction. It was gross, son.

I don't fault the driver; how the hell would he know good Eye-talian food from a kick in the nuts? But I say this: If you want a particular type of specialty food, don't get it in a place not known for that thing. You wouldn't order hush puppies in Milan...so don't order Italian food in the South. Trust me on this one; it'll save a lot of time. And you can trust me; I've pulled your dumb ass out of more tight spots than you've got holes in your head.

And don't give me that business about how I shouldn't judge the entire Bible Belt's Italian food offerings based on one experience in one city in one state. I'm sure some people there know Italian from Shinola. But I'm not going to waste my time looking for a noodle in a haystack, bub. And that's what I'm talking to you about right now: My time and not wasting it. And I'm sharing my wisdom with you, so don't you give me any lip.

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Merry Christmas, Goddammit!

As you know, I'm an old softie. I appreciate the little things in life and for me, Christmas is all about the little things. It's all about babies and children and cookies. It's about saying please and thank you and Merry Christmas. It's about cherishing.

So let's stop for a second and think: How can we cherish? You probably don't know the answer for this, do you. Do you even know what "cherish" means, Johnny? It means to hold someone dear and to keep them fondly in your mind. It means take your eyes off your goddamned phone when I'm talking to you. It means look around and behold.

We're not all a bunch of slicked down avatars wandering around a virtual world to serve your adventure. We are not stage dressing for your biopic. We are people with minds and hearts. We are all cut from the same cloth, regardless of our age, our color or whether or not we can stand to listen to Nickelplay or Coldback. We are all part of the human family. And for God's sake, we have to look out for each other. Because if we don't, the government will. I've lived long enough to promise you this: They'll fuck it up and you can take that to the Federal Reserve, sport.

You may think I'm a mean old coot and you'd be right. I don't suffer asshats. That is because I cherish. I am here to be a voice for life and courtesy. And I am cranky because you never listen. So do me a favor, chief. Stop virtually caring. Don't send me e-cards for my birthday. Don't invite me to be your "friend." I am already that.

So, sit down with me. Listen to my stories because I've lived a lot and learned the hard way. I can help you skip some major pitfalls. And, in return, I'll listen to you, if you could find it in your heart to stop ending your sentences with "yo." And you can remind me what it's like to be a kid. Because pretty soon, I won't be around anymore. And pretty soon, neither will you be. So why don't we call a truce and make this bus ride a bit less miserable.

Come on. I'll buy you a cookie.

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Virtual Ralph!

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: I Hate Waiting

You know I just won't do it anymore. I've wasted enough of my precious time in line, on hold, and in the waiting room to earn a Ph.D in queuing theory.

So, let's get something straight, Cupcake.I walk into your store and head up to your counter. You start by greeting me with something cheesy and folksy that the airheads in your corporate brainwashing center came up with like, "Hi there, how can I brighten your day?" and I immediately want to punch you in the throat. So already we're starting off on the wrong foot, aren't we, Sunshine? And then your goddamn phone rings and you sparkle off to go answer it.

And this is where the heat in my oven hits broil.

Why is it that someone who gets up, gets showered and shaved, gets dressed, hauls his ass into his car, burns expensive gasoline, orbits the parking lot for 13 of your earth years, finally finds a spot and hikes the 42 miles to your front door get sidelined by some loser in her pj's that picked up a phone and punched a few buttons? How is it that actual people in the flesh are left standing with their orders half out of their mouths while some Housfrau in a hair net asks a bunch of hypotheticals about the philosophical implications of the side orders attached to your Family Meal Troughs?

Well, I won't stand for it, Peanut, and here's what I expect you to do: Get a goddamned answering machine and while I'm here in the flesh, let the callers rot in the digital wasteland of "Hits from the 90's" hold music while you start giving a damn about the real people in the room. Otherwise you'll find yourself out of the people business and into the business of delivering food to agorophobic hoarders who can't even find the energy to pull on a pair of dockers. You will have contributed to the slobifying of America.

So put down that phone and get your priorities straight before I reprioritize your face, Tinkerbell.

Dedicated to Capn Ergo Jingobollocks for his birthday

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: I'd Like to Invite You to SHUT UP!

I'm just sitting here on this park bench, feeding the squirrels, despite what the sign says. Why can't we feed stale bread to park critters anymore? Who decided that? How else am I going to see wildlife up close and personal without dropping sixty bucks at the zoo?!? To hell with those uppity park rangers and their goddamn non-interference policy. This is not Star Trek, chief.

But I digress...

I enjoy my community park. I like to feed the squirrels and ducks. I like to hear children playing from a distance. What I don't like to hear is your big yap flapping in the wind on your cellular phone! I don't care that the person on the other end of the satellite needs your advice. I'm sure he's already up to his asshole in advice, what with all the wiki this and google that! So you can take that loud voice and sanctimony and find yourself a cone of goddamn silence, which we used to call a "phone booth."

You see, sunshine, in my day, people had discretion. If they had personal business to discuss, they'd take into another room and shut the damn door. If they had a personal call to make and they were out in public, they'd find a booth and fold themselves into it. Hell, they'd even turn their backs away from the window so we didn't even have to read their lips. It was private, Jack! And that's the way I like it.

So get out of here and sit in your car, if you're going to fling your dirty laundry all over my park or I'll kick your blue tooth out!

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Life Metaphors

Son, sit down and let me tell you about life. Life is just a game of Minesweeper. You ever played that game? Yeah, I bet you have; you look like the type. Do you know that I've played that game 872 times on Expert and I've only won one time?!? And you know it's only like life if you play it on Expert. Don't give me any of that "beginner" or "intermediate" crap. That's not life. That's TV.

You set yourself down sometime and you start that game up and pick the expert level. And I want you to pay attention to what happens. You see, most games are winnable. Those guys that make games want you to win so you'll buy more of their stuff. You win all the time, you piss all your money away. Just look at that MC Hammer fella if you want proof. But this game was designed by someone who knew shit from shinola. Also? He got a contract with Microsoft to include it on all their shitty software. Why should he even bother creating another game for the rest of his life? He's in the promised land, sport.

So, when you play on expert, you have to start out with an absolute guess as to what the right move is. You could click on one of those 999 boxes and BAM! Game over. Or you could get lucky and open up a dozen or two free spaces. And this is just like life. You take that first step out on your own and you either pop on a clear spot and see the way forward or blow your goddamn foot off. And you know what else? And this is the most important lesson: You're gonna lose. No matter what. So get used to the idea, Johnny.

Uncle Ralph Chimes In: Get off of my Lawn!

Since when do you think you can cut through my yard?!? Don't you see the signs?!? Can't you read, hippie? I didn't spend all that time in the shit to come back home and have you goddamn kids disrespect my Kentucky Blue! Why can't you drive everywhere like a respectable American? You think you're protecting the environment by walking, don't you. Well, just whose environment would that be? Certainly not mine.

I get up everymorning to water my lawn. I dig out every dandilion by hand. I've got the same lawn equipment they use at Wimbleden so that I can beautify my environment. I did not plan for lawn ornamentation that included you. Get this through your earbuds, buddy: Just because I'm between your house and the Circle K doesn't mean you can drag your knuckles across my environment! You'd best reprogram that GPS and find another route ASAP.

You kids today with your MyBook Faces and your iWhatevers have got no respect for anything around you.

Now, GIT! And don't let me catch you coming through here again. My Grandson's a cop!