Will the residents of sector three please report for extermination?

Live and let die while eating Doritos

Once upon a time, when the war was colder than Rasputin's heart, i was in the Navy.  My job wasn't glamorous.  Despite much caterwauling, i never got assigned to a ship.  Back then, the only boat we girls were allowed on was the Lexington, or as we called her, The Lady Lex.  But i was a spook and spooks didn't get to hang out in the Gulf of Mexico where she floated around most of the time.  Nonetheless, i'm proud of the time i served in the U.S.Navy and glad that a huge chunk of my job was to make sure nobody got killed or even ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

One of the things i liked about the Navy was that they had the smarts to sit way out off shore and level a sixteen inch gun at some inland target.  About the only thing that could pick off a boat or sub was another boat or sub.  It's a fairly cheaty method of waging war.  Then again, as i said, they do have to dodge other boats and subs.  For the most part, sailors shoot the daylights out of another boat full of sailors until they sink their battleship, but then they'll rush right over and fish the survivors out of the drink.  Sailors don't want to be eaten by a shark, and they don't wish it on other sailors, either.  Makes it really hard to send the dogtags home.

Having said that, i have enormous issues with the whole new technology of warfare where you don't even have to look your target in the eye.  For crying out loud, Star Trek tried to teach us better than that and it seems we didn't learn a thing.  Weren't we all just a little horrified at the episode where the leaders mapped out the battle like a chess game and the people in those sectors just reported in for death?  Sure, it was orderly, but was it really civilized?  Well, we now have the technology to do almost the same thing.  We can target a single human being by laser from a location so remote it's like sitting in your living room while playing a video game.  As a matter of fact, the controls for these weapons are a lot like game controllers.  Imagine if every time you nailed someone in Halo with a plasma grenade, a small pack of real people died.  If you're going to kill someone, you ought to have to look them in the eye first.

The justification for these weapons is that the country who put the postmark on these sneaky little implements of destruction are saving the lives of their boys (and girls.)  Yet, if the tables were turned, it would seem outrageous that a small gang of thugs in a cave somewhere were pushing buttons to level someone else's city.  It's not only sneaky, it's a little on the cowardly side.  Not to mention the bit where if we stop having to face the people we're killing, it just makes it that much easier to slaughter them. 

I've played tons of video games where my buddy and i sat around marveling at the bit where if you killed someone, the video showed the side of their head fly off into the sunset. (I took out a guy once by hitting him square in the nuts but the graphics refused to cover that one in detail.)  We've laughed and said things like, "Got your nose!", and "Hey, i think you have a little brain stem on your jacket."  Well, it's all fun and games until the grey matter is really on your uniform and you're slipping on another guy's entrails. 

It's been a long time since Kings, Queens and Presidents had to lead their troops into battle.  It wasn't too much later that the Generals and Admirals got wise as well and started sitting on their ever spreading backsides in comfy chairs in war rooms plotting out battles someone else would have to fight.  Now we're handing the battle over to veterans of Sniper Elite and Rainbow Six games.  In a few decades, the other guys are going to wise up, too.  They'll know exactly how to take us out.  All they'll have to do to find the leading cause of death in wars is pinpoint the precise location of the enemy's mom's basement.  Mom's cookies will just become another casualty of war. 

William Prescott once gave the order, "Don't shoot till you see the whites of their eyes."  This was meant to make every bullet count when his troops were low on ammo.  I'd give the same order but for a different reason.  I think we're running low on humanity.

Lily Robertson, who just looked up and waved at the satellite that may be targeting her, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com or on Facebook.

Radiology Girl vs the Stable Waistline

I moved back to California last week.  Not just Anywhere, California, but this time i migrated south to Long Beach.  I expected a totally, diametrically opposed way of thinking to what i was used to in the San Francisco Bay Area.  I failed to consider this: no matter where you are, and what people are going through, women will always have womeny similarities in the way their minds work. 

Take for example, my friend, Susan.  She had the nerve to freak us all out a while back by getting cervical cancer.  We kept in touch by email, but this is the first chance i've had to sit down and really talk to her.  (And yes, she's in total remission for those of you who were about to fret for her.)  Here's what vexes her most about the whole ordeal.  Despite all the ghastly treatments, she never lost weight.

Now, Susan is a far cry from morbidly obese, but she does have some cushioning.  (All the better to hug you, my dear!)  Any horrific event that puts you through an ordeal ought to grant you one of the few benefits offered others going through the same ordeal.  This was a clear case of the Gods of Disease thumbing their noses at her.  Susan is, under normal circumstances, one of the calmest individuals i know.  A bit of an earth mother type, actually.  Boy howdy, though... get her going about the bald faced audacity of cancer letting her down rather than slimming her down, and the eyebrows go straight through the roof!  The hands are planted palms down on the table as if to shove it through the floor in a fit of pique.  The voice goes from alto to soprano and needs no megaphonic assistance to get the point across.  To Susan, this is an unbearable outrage!  A cheat!  An atrocity not to be borne!  Can i get an Hallelujah, Sister!  Yep, i'm four square behind her here.  That sucked.

There are other things about the C ordeal that vexed her to lesser degrees.  One of them was the hair thing.  Fortunately, what with it being cervical cancer, she didn't lose the hair atop her head.  Unfortunately, to her mind, while she kept the draperies, the carpet abandoned her and she was left with a hardwood floor, so to speak.  I would have considered this a bonus and a good chance to save razors and contortions.  She's more of a native look afficianado, so it seems.  Nonetheless... her disease... she gets to call the annoyances.  Had it been me, i would have been in a bikini EVERY day!  Sympathy factor drops on this one.  Sorry, Susan, that's just the way i roll.

The last and most perplexing of her side effect irritants is the whole publicity aspect.  Why does breast cancer get so much publicity while cervical cancer gets left in the dark?  Is this fair?  Hardly.  I figure, however, as a real estate agent, she ought to get this one without a second thought.  Location, location, location, baby!  Nobody without arthroscopic vision can see your cervix.  On the other hand, everyone can see your boobs, or at least the place they ought to be.  You don't find herds of flat cervixed women flocking to plastic surgeons demanding puffier interiors.  You don't find sugar daddies doling out cash for enhanced uteri.  They don't have a restaurant called "Cooters".  

It's all about the brightness of the headlights.

Besides, there's something just a little off putting about diseased goal posts hidden under darkness of layers of underwear, jeans, etc.  Especially the sort that eats you alive.  It doesn't matter that everyone on the planet knows for a fact that cancer isn't contagious.  There's still a creep factor involved in something that never sees the light of  day.  Also, it's located in the place a lot of guys spend a lot of drink money aiming for, then it turns out there's a big sign on the door that proclaims "No Admittance!"   Nobody's running around wearing Cervical Cancer Awareness Black Panties of Doom bands on their arms to give the poor guys a heads up (or down, as the case may be.) 

So there you have it.  Guys can run around all day grabbing their nuts and whining about testicular cancer, but if something happens below the belt on a girl, it's still considered a revolting development.  Now, the last thing i want is for there to be yet another month out of the year dedicated to a disease.  Myself, i'd rather have Dandelion Appreciation Week, or Buy Your Unemployed Neighbor Another Dirty Martini Month.  All i'm saying is this...Guys, sometimes a girl won't let you in her pants because you have the manners of a goat.  But there are other times you can't get to third base because despite the pleased look on her face at your arrival, and the turn down at the end of the night, it might be something a little more serious.  Stop getting icked out and know you made her day.  Who knows?  If guys could stop getting icked out, girls might be able to tell them, without cringing, that they think they're fine fellows but it's just bad timing.  Should that day ever arrive, you might even be able to leave the bar with your egos in tact.  I'm just saying.

Lily Robertson, who thinks radiation treatments ought to come with complimentary massages and boxes of chocolate, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com or on Facebook.com. 

Party on, Gremlins!

I'm having one of those days when i begin to suspect that the world as i know it got up and went on holiday without me.  In its place, it left behind an alien planet that looked suspiciously like the place i went to sleep in yesterday, but all the real folks were replaced with gummy people. 


If i weren't the first one up in the morning in this madhouse, i'd wonder if someone had slipped something highly illegal into my first cuppa joe.

I hear you cry...Lily is easily riled, but what in the name of Neptune's left nut could actually freak Lily out?  As much as i'd love to give you names and specifics, i've gotten fond of my lily white hide and you'll just have to wonder.  I will say it was an endless stream of odd that began early and continued long enough to set me in a right nasty state of paranoia.  At least this time the sane part of my mind, or what's left of it, realizes that on this particular day, everyone isn't actually out to get me.  On the other hand, i have serious suspicions that something's not quite on the up and up in the great cosmic scheme of things.  When one person freaks you out, you're probably being a teeny bit skittish for no good reason.  When about thirty people give you reason to shake your head, it may well be time to check the calendar for an impending full moon.

Imagine, if you will, opening a can of Coke and finding it full of frozen peas, which you aren't fond of in the first place.  While you stand there a bit stunned, the person next to you turns and exclaims, "Frozen peas!  Bonus!  Can i have that?!"  Well, my day wasn't quite that odd, but it felt close enough to hit the same dart board.  I've gone through 13.5 hours of it so far and i've reached the point where perfectly normal things are making me go, "WTF, Minnie Pearl!?!" before i remember it's just my usual standard of peculiar.  Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

It's got to be some stellar practical joke.  I'm fully prepared to search the house for a reset button.  It's a cluttered house, so there's no telling what i may turn up, which means in spite of the fact that the solution may be right under the next pile of sneakers, i'm hesitant to look in case one of the laces decides to grab hold of my wrist and haul me off into another dimension.  That would definitely make me late for work tomorrow and that just wouldn't do.

I should have paid more attention to the news this morning.  They probably had rampant reports of worm holes cropping up across the eastern seaboard and i missed it.  I'm usually a little more prepared for the kooky effrontery i may or may not have to face when i step outside the house.  The last time i didn't pay attention, i accidentally got married.  I've tried to make a habit of taking notice since then.  It generally works out well for me.  I'm a known nut magnet, so it pays to be on the alert.

One of my friends is fond of saying, "Tomorrow's fresh, with no mistakes in it."  I'm willing to simply hope that tomorrow's stale, with only the usual suspects.

Lily Robertson, who not only can believe it's not butter, but would be willing to bet it snuck into the butter package with malice aforethought trying to pass itself off as butter, can be reached at canopicjargon.com or in the nearest sanitarium.

Drudging for Dollars

I am currently a shop clerk.  I'm a shop clerk because it sounds better than saying i'm a cashier.  I work for a major retail chain whose name i won't mention but they sell things that keep pieces of paper stapled together.  Yes, retail stinks, but with newspapers being one step short of spaghettification in the black hole of the internet, a poor little columnist takes what she can get.  I work along side lots of teenagers and a manager who fits right in with them.  I'm not the only older adult in the building wearing a dorky little name tag, either.  There are a lot of folks out there now who are doing what they can to put food on the table, regardless of how lame they feel as they drive to work.

The customers are amazing.  Something happens to someone when they walk through a shop door.  They suddenly become the wisest individual on the planet and deserve the right to treat people like an unwelcome dog pile on a garden party lawn.  It's our fault that the Dell service representative didn't call them back.  We are somehow behind a plot to ensure they always come out three pieces of paper short in a Hammersmith ream.  It's out of sheer, unbridled malice that we can't get the register to accept a coupon that expired three months ago.  Most likely we rushed to programme the software to thwart them when we saw them headed for the checkout counter.  We aren't smiling at them because we want them to feel welcome in the shop.  We're smiling at them because we're plotting their demise through ineffective office supply tactics.  They're on to us and they're going to be a shrew or a bully to prove their point and make sure the other customers don't get duped as well.

Here's how i spend my fifteen minute break:  I rush into the back, pick the lock on the expensive supply room door, then i race in and suck the ink out of the toner cartridges so people will have to spend more ink money that will never go into my paycheck.  I then proceed to seal up the packages so well it looks like they just came out of the manufacturer's warehouse and nobody's the wiser.  To break up my routine, i will, on occasion, open up the shredder boxes and coat the grinders with rubber cement so they jam when the third piece of paper gets crammed into them.  If i'm feeling particularly villainous, i'll break into our cheapest pen selection and slip decoagulant into them so they bleed all over women's purses.  I live to vex.

I also set store policy.  Most people don't know that store policy isn't really set on high by the corporate fathers.  We disgruntled pencil schleppers are personally responsible for the fact that our "rewards" cards will get you money back that can only be used in our shop.  It took a committee of three chair assemblers to decide that one.  I thought they did a bang up job.  I would have baked them a batch of cookies, but i work retail, so i couldn't afford the ingredients.  Our shop doesn't sell butter, so i couldn't use my reward check to buy it.  It's a shame, too, because this two dollar check is burning a hole in my pocket.

The absolute most astonishing bit about the customers is that all of them, from the ones who think us capable of evil genius to the ones who are just a joy to help, have the same look on their faces when they talk to us.  It's that, "Oh, well, you're wearing a name tag and therefore you aren't smart enough to get a real job." look.  It's admittedly a little deflating after an entire week of seeing it.  At a time when CEO's are delivering pizza, you'd think someone would think twice before leveling that gaze on a person who's just trying to feed their family.

So,  before you take your bad day out on someone who's dealing with you and your bad day for a whopping eight bucks an hour, stop and ask yourself this one question:  Can my karma balance withstand my attitude?

Lily Robertson, who has no explanation for the decline of manners in America, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com.