Mutual of Omaha: FINAL NOTIFICATION

Sigh. Here's a piece of junk mail I got that I thought would be fit for display. It's from the Mutual of Omaha Insurance Company. The key thing about this one is the bold "FINAL NOTIFICATION" shouting itself out. If I never see another envelope from them forever, I can always look back and remember, Yes, I was warned.

But warned? ... or promised? Let's just say -- sure, it's one in a million -- that maybe I don't especially appreciate getting junk mail. I walk to the mailbox, and there it is, something like this. An insurance company wants to sell me a policy. My old university -- which had no qualms about putting me on academic probation when I was there -- now considers me a great alum, who needs to have their credit card, etc., and give money. Cards from tree removal services. Pizza coupons (actually useful.) Surveys from Congress, like they really care what I think.

They seriously think we're idiots, or so extremely lonely that we're just dying for a piece of mail, when of course we aren't. The best ones are the (rare) ones that come with a free stamp or even a free nickel. I believe I got a nickel some time in the last couple years. Seems like it was stuck right in the window, a little bit of sticky stuff holding it up, so you could see, indeed, it was an actual nickel! Those are nice. You're suddenly five cents richer, for what that's worth ... about five cents. If I could hear from them a thousand times a day, with the nickels lumped together as an actual $50 check, that'd be better.

Speaking of checks, I used to get those in the mail. But they were the kind of checks that if you cashed them, according to the fine print, they were actually loans. I can't remember who they were from. Seems like they were from my credit card company, or maybe just a loan company, acting on P.T. Barnum's old saying of a fool born everyday. At some point, I guess they just stopped coming. I don't believe I got a "FINAL NOTIFICATION" on those, or I would've probably written this blog then.

Anyway, to the Mutual of Omaha company: I'm old and have all the insurance I'm ever likely to buy. If this is my "FINAL NOTIFICATION" for mail I didn't ask for in the first place, and don't actually appreciate getting, then fine, thank you. Please show your integrity as a great company by keeping your word.

Hey, whatever happened to the "Wild Kingdom" show, sponsored by Mutual of Omaha? Did they just yank it off the air way back when? Did we get a "FINAL NOTIFICATION" that it was leaving us. I can picture Marlon Perkins, surely dead by now, or 150 years old, his final years screwed up without constant safaris. Maybe they sent his last check in on the tip of a poison dart and hit him. Or paid him off in nickels, one at a time. He was a great guy -- I guess, he seemed nice -- but who knows. He was responsible for an awful lot of animal pain.

Drink Yourself Into an Early Grave

I'm still excited even this morning, after an interesting evening last night staking out a liquor store on the east side. I'm thinking this is how Carrie Nation got started... Certainly it's something that will benefit society, my work leading either to a renewed push toward Prohibition II or providing anthropologists of the future something of what went on in a time when liquor was permitted.

Of course I'm hoping for Prohibition, a more immediate payoff than future anthro. The way I look at it, We've fought the war on drugs for 50 years and made great strides. But we only gave Prohibition a measly 15 year try; why bail out so early? I'd say it's indisputable, if they'd only left it in place everything would've sorted itself out by now. Dillinger and Capone -- weren't they well known troublemakers? -- would've been dead by now and out of the way.

Now, though, we have to start from scratch. So, for the good of the cause, guess what, I took my trusty notebook and pen, and got as close to the liquor store as I dared. All I needed to do was settle in for the long haul, which was three hours. And, I might add, this was three hours of some of the most interesting work I've ever done. Keeping as good of notes as I could. I have a little arthritis in my hand, so that slowed me down. And there were more people going in and out of the liquor store than I could note; it was impossible for me to keep complete track, but every little bit helps.

Someone told me whenever you set out to do anything -- in this case, reinstitute Prohibition -- you need to make a case for it. That's what I'm working on, and this was just my first outing. Wish me luck!

Right away, I was continuously muttering under my breath, "Another one drinking himself into an early grave." Which means, as we all know from statistics, people die all the time, earlier than they would have had they survived till when their number's up, actuarially speaking. I think there's great benefits in trying to get people to live till then. If, to make the ultimate case, everyone lived to their actuarial potential, and there was an established history of that, life insurance rates would go way down. You'd get a million dollar policy for something like 40 cents a month.

OK, I settled in, and these are some of the customers I saw, described as best I can, with the apparent purchases they made. (In case you're curious, only one guy out of 100+ noticed me doing something suspicious. He walked by my car at a "safe distance," at which time I pulled up a prop paper sack and pretended like I was drinking.)

There were women. One of the first ones was a lady, maybe in her 40s, old enough to know better, who went in and came out quickly with a six pack of beer. She was one of the first ones of whom I said, "Go ahead, ma'am, drink yourself into an early grave." Also among the first ones was an older man, maybe close to 60, who walked like he had a cob up his butt (as my Grandpa used to say), with a big old beer gut, carrying out a little bag. Such a small bag for such a huge gut! And what a huge early grave he'll need...

After a while I thought of investing in a casket company. I definitely saw a lot of candidates for an early box. I've helped undertakers before. They put an official paper, rolled up in a glass tube, in a hidden hole in the end of a casket. This states the person's name, etc., and what they died of, which is supposed to last intact 5,000 years. For this guy, "He drank himself to death," will likely be the verdict.

Here's another dude, younger, 40-ish, probably with a wife and kids at home. I saw he got whatever he got well concealed in two paper bags, probably to sneak it past the family. Where exactly he hopes to drink it, I don't know. He looks like the kind of schmuck who'd have a "man cave," so that's probably where they'll find him. Go ahead, dude, drink yourself into an early grave.

Friends, think of your family if you won't think of anyone else. Most people don't pre-arrange, you know, and it will be absolutely awful for them to have to go through that agony on the fly, having just heard that you're going to an early grave. Myself, I'd definitely do everything I could to spare my family that agony. But then I wouldn't be mixed up in such a shady enterprise in the first place.

For some of these guys, it might be a positive if they did go to an early grave. It'd be a major red flag for the survivors, who would then live a much better life. But that's not my judgment, ultimately. This is interesting work, even though little ethical conundrums like that pop up. It's a messy world. I didn't come up with the world's problems; I'm just trying my best to make them not so problematic.

What's this? A young man in a white panel van, no windows, making a bee line for the liquor store. With no windows there's nothing to stop him from climbing back there and guzzling it down. It's in a brown paper sack, not a very good way to conceal it. We all know what it is. He's young, probably young enough to card. How tragic to have an overgrown kid headed for an early grave.

I've had a few plump men, out of shape, going in. And now here's another, a plump man, out of shape, likely to be drinking his sorrows away later. With more sorrows to come, no doubt, and earlier than he anticipates. Here's a plan, Einstein, how about getting in shape? Have a can of Ensure, check with your doctor about a water regimen, and exercise. You'll look better, you'll feel better, and you'll live to a ripe old age.

I saw a very interesting one. A guy with headphones went in and came out soon, buying nothing. Good boy! I said. But I made a notation: "Those headphones aren't good for your hearing. You'll be deaf before you're 50."

It's interesting that so many women go in unaccompanied. Things have definitely changed since my family was staking out liquor stores in the mid-'60s. Here's a little lady with a 24 pack of beer, a lot of beer -- a lot of beer! -- for such a small gal. I hope she drinks only one at a time, like one a month, or changes her mind completely. She must be extremely sad about something to need that much beer. Surely she knows, at least subliminally, that she's on her way to an early grave.

Here's a case that has more to it than meets the eye: Young couple, man and woman. They arrive and depart in two separate vehicles. I started humming the song, "Just walk on by, wait on the corner, I'll love you but we're strangers when we meet." With this I foresee two family tragedies in the making, the obvious hanky panky and the early graves they're headed for. Their purchase: A big clear bottle of something. Would that be vodka?

I saw a bald 40-year-old dude with one bottle. I put in my book, a little grim humor, "Gonna lose more than your hair. Early baldness, down that bottle, early grave." Just a couple others. There was a 35-year-old with a 12 pack. It makes me sorry to see people so desperate for a supposed good time, because I know they're playing with death, and sure to lose, with no rematch, no do-overs, just a one way ticket to an early grave. One other: A big guy had two packages, a 6 pack of bottled beer in one hand and another bag, concealed, of some wider girth. Maybe a case of something. That's a lot to carry out, anticipating that future moment when they carry his girth out, which will be very, very early.

If you like the work I'm doing -- and this is just part of the evidence -- I could use a word of encouragement, even if it's something very common like, "Keep up the good work" or "Keep up the fight, we appreciate you more than you know." Of course financial support is always appreciated. For a few healthy snacks while I sit out there.

Beggars -- Don't Risk the Legal Liability

I used to be the world's most generous soul with drifters and beggars. I have a history of helping some of these lost souls, not so much with money, but with rides, etc.

Ho! Just saying that recalls some examples. When I was a teenager I picked up an old guy named Howard Johnson and was carting him around like a pet guy. Took him to my teenage friend's place and he was hanging out with us, 60-something with us 17-year-olds. I even had some hitchhikers over to my place one night and they shared my bed while I slept on the couch. Of course to do that now would be ... the chances are nonexistent.

I'm still an extremely nice guy, just not that nice. Or should I say, not that crazy, foolhardy, and stupid. Because you can get into some real legal trouble with beggars. That's my contention, anyway, even though I don't have any personal experience of legal troubles. But look at some of these guys. Who looks more devious than them? Who's had more free time to study law books (like prisoners do) to know all the legal loopholes? Back when I was a kid, when I picked up Howard Johnson, we didn't have the internet, let alone the internet in libraries.

Here's how stingy I am, not out of meanness but a fear of legal liability: I will not give a beggar food! No way! Once you've given food, you are open to all kinds of liability. That's why restaurants have food licenses, are subject to periodic inspections, and have insurance. Because people can get sick from food-borne bacteria, and sue the pants off you. We go out for pizza and sometimes have three or four pieces left over. It'd be the kindest thing in the world to give it to beggars. Unfortunately, it's also stupid. The last thing I need is some beggar fingering me to the police. "That guy made me puke!"

One time I saw some guys walking down the street with leftover spaghetti. Spaghetti! Someone thought to save their spaghetti leftovers. Like it's not 99 cents at the grocery store for enough spaghetti to choke a horse. They'd apparently come from an Italian restaurant, because they were drunk and I guess Italian themselves, probably. So what did they do -- in their drunken condition -- but give the leftovers to four beggars. Who when I passed by were simultaneously eating their fill and consulting law books. If I were the idiots that gave it to them, I'd be changing my clothes in a back alley and looking for a quick facelift.

Whether a masterful disguise would really help, though, is up in the air. Because it's just as likely the beggars had attached a sensor to their clothes, with the ability then to zero in on them via their iPhone, to be able to track them after their "sickness" came on. "Hey, my belly hurts!" Dirty bastards.

Other than fear of legal troubles, which is 99% of it, I hesitate to give to all the "veterans" on the street. I know there has to be an actual veteran here or there down in the mouth, but are they really on every corner, every single day of the year! I don't think so, but maybe they are, since veterans have been used to many privations, maybe even being promoted all the way to generalizations. Forgive me. Even if they are veterans, there's no less a chance they might sue the pants off you. "He gave me a quarter coated with the polio bacilli! That's why I'm sick, that bastard!"

Nudine The Fortune-Telling Stripper

 

This post contains information I did not personally witness. I got it from a guy I know who goes to see strippers and freely admits it. I myself would never admit it. Because he's so truthful in that respect, I vouch for everything he says as absolutely true. Plus, he's my agent for car insurance.

According to this guy, one of the clubs has a particularly vivacious stripper named Nudine. The interesting thing about her is that she's so vivacious she's even known for telling guys their fortunes. That's the part that made my ears perk up and made me listen. And the weird thing is Nudine herself appears completely passive in how it works.

It goes like this. A guy wonders about some choice he has to make, then looks at her, then immediately, or in some cases later, knows what to do. Why there would an immediate answer or a delay seems to have something to do with the particular individual. But we think it also has something to do with Nudine's power, how strong or depleted it is.

Of course I asked for examples. At first he didn't want to say. It was like he was afraid the walls had ears, know what I mean? But I pressed him until he waved me outside, beyond walls, beyond doors, beyond ears. We were over by some very bare bushes, denuded by winter and obviously not hiding any electronic surveillance equipment. I could only try my best to remember whatever he would tell me, lest I forget.

And this is it, some of it: There was a guy who had a hard time deciding how he wanted his eggs fixed. The club has a fry cook in those early morning hours as the guys are being entertained. One day, this guy being perplexed, he glanced over at Nudine in dance, as she faced him, and came at once to a decision, sunny side up. Then it happened again another time; Nudine was on her belly doing a "rug act," and he knew he'd have them over easy. Uncanny but true...

And that's just one guy. Others have testified of receiving lottery numbers, psychiatric treatment, spiritual counsel, and even career advice after watching Nudine, as beautiful as she is and so lost in reverie. At this point I was a little skeptical. But my friend led me further on, till we reached a bush with even less foliage. Here he spilled his entire guts. He was the guy who'd received career advice from her. She was over against the east wall of the club, rubbing up against a hanging shag carpet for a prolonged time.

Suddenly he felt compelled to drive east. To make a long story short, he stopped in a coffee shop to think over the situation. He sat in a booth for a prolonged time. He struck up a conversation with a guy with shaggy hair, who turned out to be the regional rep for a major car insurance company. Who told my friend they had some great openings as agents. They hit it off so well -- the rep also likes strippers -- he was appointed an agent right on the spot. All thanks, once again, to Nudine.

But what about the lottery numbers, psychiatric treatment, and spiritual counsel? We left every bush behind, and now being in a vacant field -- nothing there at all but fresh snow, not a single track -- he raised his hand and swore it was all a fact. Indeed, I had to believe it, Nudine does it all!