Carlson

By: John Carlson— Even in these divisive times, if there is one thing I think most Americans can agree upon it’s this: There’s no such thing as too much horseradish. This basic premise was reinforced for me the other day when, prior to downing the delicious glob of deli baked beans I had spooned from a two-pound plastic container onto my dinner plate, I forked on a healthy dollop of fresh horseradish. Then I mixed them together. One taste and I was like, “Yeah, baby, that’s what I’m talking about!” Realistically, I suppose there are folks cursed with unadventurous palates who…

By: John Carlson— The other day I was at a popular local entertainment venue when I noticed that, as usual, the line to the men’s restroom was three people long, whereas the line to the women’s restroom was about twenty-three people long. “You know,” I cheerfully announced, just trying to be helpful, “if you gals would quit playing parlor games in there, you’d get in and out a lot quicker.” In response, one of them laughed bitterly. The others shot me withering looks that said, “Who’s this pervert?” Meanwhile, I slapped my head and went, “Doh!” Being a man, I…

By: John Carlson— Every time I hear loud, mysterious noises coming from our crawlspace, I am thankful for being a fat guy. I don’t hear the noises all that often, though. Nancy, on the other hand, hears loud, mysterious noises coming from our crawlspace all the time, but  in its own way this is even worse for me. See, having been raised a conservative Baptist, I firmly believe in biblical absolutes, including God’s divinely mandated division of household duties by gender. Given this, as a woman, Nancy’s duties include scrubbing the toilets, re-tarring the driveway, plus replacing missing shingles on the…

By: John Carlson— Not long ago I was at my doctor’s office when, following a quick knock, a nice young internist entered to check my ankles for whatever nice young internists check old guys’ ankles for. Lifting my pants legs a couple inches, she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! Those are fun!” Meaning my socks. This, I must admit, struck me as a foreign concept. I’ve had a fair amount of fun in my life, but none that I recall has been the direct result of socks. Still, not wanting to seem like some stuffy fool to this well-meaning lass, I plastered…

By: John Carlson— When the end of the world arrives, I think it will come riding in on a Roomba. That’s my dire prediction, after talking with my friends John and Amy Mickle the other day. They have a new Roomba, which is one of those little circular robots that cruises around their house all by itself, cleaning the floors and carpets. Understandably, they love it. Of course, Nancy and I have a Roomba, too, except ours is one of those much older models. You know, the kind where it’s screwed to a big stupid handle. You simply muscle this…

By: John Carlson— The older and lazier I get, the more enthusiastically I embrace an innovative style of dancing which I developed back in my middle-aged years. The key to it? Don’t move your feet. It’s amazing how, for many guys, not moving your feet while dancing turns an otherwise onerous activity into a slightly less onerous activity. Not for all guys, though! Even way back at our middle-school sock hops, there were some guys who loved nothing more than to be out on the gym floor, “cutting a rug” with Linda, Phyllis and Amy. Furthermore, Linda, Phyllis and Amy…

By: John Carlson— I don’t want to sound food-obsessed, but if I ever visit Giza, Egypt, and run into a street vendor pushing a killer shish-kebab cart, then somebody asks me, “Whadaya think of the pyramids?” I’m liable to answer, “What pyramids?” Shish-kebabs? Mmmmm… That’s also why if you ask me what I “did” on our last Gulf Coast visit, I’ll say I did four grouper sandwiches, eight spicy broiled shrimp, three bodacious burgers and a burrito big enough that you wouldn’t want to drop it on your foot. This should probably strike me as sad, and sometimes it does….

By: John Carlson— Today’s column offers the unvarnished truth about a basic bodily function, but don’t let that freak you out. It’s about sneezing. But first, some background … We all sneeze. I sneeze. You sneeze. Probably even Martha Stewart sneezes, except when she sneezes it’s into a two-hundred-dollar hanky she holds to her aquiline nose with her pinky fingers held daintily extended. But years ago I used to work with a guy who could only be described as a prolific sneezer, a sneezer par excellence, a sneezer the likes of which I had never encountered before. In all other…

By: John Carlson— You might not be, but I’ve been worried sick since seeing a recent TV news report that detailed how easily nefarious forces of technical mayhem can track us via our smartphones. Do I care they might follow me? Nah. I’m terrified they’ll figure out what a dweeb I am. After all, as a kid, dweebery was NOT a goal of mine. I grew up watching action-packed television shows featuring cool guys like “Superman,” “Sky King” and “The Man From U.N.C.L.E.” Naturally, these shows left me savoring the fact my own adulthood could be equally exciting, rife with…