Check Yes or No

More than 20 years ago, Robert Fulghum wrote a brilliant essay entitled "All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten."  It was such a profound concept, I once had a poster framed in my den that enumerated those 14 things, including "don't hit people," "warm cookies and cold milk are good for you," and of course, "flush."

I reflected on that list recently because of Facebook.

For those who don't know, Facebook is an internet phenomenon that is changing the way people interact and conduct their lives.  It's a great way to reconnect to old and forgotten friends from your high school days, and to keep up with what your grown children and grandchildren are doing.  (Heaven knows your kids won't actually TELL you what they're up to).

While mingling on Facebook recently, I realized that it electronically embodies one of the most basic of human interactions, one that first came to light as soon as I was able to figure out which end of the fat first-grade pencil went up.

The minute I could scrawl all 26 letters on the strangely-lined green paper of my Big Chief tablet in a manner that could be deciphered by people who didn't arrive on saucer-shaped space craft or were James Bond-worthy cryptographers, this recitation became the cornerstone of my first-grade social existence:

Do you like me?

__ Yes

__ No

None of Dick and Jane's exciting adventures with Spot could match the heart-stopping, stomach-in-the-throat anticipation of awaiting a response to that all important question.

Like most kids at the age of six, I didn't discriminate.  Guys got the same note as girls, mostly because they were basically the same to me.  I didn't develop the aversion to "gross, yucky girls" until deep into second grade, and had pretty much finished off that phase by fifth grade, when we had our first school dance.

Today, nearly a half century later, I find myself in the same position thanks to Facebook.

In the course of a normal day in real life, we meet new and interesting people, strike up conversations, engage in the occasional "Ginger vs. Mary Anne"-esque debate on Lohan or Kardashian, and maybe even exchange cell phone numbers.  Not so we can call each other, mind you, but so we can text one another.

However, it takes time to ferret out whether a new acquaintance has become a friend or not, and even then we don't have any definitive, documented evidence of the relationship's status.

Except on Facebook.

In the 21st century version of the old "do you like me" question, one person will send another person a "Friend Request," then wait anxiously for the answer.

I realized that it's just like the days of folded notes passed from aisle to aisle between sessions of "1+1" and printing your name a few hundred times on another of those ubiquitous green sheets.

When accessing a schoolmate online from 30 years ago...will they remember me?  Will they recognize the name?  Did I forget that I used to put bugs in their hair during recess?

Sometimes it's an old colleague you used to go bar-hopping with in third grade.  (Monkey bars, that is).  Or it could be a co-worker from a job long past.  Maybe it's even that cute red-haired girl that scratched an X in the "no" box back in Miss Gallagher's class. 

Just like your days in elementary school, sometimes you'll get a confirmation, which is like the cherished "Yes" on your note that leads you to a happy dance that is suspiciously similar to your clumsy gym floor moves at age six.

Sometimes you get no answer at all, leaving you to wonder if the note didn't make it through, or if it's the polite version of a "no."  You might even resubmit your request two or three times like a pathetic Internet stalker, the electronic equivalent of standing under someone's window holding a boom box playing Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes."

And, like the class snitch, on rare occasion someone will report you to the Facebook teacher, claiming they don't know you and that you should be sanctioned for daring to bother them when they're doing something important like editing their porn catalog.

Unlike real life, where verbal proclamations regarding a relationship's status are rare, at least you know.

And you don't have to worry about punishments like clapping erasers and cleaning the blackboard after getting caught passing notes in class.

Ending My Affair With Paula Deen

It's over.

Now is the time to confess, to come clean, and beg for absolution.

The truth is, I've been having a secret affair with Paula Deen for years.

How secret?

It was so secret that not even Paula knew.

For me, watching her cook was like food porn.  I'd sneak onto the cooking channels when nobody was home, careful not to get caught, just to catch a glimpse of this voluptuous woman doing naughty things with sticks of butter.

I loved everything about her, from her gorgeous silver hair to her tantalizing southern accent. 

To paraphrase the immortal line from "Jerry Maguire," Paula had me at "today we're going to fry up some chicken, y'all."

Her infectious laugh and sparkling eyes were a vision to behold.  And the woman could sure fill out a smock!

Sadly, the affair ended this week when I saw pictures of her on the cover of a supermarket tabloid.  It wasn't a story about her having a wild weekend fling with Wolfgang Puck, or a jailhouse photo of her after an all night binge at Denny's.

No, it was a full-body photo of her new physique.  Or should I say, a three-quarter-body photo, because there's a big chunk of her missing.

According to the screaming headline, Paula has lost 30 pounds.

If that's true (and it's People magazine, so it HAS to be true), she's lost me as well.

One of the many things I loved about Paula was that she was all woman, a REAL woman.  She was every bit as beautiful as Dolly Parton, but with all original factory-installed equipment instead of being a rebuilt belle with aftermarket parts.  Paula was as God made her, an inspiration among the vapid stick figures who parade across my TV screen with their store-bought breasts and anorexically thin bodies by Jake, Jason, or Jillian. 

Now she's just another Hollywood hottie.  Before, I considered her a perfect 10 (occasionally even an 11, because of her way with pie).  Today, she merely wears a size 10.

I realize that the haters forced her into losing weight because of her diabetes (a malady which was just one more thing we had in common, a part of our bond).  If you believe the TV quacks like Dr. Oz, the weight loss might be healthy.  But as Billy Crystal taught us on Saturday Night Live as Fernando Lamas, it's better to look good than to feel good.  It doesn't matter how you feel, just so you look mahvelous.

Our break-up is not solely about looks.  It's about truth.

How can any man trust a woman who looks you in the eye and prepares scrumptious sweet chicken bacon wraps, while backstage she's nibbling on Greek salad and steamed fish? 

Then you have the issue of children.

Which would make a better mother, the woman who encourages chubby little girls and tells them they are valuable and beautiful no matter what size they are, or the mom who reminds you daily that love only comes to those who stick their fingers down their throats after every meal? 

If you're unsure of the answer to that question, you've never watched an episode of "Keeping Up With The Kardashians," "Living Lohan," or "Toddlers and Tiaras."

So it's over between Paula and I. 

It's time for me to find a new celebrity crush, which will be a bigger challenge than you might think.  After all, how many gorgeous, sweet, plus-size, silver-haired, luscious-voiced southern-talking women do you find on television?

I guess I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed and wait for Kellie Pickler to grow old and see what happens.

In the meantime, maybe I should send her a Betty Crocker cookbook... 

Free At Last

"Free at last, free at last.  Thank God Almighty we are free at last!"  -Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I'm not so arrogant as to think I'm anywhere in the vicinity of someone like Dr. King.  They won't be naming streets in bad parts of town after me, people won't be taking my birthday off from work, and stores won't be holding special white sales on sheets and towels in my name each February.

But I dig his message.

For the last year, I've been living my own quiet version of bondage (and not the good kind, like you see late at night on Cinemax).

When Cindi Delaney and I sold the Mesquite Local News in 2009 to Stephens Media, the parent company of the Las Vegas Review-Journal, I had to sign a contract.  It didn't involve any first-born children or blood oaths over a bubbling cauldron, but I was prohibited from working for any other newspaper in town for one full year after departing their employ.

That day of departure came in June of 2011 when my two-year contract ended.

So for the next full year, this local Mesquite newspaper writer was not allowed to write for any local newspaper in Mesquite.

I was the one who signed the contract, so I can't whine too much.  But think of it this way: you're a French fry cooker at McDonalds.  After you get canned because the assistant hamburger assembler doesn't like you, you're barred from making French fries down the street at Jack In The Box.

Extrapolate that any way you want.

My "emancipation" came last week, when the one year anniversary of my departure arrived and my non-compete clause expired.  So now I'm free.  And like the dog that finally caught the car...now what?

The news landscape in Mesquite is different.

First, the Desert Valley Times has a new editor.  Things haven't changed much there, which is to be expected from a property owned by the Gannett anti-news mega-corporation, a company that seems to consider things like bunions to be worthy of front-page coverage in their USA Today.

Then you have Mesquite Local News, which is just a shell of the vibrant news source Cindi, Sue Hurley and I founded.  The less I say about that paper, the less likely I'll be sued.  (Remember, Stephens Media helped found RIghthaven, the group that once sued a little old lady for using part of a copyrighted story on her blog about cats.)  I'm just sayin'.  Also, there are still some good people there who have survived despite a constant corporate stick across the brow.

Which leaves the newest entry in the Mesquite news merry-go-round: Mesquite Citizen Journal.

It's run by a real journalist, a woman I've respected for years because of her fierce dedication to finding and telling the truth. 

If I was going to get back into the news business (like the guy with the hangover, I swore I was never going to do THAT again), her online newspaper was the only place I could see myself.

But the truth is, the MCJ doesn't need me.

It already has a top-notch editor in Barbara Ellestad, and her investigative reporting is every bit as good as anything I had ever done back at "that other newspaper." 

She is complemented by John Taylor, another former Mesquite Local News alum, who has become a tremendous writer in his own right.

Her lineup of weekly columnists is like a "who's who" of the best MLN had to offer, including Betty Haines, Mike McGreer, Terry Donnelly, and Susan Lang, with the extra bonus of newcomer Mike Young.

Fortunately, for some reason Barb figured she needed someone on staff who could start every sentence with "back in my day." (As I learned from my time at Stephens Media, apparently it's a critical position in corporate news hierarchies.)

She asked.  I accepted.

So here I am, back in my favorite role -- writing a weekly humor column, something I started all the way back in 2004 when I was with the DVT, and continued throughout my time at MLN.

Of course, as I mentioned, the landscape has changed.  Holecheck is gone.  Ence is gone.  Hacker is gone.  Can I still be funny without that cast of characters? (Which I used to consider the comedic equivalent of shooting over a baited field).

I don't know.  Let's find out. 

Strap in, hold on, and enjoy the ride.

Ingenious Cleaning Inventions

This week has been a busy one for news hounds and journalists around the country.  For starters, dozens of citizens have been waiting anxiously for this week's Supreme Court ruling on Obamacare.  Most don't really care which way the ruling goes, because most don't really understand what the law says or does.  They're just placing bets on which ancient Supreme Court Justice is going to teeter over with a massive coronary from actually trying to lift the 1,400-page document.

But of all the news stories crossing my computer screen this week, none compares to the earth-shaking news coming out of Spain.

According to a report in NewsLite, a Spanish company is offering one of the greatest inventions since the Ginsu knife:

A self-making bed.

The company has published a video which shows their new bed, which uses a couple of robotic arms to straighten the covers, and a pair of spatulas coming out of the headboard that reset the pillows.

The story doesn't mention the bed's cost, but then, how can you put a price on genius?  This invention could have saved me hundreds of punishments and restrictions in my youth, and saved my mother's vocal chords from the 16 years of abuse required to yell at me about cleaning my room and making my bed.  (In my opinion, one of the best things about being 18 months old is that you don't have to make your own bed yet).

This has inspired me to suggest a few other time-saving and yell-saving devices our geniuses should be working on:

Automatic Desk Cleaner - I envision a device similar to the one you see at arcades where you drop a quarter in a slot and it lands on a pile of other quarters, while metal rakes constantly scrape back and forth trying to push the messy quarters over the edge and into the payoff tray.  The desk cleaner would have a servo mechanism that would push open the top drawers, with the metal rakes pushing papers, pens, empty cereal bowls, and half-filled pretzel bags off the desktop and into those drawers, which would automatically close when finished.

Table Clearer - Similar to the desk cleaner, the little metal rakes would push the dinner dishes off the dining room table and onto a small conveyor belt that would dump the dirty plates and cutlery into a dishwasher.  If you happened to accidentally leave the remote control on the table, well, let's just say you needed the exercise of a brisk six-step walk every 30 minutes anyway.

Bric a Brac Duster - To be fair, comedian and tool man Tim Allen actually suggested the prototype for this device, which is basically a miniature leaf blower that would regularly pop out of end tables and shelving units to blow the dust off whatever is nearby.  As Allen pointed out, you'd first have to duct tape the small stuff down.

Dirt Sensing Vacuum - Once the dust (or any other foreign object) hit the floor, it would trigger a sensor which would then dispatch a robotic vacuum cleaner to give the carpet a good once-over.  The best rendition of this device appeared on the 1960's cartoon "The Jetsons."  The iRobot corporation offers something called a Roomba, but it doesn't work.  For starters, it's more of a sweeper than an actual vacuum cleaner.  Second, you have to manually set it up, place the barrier sensors, start it, and empty it.  Third, it moves really slow, which leads to Fourth, it regularly gets it's disc-shaped butt whipped by small terriers defending their territory and large tabby cats sensing plastic prey.

Automatic Window Washer - To be honest, we've had these on cars for decades, so I'm not sure why the Anderson people haven't already come up with a device that squirts a shot of Windex out of a tube onto the inside and outside of the windows, followed by a strip of rubber on robotic arms that squeegee the glass clean, then holds out a metal hand with fingerless gloves awaiting a tip sufficient to purchase a bottle of Ripple.

And finally...

Clothes Harvester - This tracked vehicle would be shaped like a dump truck, with a claw in the front from one of those arcade machines that drops small stuffed animals through a chute for 50 cents.  It would wander around the house in search of itinerant togs, grab them with the claw and drop them into the dump body, then head to the laundry area to drop a load.  On the top, it would have a speaker programmed to repeatedly tell house dwellers what it isn't.  "I'm not the maid!"  "I'm not your mother!"  "I'm not the maid!"  "I'm not your mother!"...

Rock of Ages A Miscast Masterpiece

I recently watched "Rock of Ages" with my wife and friends, a film tribute to the music of the 1980's.

The writing sucked, the story sucked, the acting sucked...and the movie was fantastic!  The story was a tired, worn out tale.  If you saw the movie "Burlesque" with Christina Aguilera and Cher, you've already seen this fable: guy working at a bar gets the hot new girl in town from podunk a job at the nightclub, which is about to go under because it continues to promote a music genre that's in decline.  They fall in love, then have a falling out over a misunderstanding, then get back together.  The difference is, if "Burlesque" had scored a soundtrack like "Rock of Ages," it would have been a record breaker.  (Forgive the pun). 

Whoever cast this flick should be strung up and beaten with one of Alec Baldwin's Emmys.  The acting in ROA was sub-par.  Julianne Hough is unquestionably the most beautiful beard in Hollywood -- talented, gorgeous, vivacious.  And was completely wrong for the role of the "new girl from Tulsa."  The guy playing her boyfriend was similarly miscast -- pretty boy Diego Boneta doesn't have a rock and roll bone in his body.  Catherine Zeta-Jones singing a Pat Benatar tune?  Looked ridiculous. 

The big surprise?  The guy I expected to stink up the joint turned out to be one of the best on the screen.  Believe it or not, Tom Cruise pulled it off as the burned out Jim Morrison/Axl Rose rock star, both on the rock stage and in the glammed out dressing room.  A brilliant performance!  Hats off also to Paul Giamatti, who was once again perfect in a supporting role as the sleazy agent.  Alec Baldwin was passable as the aging club owner, but should have never been allowed to try a rock song.  The voice (whoever it actually belonged to) wasn't bad, but the image of a scruffy Jack Donaghy knocking out a heavy metal tune just didn't work.

The other superb acting job?  Russell Brand was spectacularly funny and fitting.

Also, if there is any justice in Hollywood (and trust me, there isn't), an Academy Award nomination would go out to Mickey, the baboon who played Cruise's furry Scotch-serving sidekick "Hey Man."

Sadly, the writing captured one of the big knocks against the 1980's era that the movie presented: the script was vacuous and unfulfilling.  Throughout the movie, the same phrase kept going through my head -- "empty calories." 

You could tell that the songs were chosen and blended first, then the story shoe-horned around them.  It was clumsy.  Also, be forewarned that this is a musical, created in a kitschy Rodgers and Hammerstein way.  Don't show up at the ticket counter with any expectation of reality.  People inexplicably break out in song and dance at the drop of a suitcase.  Unless you're prepared for it, or grew up thinking "Grease" was the best movie ever, the thing can feel like a Flash Mob that just won't shut up. 

After the show, one of my friends schooled me as to why parts of the film felt so smarmy -- it's because the director, Adam Shankman, has done some episodes of Glee.  If you like that TV show, you'll love this.  If you're like me, and believe Glee to be a televised infection that can't be cured with an oil tanker worth of penicillin, it will be a distraction to be endured.

Based on these pie-throwing observations, you might think that I hated the movie.

The opposite is true.

I loved it!  It was like the Susan Boyle of cinema.  The acting and story were ugly to look at, but the music was heavenly! 

The producers were smart enough not to mess with the original instrumentals, and required the actors (or whoever was paid to do the actual singing for their lip synching) to step up and perform the vocals the way we all remembered them from that era, without stylizing or screwing it up.  Oddly, that combination gave such a refreshing spin on what are often tired, worn out stock on "classic rock" radio stations that it was like rediscovering this amazing music for the first time all over again. 

Make no mistake, this film is completely about the music...and because of that fact, the result is a fun movie that anyone who has a nodding acquaintance with the 1980's should not miss.  It is a terrific, five-star flick, despite its glaring faults.  I give it about eight thumbs up (out of the classic Siskel and Ebert max of two). 

In fact, my wife made a brilliant observation -- this could easily become the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" of the 21st century, with fans showing up in outrageous costumes for weekly midnight showings, reciting the predictable dialogue throughout the film, and singing along with the well-loved music at the top of their lungs.

In other words, this one is destined to become a classic.

I'll Bet Snoop Dogg Doesn't Know About This Weed

It's official.  I finally used marijuana for the first time this week.

Among my generation, I'm an oddity, having never tried pot. Being a teenager in the 1970's, this makes me the chemical-using equivalent of the Elephant Man.  When you factor in my 20-year history as a performing barroom singer and musician, the odds of me being a weed virgin are equivalent to the likelihood that the Hubble telescope is going to find signs of intelligent life on Lindsay Lohan. 

If we were to discover the "mirror universe" in Star Trek episode #33, I would basically be Snoop Dogg's chronic-avoiding counterpart.

But that's all over now.

This week, my wife and I tried some cannabis sativa together. 

For starters, the smell wasn't as bad as I expected.  In fact, it was almost a flowery aroma.

As for the post-use case of the munchies reported by most potheads I've met, it's hard to tell.  I can polish off a bag of nacho cheese Combos on any given afternoon, so I don't know if the voracious consumption of this salty pretzel snack after our first experimentation was a result of the chemical, or just a Tuesday.  And at my weight, who can really know the difference?

I must admit that I'm concerned about addiction, and I already see some worrisome signs. 

The first time my wife and I used, it was in the bedroom.  I figured that initial experience would hold me for a while.  But by the time "Judge Judy" was on TV the next evening, I was jonesing so bad that my wife had to hook me up again right there on the living room sofa.  Now I find that I'm having trouble going a whole day without it.

This is going to be problematic, because it ain't cheap.  We got these first few ounces from a supplier in Utah that our daughter turned us onto, and it was about $20.  I'm hoping that, if we check around and ask a few people, we'll be able to find a dealer who won't be so pricey.  After all, we live near Las Vegas, a place where there are lots of celebrities, movie stars, and other people who use this stuff.  Hopefully, if we save up some cash and buy larger quantities, we can get it cheaper.

But enough of my personal paranoia.  Let's talk effects.

On that front, this substance was everything it's cracked up to be.  Within a few minutes of using it, my whole body felt like it was floating.  I could almost sense my skin buzzing.  I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I kept looking at my hands, studying them for signs that the cells themselves were migrating up and down my arms.  Years ago, there used to be a concession in some malls where you could pay to dip your hands in a vat of melted wax.  That's probably the closest I can get to describing how my fingers looked and felt.

A few minutes after that, I imagined the cells on my toes doing the same thing.  (To be honest, because of the Combos and a few other unhealthy lifestyle choices, it's been a while since I've actually seen my feet so I couldn't really look for signs of physical metamorphosis.)

When my wife and I were finished, I simply felt like I was glowing for hours afterwards.

Now I'm going to do something I never thought I'd do: I'm going to recommend you go out and get some of this cannabis product for yourself.

I'd hate for you to get the wrong stuff, because there are a lot of unscrupulous people out there who would tell you that you're buying the real deal, only to sell you some cheap imitation made from ingredients out of somebody's kitchen.  Therefore, I'm going to describe it so you don't get ripped off.

If you're like us and don't really know how to go about getting it, I would recommend you start by visiting a hair dresser.  Everybody knows that hair salons always have the highest quality products.  Our daughter is studying to be a stylist, which is how she learned about it.

The first way to tell you've bought the real McCoy is that there will be a big green marijuana leaf right on the front of the package.  Below that, it will have the brand name.  I'll spell it to be sure you're looking for the correct thing:

H - E - M - P - Z.

Below that, it will say "Pure Herbal Extracts," followed by "Age Defying Herbal Body Moisturizer."

If you're suspicious like us and still not sure you laid your money down for the correct lotion, check the ingredients on the back of the bottle.  After things like "palmitate" and "glycerin" and "butyrospermum," you'll find the line that says "cannibas sativa seed oil." 

Only then will you know that you've purchased your first few ounces of legal marijuana product.

Best of all, you don't need one of those cards from a California doctor.

So I would recommend you run right out and get some of this stuff so you can join the rest of us new potheads.

However, because I still have a conscience and don't want to see anybody get hurt, I will ask one thing:

For at least an hour after using some product, please don't try to drive.

Your hands might still be slippery and you could lose control of the wheel and crash your car, becoming just another marijuana-related accident statistic.

Zombies Portend The Mayan End

As if the world didn't have enough horrors, including war, famine, and the Kardashians.

Now it's zombies.

Perhaps "zombies" is too strong a word.  There is no empirical proof that the guy in Florida, who was shot and killed for eating the face off a homeless man by the side of the highway, was a zombie.  But on the other hand, I'm not sure that the Metro-Dade medical examiner has a blood test in his kit for zombie trace.

Ditto for the guy in Maryland (my state of origin, naturally) who killed and ate his roommate's heart and brain.  It's quite possible that he was simply a budding foodie, and somehow got the directions wrong on the latest Guy Fieri recipe.

Then you have the porn star in Canada who killed a Chinese student and chopped him up, ate his favorite body parts, then mailed the remaining pieces to a variety of political offices.  He was caught in a Berlin cyber-cafe while looking up stories about himself on the internet.  The confusing part is that, if the vain cannibal was to repeatedly utter "brains...brains..." like the silver screen zombies, it would be unclear whether he hungered for cerebellums from strangers, or was looking for his own.

This outbreak of humans eating humans has certainly garnered attention, not to mention triggering the sound of a Barbra Streisand song in my head: "People...people who eat people...are the hungriest people, in the world..."

To have this many stories of cannibalism in one week has caused some concern, and even given flight to worries about the storied "zombie apocalypse" that George Romero posited would end the world.

What makes that scenario even spookier is the fact that all these "apocalyptic" instances are occurring when the Mayans claim the meter will run out on humanity.

I'm surprised that there hasn't been more buzz about the end of the world, which the Mayans have inconveniently scheduled for Dec. 21, 2012.  I mean, couldn't they have delayed it until after Christmas? 

I remember the run-up to the world's predicted end on Dec. 31, 1999, when prophets profited from claims that planes would fall from the sky, banks would implode, and VCR's all over the globe would fizzle and spark because their computer programming wouldn't know how to handle a date that ended in "00." 

This time, there has been very little in the mainstream media about our impending doom.  Even Geraldo Rivera has shied away from the topic, and this is right in his wheelhouse. 

Oh, we had that eponymous movie starring John Cusack, but that waste of celluloid was released all the way back in 2009.  You can't possibly expect attention-deficient Americans to keep up a fervor that long.

There has certainly been evidence that 2012 will be the final year of human existence.  Just two months ago, Dick Clark died.  By law, we are not allowed to close out 2012 and ring in 2013 without the American Bandstand master at the helm.

So is this it?  Are the Mayans right?  Is the world coming to an end, with the arrival of flesh-eating North Americans as a portent to the inescapable zombie apocalypse?

Nah.

You know how I know?

Because my government told me so.

The United States federal government.  You know, the folks that insisted for decades that Area 51 didn't exist; the ones who managed to have the U.S. Naval Observatory removed from Google Earth satellite maps as if it isn't there; the bunch who pretended for years that the only "Seal Team Six" they knew of performed five shows a day at Sea World.

The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta officially released a statement last week confirming that, no, these attacks are not the starting whistle for the zombie apocalypse.

They aren't saying that there is no such thing as zombies, or that their arrival will not be an ELE (extinction-level event).  In fact, the CDC actually has a section on their official website devoted to preparing for the impending zombie apocalypse, whenever it DOES come around.  (What will you need when the undead arrive?  According to the website: duct tape.)

So while the federal government has tacitly legitimized the notion of zombies, they are convinced that this is not the end.

In the spirit of objectivity, I have to point out this is the same federal government that told us Iraq had weapons of mass destruction, so I can't blame you if you're a bit skeptical.

Basically, it all comes down to two questions:

1)  Is the U.S. federal government smart enough to recognize the arrival of the true zombie apocalypse? 

Hint: this is the same government that said the unemployment rate would never get above 8 percent in this recession.  (The rate hasn't been below 8 percent since 2009, and currently stands at 8.2 percent.)

2)  If they really knew such a terrifying reality, would they tell us? 

Remember, it's been 50 years since Kennedy was killed, and a lot of people believe we STILL haven't been told the truth.

The good news is that we don't have to worry, because the government has a secret weapon: New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg.

In the unlikely event that zombies actually showed up in Central Park or on the Staten Island ferry, Bloomberg would take care of it.

As soon as he finishes outlawing the consumption of sugar-bearing drinks over 16 ounces, he'll start working on banning the consumption of sugar-bearing drink drinkers.  Remember, this is the guy who sent the Occupy Wall Street teenagers to their room without their supper.

As for the end of the world on Dec. 21?  I just don't see Bloomberg allowing it to happen.  There's just too much money involved.  And since he's the guy who rules times (square)...