Dave Fox's Outbursts!

Jet Lag Wonder Drugs? At Least the Hamsters are Happy.

I was about to delete the e-mail. "Dear Dave," it began. And everybody knows that these days, most e-mail that begins with "Dear Dave" is spam.

Like, this one time, my mother sent me an e-mail, and it started with, "Dear Dave."

I was all like, "How sweet. My mother is e-mailing me." But then her message continued:

"I am Miriam Mbuto Kfaswane, the beautiful and wholesome widow of Malcolm Herman Eugene Tiger Mbuto Humpenstein Kfaswane XII of Spamistan. And if you do not come home and clean your room and pick up your dirty underwear off the floor before dinner, you are not going to get the 64.8 quadzillion US dollars I have been instructed to deposit into your Swiss bank account."

I immediately picked up the telephone and called my mother. "Listen, Mom," I told her, "I am 40 years old. I do not live with you anymore. I will leave my dirty underwear on the floor if I want to. Besides, your name is not Miriam Mbuto Kfaswane!"

At this point, my mother reminded me that she doesn't really understand the Internet, or own a computer, and probably was not the person who sent me that e-mail.

(You can read the rest of this column on my mail website at davethefox.com.)

I Do Not Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas

I do not want a hippopotamus for Christmas.

I seriously mean this. I live in a moderate-sized condominium, which does not have space for a hippopotamus. So do not buy me one unless you are also going to buy me a bigger home.

You might be thinking this is funny. You might be thinking, "Ha ha! Now I know exactly what to get Dave for Christmas! A hippopotamus!"

Do not do it.

Listen, I have no problem with the occasional gag gift. I have been known to give some pretty wacky Christmas presents myself. Like, this one time, my brother told me he wanted a new sweater and some DVDs for Christmas, so instead, you know what I gave him? Frozen spinach! Ha! You should have been there. It was hilarious. I laughed for days.

I do not know if my brother laughed for days or not, because after I gave him the frozen spinach, he kicked me out of his house and did not speak to me for several weeks. So I was not able to ascertain whether my brother laughed for days or not. If all went according to my plan, he cooked up the spinach and ate some just before an important business meeting, and some of it got caught between his teeth.

But that is not the point.

The point is, the spinach was funny because my brother had space for it. (Between his teeth, haha!) No, seriously, though, I think he probably could fit it into his freezer. I do not have space for a hippopotamus in my freezer, or anywhere else in my home. Besides, everybody knows you should not put a hippopotamus in your freezer. So do not buy me one.

Space is not the only issue. There are also rules. The only pets my condo association allows are cats. They do not allow dogs. I'm not sure they even allow turtles. The bylaws say, "cats only," and people around here are pretty by-the-book when it comes to interpreting the bylaws. But you know what? Whether or not they allow turtles is irrelevant. If they don't allow dogs, they sure as hell do not allow hippopotamuses, so you can just drop that argument.

"Okay," you are probably thinking, "but what if I just give you a baby hippopotamus? Because baby hippopotamuses are not as, you know, 'big,' and you could put a cat costume on it, and your condo association would never know the difference."

Dude, will you just get off the hippopotamus thing? Because it's totally stupid and this conversation is starting to annoy me. I mean, seriously, what happens if you feed a baby hippopotamus? It stops being a baby hippopotamus and gets bigger. (Duh!) And then it outgrows its kitty outfit, and then what am I supposed to do? Buy a bigger kitty outfit? That would totally not work, because then the hippopotamus would look like a lion, and you do not seriously believe my condo association is going to let me keep a lion in the building, do you?

And if I don't feed the baby hippopotamus, it will probably not get bigger. It will probably just grunt at me in annoyance, and then roll over and die. And what the hell am I supposed to do with a dead baby hippopotamus? That would be the lamest Christmas present ever.

I don't know why people can't give me practical things for Christmas. Would a George Foreman Grill be so difficult? Or a Chia Pet? But no. Everybody's always trying to give me hippopotamuses.

So, to summarize, do not get me a hippopotamus for Christmas. You can get me a George Foreman Grill. Or a Chia Pet. But do not get me a Chia Hippo, because that would obviously be a mean-spirited attempt to annoy me.

I Don't Brake for Stupid Bumper Stickers

Driving home from a doctor's appointment yesterday, I spotted a bumper sticker that said, "Brake for moose! It could save your life!"

I couldn't help but think, "Really? Would anyone not brake for a moose that ran in front of their car?"

I mean, seriously, windshield wipers work for flies, but....

Down Under in the Alps

This just in from the Associated Press:

Missing German Kangaroo Captured
BERLIN -- Skippi, a wily kangaroo on the run since early August was returned to his home at a petting zoo Monday in southern Germany, but not after a chase through the German Alps that left the animal with a strained leg.

Funny. A German kangaroo. I always thought kangaroos came from Austria.

Where's the Beef?

Copenhagen, Denmark

Driving through rural Sweden a couple of days ago, I spotted a herd of about ten cows grazing innocently by the side of the road. This, in and of itself, was no big deal. I see roadside cows grazing all the time when traveling through Scandinavia. But on this day, something looked horribly wrong.

The cows were all grazing directly in front of a large billboard for McDonald's

How I Survived the Running of the Bulls

I have been keeping a secret.

My secret is that for many months, I have been making plans to do something very special this week. I have been making plans to participate in Pamplona, Spain’s legendary Running of the Bulls.

I decided to participate in the Running of the Bulls for personal reasons. I felt a need to challenge myself, to test my limits, and to fully taste how sweet and fragile life can be. I did not tell anyone I was participating in the event because, to be honest, I just didn’t want to deal with a lot of well-intended admonitions to “be careful.” I did not want to hear concerned but skeptical friends tell me I was not in good enough shape to participate in such an event.

So, secretly, I participated in yesterday’s Running of the Bulls.

Today, I am still alive, and unscarred.

At least seven people were gored yesterday. I am pleased to report that I was not one of them. I am fine.

The primary way I managed to keep myself safe during the event was that I took some basic safety precautions, the most important of which was that I participated in the Running of the Bulls by reading about it online from my hotel room here in Bergen, Norway. It is my understanding that some people actually go out into the streets of Pamplona -- while the bulls are running!! That is downright stupid. Those are some badass animals. No person in their right mind would tangle with them.

I was told that the main reason people participate in the Running of the Bulls is for the adrenaline rush. I felt that yesterday. My adrenaline was pumping after I looked at a picture of a medic trying to treat a gored runner. It was pumping because the medic had an expression on her face that was all, “Hey, this guy is, like, injured!” And I was thinking, “Duh! He stood in front of a bull! A bull with big-ass horns! That guy is a freaking idiot!”

I do not like idiots. They make me angry, and that gets my adrenaline pumping.

Last week, a group of Spanish women demanded that there should be a “Running of the Cows” for ladies and lady bovines. Yeah, okay, whatever. When I read about this proposal, I thought, “Maybe I will do that next year. Maybe I will participate in the Running of the Cows.” But apparently, the organizers want this to be a woman’s only event.

Okay, fine. I find your restrictions a bit ridiculous, but if you insist, I promise not to read the news that day.

Clean Humor

Oslo, Norway

I bought a smoothie yesterday at Deli de Luca, a Norwegian convenience store chain that puts 7-Eleven to shame. (7-Eleven invaded Norway around 15 years ago, and is now as prevalent in Oslo as Starbuck's Coffee is in Seattle.) As I was leaving the shop, I looked at a label on the side of my cup. It was an environmental message with a sense of humor. The cup said, "Love me, but leave me in the trash."

Meanwhile the Oslo city government has declared Oslo a "pig-free zone," with an ad campaign reminding residents there are more than 2,000 trash cans around the city. "Don't let the city look like a pig house," say posters around town, and movie theaters are showing a short anti-pig film before the feature presentation.

A Bird's Eye View of Rome

I was in a taxi in Rome a couple of weeks ago at 4 a.m., on my way to the airport to start my second tour in Stockholm. As my driver sped through the streets, I looked out the window and  discovered Rome at 4 a.m. is a peaceful place. No throngs of tourists clogging the streets. Just a few late-night drunks and prostitutes.

And birds. Lots of birds.

I began to wonder: Birds can live anywhere. What makes a bird decide to live in downtown Rome? I've got friends who prefer urban areas, and others who like to live out in the country. Are birds the same way? Do birds who live in Rome ever wake up and say, "Hmmm... I think we should get away from it all for a few days and go hang out in the Tuscan countryside?" Do they ever go on family vacations to the coast? If they do, do they stop at highway rest stops along the way to forage for food? Do the younger birds peck at each other until their parents threaten to turn around and go back to the city if they don't stop?

One wonders about such things when one is forced to wake up at 3:45 a.m. to catch a taxi.

Just Say Moo

Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland

I know you've been feeling sad lately. That cow you've dreamed of buying for so many years just isn't affordable, what with the sorry state of the US dollar against the Swiss franc and all. But cheer up. There's a solution.

Now, you can rent a cow from a Swiss farmer, and you don't even have to live in Switzerland.

Farmers in the Alps have developed a program in which you can rent one of their cows. The farmers will milk Bessie for you, turn the milk into cheese, and mail the cheese to you. Rental packages range from 255 to 425 Swiss Francs (about 210 to 350 US dollars). Packages include a certificate confirming you are the legal renter of the cow, a photo of your cow, all costs for milking, feeding, and other bovine care, and of course, the shipping of the cheese -- anywhere from two to ten kilos, depending on the package you choose. You can even come to Switzerland to visit your cow and have a picnic with it.

Don't believe me? You will find full details at www.kuhleasing.ch. (The website is in German, but drop them an e-mail in English if you are interested. I'm sure someone there can reply in English.)
 

Why would anybody want to rent a Swiss cow? For one thing, they are considered the happiest cows in the world. Why are Swiss cows the happiest cows in the world? Because they are all stoned.

Switzerland, which is not part of the European Union, has more liberal drug laws than most of Europe. Farmers here often feed cannabis to their cows... and the cows that get the cannabis typically produce more milk than their straight-laced counterparts.

The practice of cow-doping was officially banned in 2005, and boy do I wish I could have been at that session of Switzerland's Agriculture Ministry.

"I'm worried about our cows. I think it's time for an intervention."

Regardless, many farmers are not following the new rules, and agriculture officials say the THC could be finding its way into the milk.

It's times like this I really hate being lactose intolerant.

The Horse Versus the Zamboni

Here is an extremely useful IQ test you can take:

Which of the following is more like a car?

A) A Zamboni (You know... those vehicle-thingies that resurface the ice at hockey games.)

B) A Horse (You know... those animal-thingies that poop on the street during parades.)

If you are like me, and chose a Zamboni, you are wrong and stupid.

At least according to law enforcement.

A woman in Alabama was arrested last weekend for Driving Under the Influence. She was not driving a car. She was riding a horse.

Meanwhile in New Jersey, a judge has just ruled that if you drive a Zamboni while intoxicated, you cannot be given a DUI conviction because... well... Zambonis aren't motor vehicles.

Okay, people, help me understand this. Zambonis have motors. Horses do not. Zambonis have wheels. Horses do not. Zambonis have ignition switches, gas pedals, gas tanks, and optional air conditioning. Horses have none of those.

The woman on the horse, according to the Associated Press, allegedly tried to use the animal to ram a cop car. She then tried to flee from police, but the cops pulled her over and... asked for her license and registration? How do you pull over a horse? The woman was found to be carrying a small pipe, marijuana, an undisclosed variety of pills, and (surprise!) a child-sized portion of crystal meth.

In the New Jersey case,  according to the AP, Zamboni driver Paul Peragallo ran amok at a sports arena, and a co-worker told police Peragallo was -- oh, this is a good one -- speeding. Speeding! In a Zamboni! Six miles per hour?! However, the judge ruled that since one cannot drive a Zamboni on a highway, and because the Zamboni does not carry passengers, it's not a motor vehicle.

Peragallo testified at his trial he did not drink any alcohol until after he groomed the ice. He reportedly told police at the time of his arrest, however, he washed down his two breakfast Valiums with a shot of Sambuca.

Regardless of how much the man drank, I beg to differ with the judge. I believe you could drive a Zamboni on a highway -- just very slowly -- and, drunk or not, I would welcome the opportunity to try.