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Women Are From Where? By Tim Knox

A remote control in the hands of a woman is a dangerous thing, especially when it's her man she's trying to change. The other night, after throwing the kids outside and putting the animals to bed (we discovered our mistake the next morning), my wife and I settled in for a quiet evening alone. We don't get much time to ourselves anymore, what with work and the constant demands for attention from a two-year-old who thinks electrical outlets are convenient, piggy bank ATMs and a ten-year-old who wants to forego middle school to become a Spice Girl. So, when we get more than five minutes alone, it's a big deal. A very big deal. My wife (the brains of the outfit) suggested that we make a cup of hot chocolate and watch TV. In the old days, a little hanky-panky would have been thrown into the mix, but when you've been married as long as we have and your time together is limited, you've got to set priorities. Hanky-panky? Hot chocolate and TV? When she held up a bag of miniature marshmallows, it became a no brainer. Hey, I like hanky-panky as much as the next guy, but those little marshmallows were screaming my name. The first sign that my wife had ulterior motives came when she picked up her cup and left me standing alone in the kitchen. Granted, it was taking me awhile to fit that entire bag of little marshmallows in my cup, but ordinarily she'd wait for me. It was when I finally set my cup on the table that separates our matching recliners that I discovered her plan: I reached for the remote control, but it wasn't there. The remote, MY REMOTE, was clutched in my loving wife's right hand. Her plan was suddenly crystal clear. She was going to make me watch something she thought I needed to see. Silently, I asked God to have mercy on my soul. He did not listen. "I'll flip," I said, holding out a hand and giving her a pitiful smile. "I'll do it," she said, using the same sweet tone I'm sure Ted Bundy used to lure in his victims. When she stopped on a channel and slid the remote under her chair cushion, I knew all hope was gone. "Oh, this show should be good! It's about relationships, with that 'Women Are From Venus' guy." "What Women are from Venus?" I asked hopefully. "Are these women a hundred feet tall? Are they wearing Spandex and knee boots? Is Pamela Anderson in this?" "No, dummy, 'Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.' It's a book about relationships," she said, giving me THE LOOK. "It tells couples how to make their relationships stronger." "I bet the first thing the books says is: Give your man back the remote." She didn't buy it. So, for the next sixty minutes I was subjected to modern love in the infomercial age. The guy responsible for this wasted hour of my life is one John Gray, the writer of this blatantly-misnamed, albeit wildly-successful book that I'm pretty sure no man has ever read without coercion from his mate. Gray was the moderator of the show, giving five couples advice on how to fix what had gone wrong with their relationships. One woman in particular really needed a good kick in the emotional behind. She complained that her husband gave her a new BMW for their anniversary when all she really wanted was a carriage ride through the park. Excuse me? Maybe she can catch a carriage ride back to the mothership because I definitely think Venus is calling this gal home. If Gray had based his book on women like this, he would have called it, "Men Are From Earth and Nobody Knows Where The Hell Women Are From or What They Want." As I was making fun of this show (hey, it's what I do) my wife started telling me about another book her unmarried girlfriends had been telling her about. This piece of literary toilet paper is entitled: "The Rules: Time Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right." "So what are the rules for nabbing Mr. Right?" I asked. "No burping in front of his mama? Don't leave the toilet seat down? Don't make him watch stupid TV shows about relationships when Matlock is on?" She said, "The Rules say a woman should play hard to get. Don't call a man back when he calls you, make him ask you at least three times before agreeing on a first date, don't sleep with him until he has given you a ring, that sort of thing." "Who came up with these rules?" I asked, knowing that it was not a guy. "Two women," my wife answered. "I don't know their names." "These two women, they married?" I asked. "I don't think so." "SURPRISE! Now give me back the remote before I call my attorney!" After the show was over, she asked, "So, did you learn anything that might make our relationship better?" "Yes I did," I answered honestly. "I learned that the next time you try to entice me with hot chocolate and little marshmallows, I'd be better off settling for a little hanky-panky!"Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

Who Cracked My Crystal Ball? By Tim Knox

Predictons for the new year as foretold over a beer and Polish sausage sandwich It seems like an awful lot of people are asking my opinion these days, usually about things on which I have no opinion to give. They ask my take on international politics, global warming, the overseas stock markets, the future of the Eurodollar, the latest Calvin Klein fragrance, and a whole slew of other topics that I know little, if anything, about. Even my wife wants to know what I think. She's always asking things like, "Honey, does this make me look fat?" It doesn't take a genius to figure out that there's only one correct response to that question. So the evidence is clear: either my humble opinion really does count to a lot of people or I just have a lot of people snowed. I'm leaning toward the latter since it requires far less effort on my part. Most of these misguided folks seek my opinion for no other reason than I write this column. They think that because I can string together a couple of thousand words in a semi-coherent manner on a weekly basis, what I think must have some relevance to the world. Truth be told, most weeks this column writes itself. In fact, I don't consider myself a writer so much as a cranky chronicler of life, a benign bystander, an existential fly on the wall. I just sit on the sidelines and take note of what's happening around me, then I run it through a spell checker and report it to you. Think of me as the hall monitor in the Big School of Life. By the way, where's your hall pass? While most people ask my opinion on current events, others want to know what I think about things that haven't even happened yet, like I'm some kind of psychic hotline operator. "Who do you think the next president will be?" they ask. "Do you think North and South Korea will ever unite? Do you think there will ever be an Irish Pope? Do you think Prince Charles' ears can get any bigger? Do you think the new Barbie will be able to wear the old Barbie's clothes?" Since so many people seem to think that I can see into the future, not to mention that we are on the threshold of the new year, I decided to put my psychic abilities to the test. After all, I had nothing to lose and the answers to many questions to gain. Questions like: Can I really see into the future? Do I really possess the gift of foresight? If I really can see into the future, what's the best way to make a fast buck off such an ability, and more importantly, will it help me remember where I left my carkeys? I put myself in a deep, hypnotic trance by watching an entire episode of "Baywatch" with the sound turned down, then I closed my eyes and let the visions come. For a while, all I could see was water and red bathing suits, but finally the waves did part and the future became clear. Here, then, are my top ten predictions for the coming year: Lisa Marie Presley will announce that she is pregnant with exhusband Michael Jackson's child. Though it is unclear whether the baby will be a boy or girl, it will be born with interchangeable parts, just like its daddy. Speaking of Michael Jackson, the Gaudy Gloved One will decide to have a sex change operation by the end of the year. Confused doctors will announce that such surgery isn't an option for Jackson because they can't determine what sex he/she/it is now. At the 1998 Governors' Ball held at the White House, Alabama Governor Fob James will experience a painful attack of intestinal gas while dancing with Hillary Clinton. Footage of the attack will be aired on newscasts around the country, sparking a dance craze that proves even more popular than the Macarena. In the words of "Soul Train" host Don Cornelius, "Everybody be doin' the Fob!" It will be proven that President Bill Clinton was not only involved in Whitewater and illegal campaign fundraising, but was also instrumental in the creation of the Arch Deluxe. Due to the lack of viable candidates to run in the next presidential election, the Republican Party will attempt to revive the political career of Ronald Reagan. The fact that he is suffering from Altzheimer's will be considered by many to be a political plus. Microsoft head Bill Gates will consider entering politics, but will change his mind after failing to get the office of "God of Earth and Hellfire" added to the national ballot. In a move that shocks the religious world, Pope John Paul will resign the papacy and begin a successful career as a stand-up comic. He will land his own sitcom on the Fox network called, "Chico and the Pope." Jimmy Smits will play the role of Chico. Disgraced TV preachers Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggert are cast in a remake of the old sitcom, "Bosom Buddies." Jim and Jimmy play two God-fearing men living in a house filled with beautiful women. Neither role is considered a stretch. Basketball great Michael Jordan's squeaky-clean image will be tarnished this year when it's revealed that he isn't really bald. A popular internet humor columnist with the initials HLW will win fame and fortune with the publication of his book, "Men Are From Venus, Women Are From Over Yonder." Well, what do you know, those folks were right. I can see into the future, after all. Or maybe it was all just a dream brought on by that beer and Polish sausage sandwich I had while trancing out on Baywatch. At any rate, I hope you enjoyed this article because I was charging you $3.99 a minute. Hey, even a psychic's gotta eat. Happy New Year, everybody!Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

When Great Minds Meet By Tim Knox

When the richest man in America meets the world's greatest Elvis impersonator, you know only good things could come of it. Could 'Don't Be Cruel' really become Microsoft's new theme song? As a native son, I know that it doesn't take much to get the average Alabamian excited. Double coupon day at Kroger will do it; the opening of a Super Wal-Mart; an Elvis sighting; a batch of Georgia lottery tickets smuggled in by a coworker and sold at cost. But I was amazed at the reception Microsoft CEO Bill Gates got when he came to Alabama last week. You'd have thought Oprah was on trial here for badmouthing grits, the way people were carrying on. One particularly- impressed fellow gushed, "I just shook the hand of the richest man in the world! I may never wash my hand again!" Partner, you need a hobby. Try aisle 5. Maybe all the ruckus was because Billy Bob Gates (his honorary Alabama name) came to Dixie to give away money, something we Alabamians will stand in line to see, especially if there's a chance we might get a buck or two. Gates donated $2.7 million to pay for computers and Internet access for Alabama public libraries in an effort to bring cyberspace to underprivileged Alabamians. A noble gesture, but I'll bet the underprivileged would have just preferred the cash. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but Bill Gates coughing up $2.7 million is the monetary equivalent of me digging for change in my sofa. Consider these numbers: Bill's estimated worth is $48 billion. That's a 48 and a whole bunch of zeros. On average, Bill earns $120 per second, $7,200 per minute, $432,000 per hour, $10,368,000 per day, $72,576,000 per week, $3.7 billion per year. Poor sap. I guess I shouldn't be too hard on him. Imagine what the IRS does to him every April 15. Bill and his entourage (which included his wife and three bodyguards specially trained to handle terrorist pie attacks) visited two Alabama libraries that were recipients of his donation: one in Selma, another in Demopolis. Then it was off to Montgomery for a meeting with our beloved Governor Fobio James. It was on the way to Montgomery that Bill ran into another great American: Delbert Lee Knox. Delbert Lee, a second cousin on my daddy's side, is considered by most in the family to be what my grampa calls, "the one that fell out of the tree and didn't land on his head," which, loosely translated into semi-coherent English, means: the boy made good. Delbert Lee is known around the world as "Delvis: The Elvis Impersonator's Impersonator." His impersonations of other impersonators is incredible! It's like Elvis to the third power. And you should see him do the Elvis Stamp (young AND old versions). It's down right eerie! That achievement alone is enough to get Delbert Lee seated at the head of the big people's table at all family functions, but he has another claim to fame. He is also the mayor of Goober Falls, Alabama, a small hamlet just off the highway to Demopolis. It was there that Delbert Lee met and spent several minutes with Bill Gates. I'm sure neither of them will ever be the same. I spoke to Delbert Lee shortly after their impromptu meeting and here's what he had to say. Tim Knox: So, DL, what was it like, shaking the hand of the richest man in America? Delbert Lee: It was something, TK! I may never wash my hand again. HL: How did he end up in Goober Falls? DL: I think he had too much sweet tea up in Selma because he had to stop by Arnie's Gas-n-Go to use the facilities. Arnie called to tell me that he was out there, so I had him trap the little feller in the restroom till I could arrive. TK: You trapped the richest man in America in a gas station restroom? Was he upset? DL: Well, he was at first. Then Arnie gave him one of those pine tree air fresheners for his limo and all was forgiven. TK: What was he like? DL: Well, he wasn't nearly as tall as I thought he'd be. And I had him pegged as being much older. I mean, he started Wal-Mart nearly forty years ago, you know. TK: DL, you're thinking of Sam Walton. The guy you met was Bill Gates, the CEO of Microsoft. DL: (Pause) Bill Gates? Who the hell is Bill Gates? TK: Ever heard of a little thing called the Internet, DL? DL: Course I have! We get the X-Files off the satellite dish down here, you know. TK: I've got an idea, DL. Bill Gates wants to put the average Alabamian on the Internet and since there's no Alabamian more average than you, how about letting me test your Internet knowledge. DL: I am your faithful hound dog, HL. Fire when ready. So, I gave Delbert Lee a little test. I asked him to define the following terms. His answers are in bold. Bytes: What my dog Priscilla does when you pull her tail. Megabytes: What you get when you Super Size the McNuggets meal at McDonald's. Megahertz: The world's largest car rental company. Monitor: One of them big lizards from Japan. Keyboard: Where Arnie hangs the restroom key down at the Gas-n-Go. Scuzzy (SCSI): A woman of ill repute. Hard drive: Any road trip involving my mother-in-law. Modem: What I did to them stinkweeds that was growing in my yard. Hardware: My drawers when Lurleen doesn't use fabric softener. Software: That frilly underwear you see in the Victoria's Secret catalog. Mouse: Like a gopher rat, only smaller. Mouse Pad: Where that mouse lives. Online: Where you stand when waiting to get your government cheese. Service provider: A truckstop waitress. RAM: My Dodge truck, by God. ROM: Jimmy Buffet's favorite drink. Goes good with Coke. Random Access Memory: When I conveniently forget to tell Lurleen that I been out drinking with Arnie and the boys. WWW: The international branch of the World Wrestling Federation. Virus: Something that can't be cured without penicillin or fungus medicine. Reboot: What you have to do when you wear down the souls of your Dingos. Microsoft: Really fine toilet paper. Geocities: A town where everybody drives a little, bitty car. URL: What Lurleen fries chicken in. Crisco is her favorite. Shutdown: What happens when the vice squad raids the trailer park on Saturday night. TK: Thanks, DL. I'll see you at the next reunion. DL: No, HL, thank you. Thank you very much.Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

What's my mama gonna say? By Tim Knox

I know you're going to find this hard to believe, but I, Tim Knox, am a sexist pig. Sorry, mama. I had no idea. I know you're going to find this hard to believe, but I, Tim Knox, noted humanitarian, former Eagle Scout, and lover of mankind the world over, am a sexist pig. Sorry, mama. I had no idea. I came to this startling realization after an angry female reader sent an equally angry email complaining that my recent column on the Miss America Pageant had missed the politically correct bull's eye by about a mile and a half. Quoting this reader's email now, "...my assumption from how you write, leads me to believe that the "opposite" gender is little more to you than something that still needs to be oppressed by men such as yourself that allows you to leer at them from above your glass ceiling... Have a nice and dolefully sad existence... Best wishes to you in actually developing an articulate and EDUCATED opinion... I sincerely hope you (sic) learn that opinions are CERTAINLY not facts, and ignorance is no excuse for poor judgment..." Man, when it comes to email pipebombs, this one's a beaut! Thank you, Mrs. Kazinski (not her real name, of course). Thank you very much. Can someone hand me a bandaid... Call me ignorant (again), but I had no idea what I could have possibly done to demand such brutal retaliation from someone who is, I'm sure, on most days, a very decent and loving member of the human race. I've seen a woman pushed to these limits only once before. It was July 8, 1968, a day I'll never forget. In a moment of sheer frustration, my mother let me have it up beside the head with her big purse because I refused to climb off Billy the Buckin' Bronco, that valiant, plastic steed who stood tied up out front of the Piggly Wiggly on 8th Street for many years. "I ain't gonna tell you again to come on, Tim Knox!" WHACK! I should've seen it coming. Whenever my mama called me by my whole name it meant that she wasn't particularly happy with me. It also meant that a whacking from that big purse wasn't far behind. In school, just hearing my name called on the roll caused me to uncontrollably duck for a good five minutes. Scarred for life, I never mounted another horse, coin operated or otherwise. Maybe that's why this email bothered me so. Would I ever be able to write another column after being beaned by this irate woman's electronic big purse? I wasn't sure. I read the email over several more times, but still my offense was unclear. What was Mrs. Kazinski so ticked about? I went back and read the Miss America column again. Still, I was clueless, which I'm sure doesn't surprise my friendly emailbomber. Maybe you folks can help me figure it out. After all, I'm ignorant, you know. If you missed the column called "The Dust Settles on Miss America" (or missed the point of said column) here's what it was all about: Promoters of the Miss America Pageant insist that it is not a beauty contest, a statement that I took particular exception with. If it's not a beauty pageant, why is there an evening wear and swimsuit competition? Why don't they just have a talent show, ask each contestant how she'd save the world, then give one of them the crown so everybody can go home? In an admitted attempt to bolster sagging ratings, Pageant promoters allowed two piece bathing suits to be worn in the swimsuit competition this year. And this isn't a beauty contest? Please. I guess nothing stimulates the female brain like wearing a skin tight bikini. Odd, it has the exact opposite affect on the average male. It makes his mind go blank. I said that I changed channels during the talent competition because badly sung opera and showtunes have been known to induce cranial bleeding in men my age. I don't apologize for this statement. I am not a big fan of opera so even the best of opera, at least to my ears, is badly sung. And I've yet to hear a showtune that I can dance to, so sue me. I also made mention of the fact that one of the contestants sported a pierced navel while another had a tattoo in an undisclosed place, not exactly typical role models there. And finally, if the Miss America Pageant really is about brains and not beauty, as promoters say, I recommended restructuring the contest so the emphasis would be on intelligence. I suggested "...having Miss South Dakota and Miss Rhode Island play Risk for twelve hours with no bathroom break... have Miss Michigan rebuild the carburetor on a '63 Pontiac Catalina... have Miss California expound on the theory of quantum physics while trying to make a Jacob's Ladder with a piece of string that's too short..." At no time did I say one negative thing about women anywhere in this column. My arrows were clearly (at least to me) aimed at the hypocritical pageant organizers who claim beauty has nothing to do with who wins. And I will not apologize for stating the obvious fact that not even two piece bikinis can save this dog and pony show whose time has come and gone. I finally came to the conclusion that, being an ignorant man, the only way I was ever gonna figure out what Mrs. Kazinski was upset about was to involve, dare I say it, a woman! So I called out the big guns, the woman who has been keeping me on the straight and narrow for a lot of years now. Namely, my wife, or should I call her, "my better half." "I don't get it either," my wife said after reading the email and the column. "Sounds like a disgruntled beauty queen to me. Now take out the trash before I get my big purse after you." I don't think my wife realizes that by belittling disgruntled beauty queens she has opened herself up to the wrath of the emailbomber. Forgive her, Mrs. Kazinski, please. Her curse is having to live with me. Isn't that enough? Which brings me around to one more question: If I'm a sexist pig why the heck am I the one dragging two hundred pounds of trash out to the curb twice a week. Can't I get a woman to do this? Look, Mrs. Kazinski, if thinking that the Miss America Pageant is a load of hooey makes me a sexist pig in your eyes, so be it. If reading just one of my columns drives you to conclude that I am a man who feels women, quoting you again, "...need to be oppressed" so that me and men like me can "...leer at them from above our (sic) glass ceiling..." so be it again. That's your opinion. You're entitled to it. As a writer whose tongue is kept planted firmly in cheek and whose feet are kept planted firmly in the muck, I know that not everyone will agree with everything I write. A wise, old newspaper editor once told me that a writer's job is to elicit a response from his readers, be that response good, bad, or indifferent. With you, Mrs. Kazinski, I consider my job to be done. Everything I write is a reflection of my own personal opinion of the world. I hope you will at least agree, Mrs. K, that I, too, am entitled to an opinion, no matter how "ignorant and uneducated" you may find it to be. To finish, let me assure you and everyone else that if I am indeed a sexist pig, I am of the passive pork variety. After antique British sports cars and well-worn cowboy boots, I think God's greatest creation is Woman. Man comes in at number 7, just after riding lawn mowers and just before all beef hotdogs. If you read this column with any regularity, Mrs. K, you'd know that I have a wife and two daughters who seem very happy with me. I also have a mother, sister and elderly aunt who depend on me to be the designated male in their lives. When any of these women call, I drop whatever I'm doing and run to their sides. If I don't, it's big purse time. So, am I really a sexist pig, Mrs. K? I don't think any of the women in my life would say so. Still, if you still have a problem with me, maybe you should talk to my mother. Just watch out if she's carrying that big purse.Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

Thingamabobs And Whatchamadigits By Tim Knox

My daughter cornered me the other night, wanting to know about the birds and bees. Actually, she wanted to know what "sectional misconduct" was. Maybe you weren't aware of it, but one of the requirements of being a good dad is that you must know everything there is to know about everything. Or at least act like you do. And you must always be at the ready to share your vast storehouse of wisdom with your children when they ask, in hopes that they will be able to do a heck of a lot more with it than you have. Whenever my daughter Chelsea comes to me seeking wisdom and advise, I do my best to steer her in the right direction. She still has all her limbs and a fair number of teeth, so I must be doing something right. Lately, however, she's been asking questions that I'm not mentally equipped to answer. Take the other night, for example. She cornered me after dinner and wanted to know what "sectional misconduct" was. "Sectional misconduct?" I asked with a nervous smile. "Where did you hear that?" Of course I knew what she meant to say, but in my heart there was a small glimmer of hope that she really was curious about the misdeeds of a very large sofa. She looked up at me with that angelic face and said, "The man on the TV news said the president committed sectional misconduct. What's that?" I waffled for a moment, searching for just the right words to say. Then, I did what any good father would do when faced with the fact that his baby girl is growing up and getting wise to the ways of the world. I made something up. "Sectional misconduct means the President tore the tags off the couch cushions in the Oval Office and now the Sectional Prosecutor wants to put him in jail." "D-a-a-a-a-d!" That's how she said it, like it had 4 a's. It was clear that she didn't believe me and I suddenly found myself teetering on the brink of fatherhood failure. Luckily, she gave me the look she inherited from her mother, that "if you had a brain you'd be dangerous" look. I hate that look and she knows it, so I sent her to her room and told her to never watch TV again. In daddy-daughter terms, this mission was a success, at least until the next day, when she came home from school and said, "Dad, Beth Ann Higginbottom says there's no such thing as sectional misconduct." "That so?" "Yep. She said it's sexual misconduct." "Well, I'll be darned." "Dad?" "Yes?" "What's sexual misconduct?" "Go ask your mother. And don't ever talk to Beth Ann Higginbottom again!" Call me old fashioned, but I think the explaining of the birds and the bees falls under her mom's jurisdiction, not mine. Women are just better at that sort of thing. Women can talk about the particulars of sex with a straight face. Men can't. We giggle and stutter and talk with our hands and make funny sounds. And we're certainly not comfortable using the anatomically-correct terms for the private parts of the male/female anatomy. That's why we give our own private parts nicknames like: [insert your own incredibly-exaggerated private part nickname here] and [come on, I know you have one]. No, the explaining of the facts of life to children is not a job for men. We turn into sweating, stuttering, giggling, incoherent idiots. Our children do not need to see their fathers like this. It could scar them for life. To prove my point, here's the word-for-word account from that fateful day in 1971 when my dad attempted to explain the birds and bees to me. It was September 12, my eleventh birthday. "Well, uh, you see son, uh, the man has, uh, you know, this thingamabob, and, the woman has, uh, well, it's, uh, called, uh, a whatchamadigit I think, and, uh, well, women are built funny, you know, because their bicycles don't have bars, you know, and they, uh, well, the man and woman, uh, they have dinner first because, well, you know, everybody's gotta eat sometime, and, uh, then they watch Johnny Carson for awhile and, uh, you know, uh, there's that thingamabob and that, uh, whatchamadigit, uh, you know, and then, uh, they uh... hey, son, how about them Braves?" I wasted a perfectly good puberty thinking that the facts of life involved a thingamabob, a whatchamadigit, and the Atlanta Braves. Thanks, dad. So, what are we parents supposed to do when current events on the evening news cause our children to ask questions we're not ready to answer? Turn off the TV, you say? Okay. Don't let her watch the news? I can do that, too. Keep her locked in her room until she's thirty and feed her through a tiny hole in the door? Brilliant! My problem is solved. Now, if I can just figure out what to do about Beth Ann Higginbottom.Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

The Unsinkable Tim Knox By Tim Knox

I call them 'Ti-taniacs.' They look perfectly normal at first, but eventually they will ask, 'Have you seen 'Titanic' yet? That's when their dimentia rolls to the surface and the all-out assault begins Anyone out there old enough to remember 'The Omega Man,' the 1971 film starring Charlton Heston as Colonel Robert Neville, the last "normal" man on earth? You remember, everyone else on the planet had been turned into deranged albino-mutants by some kind of deadly moon radiation. It was based on a true story, I think. Anyway, the deranged albino-mutants were always chasing Col. Neville because he refused to conform to their ways. They made his life a living heck (as if being the last normal man on Earth wasn't pressure enough) and in the end, killed him in the town square. Scary stuff, my friends, especially for me, for I am The Modern Day Omega Man. That's right, I am the last man left on earth who has not seen the movie, 'Titanic.' And like Col. Neville, I am constantly being hounded by an obnoxious group of deranged albino-mutants. Only there was no deadly moon radiation this time. These deranged mutants look like albinos because their skin hasn't seen the light of day since the movie 'Titanic" came out. I call them "Titanic-Fanatics" or "Ti-taniacs" for short. Their numbers are legion and they are EVERYWHERE! Your spouse may be a Titaniac, or your kids -- maybe even some of your friends and coworkers (quick, look behind you!!). You may have a hard time spotting them at first because Titaniacs often look like normal human beings, but eventually their dimentia rolls to the surface and the all-out assault begins. "Have you seen 'Titanic' yet? You haven't? What's wrong with you? You HAVE to see it! I've seen it twelve times already and I'm going to see it again! 'Titanic' is the best movie ever! It's such a wonderful love story! And Leonardo DiCaprio is soooooo cuuuuuuute!" Mom, please, enough already. Go take one of your pills and lie down. My oldest daughter has seen "Titanic" five times and is one of the most deranged Titaniacs you'll ever meet. She keeps trying to lure me into the fold, but I keep resisting. The last time I let her drag me to a theater I spent two torturous hours watching 'Spice World' (she had convinced me that it was the long-awaited sequel to 'Dune'). There was me and one other guy in the theater amid four hundred screaming, little girls. And the funny thing is, I knew the guy from the PTA. We noticed each other just before the lights went out, then quickly looked away, as if we'd just seen each other in a strip club on a day we had both called in sick for work. I saw him at the next PTA meeting. We nodded to each other, but didn't say a word. Ours was a silent bond of shame. Never again would we speak of what we'd done. And never again would I let my darling daughter drag me to another movie. "Please, dad," she whines every weekend. "Take me to see 'Titanic." "You're ten now," I always say. "Take your mom's car and go." "D-a-a-a-ad, please! I have to see it again!" "Isn't 'Titanic' a really long movie?" With a wistful sigh, she says, "Just three hours and fifteen minutes." "What? You're telling me they had three hours and fifteen minutes before the ship went under and they couldn't round up a few extra flotation devices? Why didn't they get some Hefty bags and fill them with air like McGyver? Or tie a bunch of milk jugs together with fishing line?" "D-a-a-a--a-a-a-a-d..." "Too bad they didn't have the Professor from 'Gilligan's Island' with them, huh. In three hours and fifteen minutes he could've rebuilt the entire ship out of ear wax and used popsicle sticks." I let her stew on that one for a minute, then I asked, "So what happens at the end of this great movie? Do they live happily ever after?" "No," she says with a tear in her eye. "Leonardo and Kate are in the water, but Leonardo dies." "Why doesn't Kate die?" "Because she's on a piece of wood and he's in the freezing water." "Why isn't she in the water?" I asked. She gives me her best "duh" look and says, "Dad, she's a girl!" I guess there is no such thing as equality among the sexes when it comes to major maritime disasters. (Note to myself: never go out on a boat with oldest daughter again.) "Dad, please!" she goes on. "Take me to see it! You'll really like it. And Leonardo DiCaprio is sooooo cuuuuute!" "I know, your grandma already told me. Now, go take one of her pills and lie down." She's pretty convincing, but so far I've managed to resist the siren's call. Besides, 'Titanic' has made over a bazillion dollars and been nominated for umpteen Oscars. I don't think it's going to be pulled from theaters just because I don't see it. Even without having spent three hours of my life watching the big boat go down, I feel as if I'm overdosing on all the hype. You can't turn on the TV these days without seeing the movie's twelve- year- old star, Leonardo DiCaprio, giving an interview. Okay, he's probably older than 12, but not by much. I'm thinking fifteen, at the max. And if I hear that damn theme song one more time I'm going to personally hunt down Celine Dion and duct tape her mouth shut. The real reason I don't want to see 'Titanic' is because I have it on pretty good authority that, special effects aside, it's really just another one of those mushy girl movies masquerading as an action-adventure flick. For 'Titanic' to appeal to "normal" guys like Col. Robert Neville and I, the Leonardo DiCaprio part would have to be recast with Bruce Willis. And in the role of the rich bad guy, Christopher Walken, of course! And don't forget Demi Moore as the nubile, young heroine with a penchant for dancing naked on the poop deck! Now that, my friends, is a movie I'd pay to see.Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

The Tax Man Cometh By Tim Knox

Someone once said the only things in life that are certain are death and taxes I think the only difference between the two is that death claims you just once, but taxes can kill you every year. Someone once said that there are only two things in life that are certain: death and taxes. I would argue that death and taxes are really one and the same, the only difference being that death can only claim you once, while taxes can kill you every year. I die a slow death every April 15th. I'd rather go on a one-way tour of the wreckage of the Titanic in a minisub that has a slow leak than do my taxes. Even if my mother-in-law was at the wheel and my rear end was on fire, I'd still rather take that ride than to try and muddle through the latest assortment of forms and attachments from the IRS. (I'm warning you, you're going to need Indiana Jones to decypher all the new tax code). I'm especially wary of the IRS this year because it was recently reported that the majority of Americans audited in the last few years have been poor, white southerners. Like tornadoes, it seems living in a trailer home attracts the Tax Man, too. My dread of tax season stems from the belief that no matter what I do, no matter how honest I try to be (and I really do try to be honest), I will somehow end up owing the government a gazillion dollars more than I actually earned. I have my own little IRS representative in my head and she speaks to me whenever I get too near the edge of reportable sanity. "But I didn't even make a gazillion dollars last year!" I cry. "That doesn't matter, sir," the voice says. "You incorrectly calculated the accrued interest and long term capital gains from the sale of that certain property from the party of the first part to the party of the second part, which resulted in a $3.12 profit on your part that was not reported to the IRS on forum 1099FU. The penalty for not submitting the required form and the $3.12 to the IRS within the allotted amount of time is a gazillion dollars PLUS interest. Have a nice day." Then there's the question of exactly what qualifies as a dependent. This one always gets me because in my mind, if something depends on me for its existence and I have to take time out of my day to tend to it, it's a dependent. "I'm sorry, sir, even though it would probably die if you didn't feed it and give it water everyday, your dog does not qualify as a dependent." "What kind of logic is that? Do you have any idea how much I spend on that dog? Now I'm not so sad about letting all my plants die over the winter! With stupid rules like that it's no wonder people cheat on their taxes!" "Did you say something about cheating, sir?" "Me? Cheating? No, of course not. That wouldn't be right." Surveys (not conducted by the IRS) have shown that even the most honest, God-fearing Americans have thought about cheating on their taxes at one time or another. It's a natural reflex, like opening your mouth to breath when you're six fathoms underwater. In truth, I think God created taxes as the ultimate test of human faith. "Hmm," God thought one fine April day. "That apple thing was just too easy. How can I really test man's ability to resist temptation? I know, I'll create taxes! And what shall I call the entity I create to collect these taxes? Hmm, I've already used the name, Hell... I know, I'll call it 'The INFERNAL REVENUE SERVICE!' No, wait a second, 'The INTERNAL Revenue Service' is even scarier! And for those who can not resist the temptation to cheat, I will create THE IRS AUDIT!" Most Americans would rather go down a buffet line with Jeffrey Dahmer than have to sit through an IRS audit. Being audited is like going to the dentist even though there's nothing wrong with your teeth. "Yes, I'm here to have my gums scraped with a rusty ice pick. No, ma'am, there's nothing wrong with my gums, but the dentist sent me this notice to come in, so here I am..." Why do we fear the IRS, even though the majority of Americans have never and would never cheat on their taxes? Maybe it's because of all the horror stories that came out during last year's congressional probe of the agency. It was reported that both Jimmy Hoffa and Amelia Earheart were on their way to IRS audits when they disappeared. It was also revealed that three out of five people audited wet their pants during the process. This came to light only after the IRS sent the General Accounting Office a bill for $324,000 for plastic chair covers and potpourri air fresheners. Scary stuff, my friends. Very scary stuff. "Internal Revenue Service. How may I help you today?" "I have a question about the new tax code." "Yes, sir?" "I don't get it." "Don't get what, sir?" "I don't get any of it. I don't understand it." "You're not supposed to understand it, sir. That's why we call it code." "But that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." "I'm sorry, sir, but that's just the way it is. Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mr...Knox?" "How'd you know my name?" "We're the IRS, sir. We know everything. Do you have a problem with that?" "Problem? Nope, not me. I think you folks do a great job! In fact, I was just about to mail you a check for a gazillion dollars!" "Thank you, sir. The IRS appreciates your patronage. And Mr. Knox?" "Yes, ma'am..." "You have a nice day."Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

The Tanya Factor By Tim Knox

Is it me or are the '98 Winter Olympics about as exciting as watching old people speedwalk at the mall? What's missing this year? Could be The Tanya Factor Is it me or are the 1998 Winter Olympics about as exciting as watching old people speedwalk at the mall? Don't get me wrong, I'm as patriotic as the next guy, but when the nightly highlight show contains fifteen minutes of slow-motion replays of the day's curling competition (an event that's boring at regular speed), you know something is wrong. So what's missing this time around? There's no Tanya Factor. The Tanya Factor is a theoretical law of physics which takes into account three basic rules of human nature: Rule #1: Most people are only human. Rule #2: Everybody screws up once in awhile. And, Rule #3: When somebody screws up, the rest of us will stand in line to watch. Imagine Murphy's Law with a live studio audience, that's The Tanya Factor. The Tanya Factor is named in honor of Tanya Harding, that wonderful piece of Olympic white trash who made the 1994 Winter Games such a "must see" event. You remember Tanya, the chainsmoking, hard-drinking, foul-mouthed figure skater who, along with her nitwit husband, Jeff Gillooly (who has since changed his name to Stone because no one could say Gillooly with a straight face), tried to disable rival skater Nancy Kerrigan by hitting her in the knee with a lead pipe. Tanya escaped serious jail time, but was charged with having lousy taste in men and banned from competitive skating forever. Too bad. Athletic role models like Tanya don't come along everyday (unless you count Mike Tyson, Dennis Rodman, Latrell Sprewell, etc.). But Tanya was special. This was a woman who puffed Marlboro cigarettes and swilled Budweiser from the can while attempting difficult skating maneuvers like the double cowpie and the triple decker klutz. This was a woman who lived in a trailer and drove a Dodge Ram pickup that had a gunrack in the rear window and a bumper sticker on the tailgate that read "I'll kneecap your honor student!" This, my friends, was a real woman, at least where I come from. Thanks to Tanya and company, the 1994 Winter Games became the greatest show on earth. We all tuned in, though none of us really cared about flawless skating and perfectly executed jumps. We just wanted to see what Tanya was going to do next, as if there really was the chance that she and Nancy would beat the bejesus out of each other in the middle of the ice. That's what The Tanya Factor is all about: the human need to experience danger and excitement at someone else's expense. Forget the thrill of victory. We want to see the agony of defeat. Dr. Beechwood A. Jing, Professor Emiritus at the South Hampton Institute of Technology's Hammond-Eggar Anthropological Department, is the man credited with identifying The Tanya Factor. Dr. Jing recently completed an extensive two day/three night study that concluded, without The Tanya Factor, life as we know it can be pretty damn boring. Dr. Jing found that, contrary to popular belief, most people don't go to hockey games just to see large, toothless men skate gracefully around the ice. No, most people go to hockey games to see large, toothless men beat the crap out of each other! He also discovered that most people don't go to the races just to watch the pretty cars go round and round the track. Most people go to the races to see the pretty cars crash into each other at a hundred miles an hour! I had no idea, did you? The only sign that The Tanya Factor is at work in Nagano has come from Ross Rebagliati, the Canadian snowboarder whose gold medal was taken away after he tested positive for marijuana. To understand why an athlete would risk smoking pot during the Games, you have to understand what snowboarding is all about. You stand on a miniature surfboard and fly down the side of a steep mountain at a speed that's roughly twice the speed of light. Nobody in their right mind would do that straight! Of course he had pot in his system. That's probably why he won the gold medal. He was trying to get down that mountain before all the Doritos were gone! Finally, Dr. Jing believes that The Tanya Factor doesn't just apply to sports, but to everyday life, as well. That's why TV shows like "Top Cops" and "The Worlds Deadliest Car Chases" and "The World's Deadliest Animal Attacks" and "The World's Deadliest Car Chases Involving Top Cops Chasing The World's Deadliest Animals" are so popular. They get our hearts pumping, our blood going, our adrenaline flowing. They give us what we want. They give us Tanya. And our knees are none the worse for wear.Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

The Smarter White Meat By Tim Knox

A college professor at Penn State is trying to teach pigs to communicate using computers. I think this guy is one pork rind short of a full bag. Who wants to get email from a pig? I know you're probably going to find this hard to believe, especially those of you who write in every week seeking my advice on life's really tough problems (Note to Marvin in Mobile: Yes, no, ask your doctor, I think that's illegal in ALL 50 states, and no, not with a ten-foot pole), but I, Tim Knox, never went to college. To those of you who write in every week complaining that my frequent use of words like "y'all, yonder and ain't," is an affront to the English language and that I give southerners everywhere a bad name, I'm sure this comes as no surprise (Note to Doug in Dothan: You, sir, may still kiss my grits, college educated or not). When I graduated from high school in 1978, college was the furthest thing from my mind. I had just been released from thirteen long years of educational purgatory and I was in no hurry to jump back into the fire. At eighteen, my priorities were as follows: do as little work as possible during the day, get as sloppy drunk as possible every night, and meet as many really cool chicks as possible along the way. My high school guidance counselor never bothered to tell me that the best place to do all of these things was at college. Instead, he just sort of chuckled at my grades and asked if I had considered a career in welding. Besides, no one in my family had ever gone to college, so who was I to buck tradition? College, my old man was quick to point out, was for rich kids in trouble with the law and stupid people who didn't have the smarts to make it on their own. Grand words of wisdom from a man who dropped out of school in the third grade to become a dirt farmer. I should have introduced him to my high school guidance counselor. Since they were the founding members of the "Let's Screw Up Tim Knox's Life With Lousy Advice" Club, I'm sure they would have gotten along famously. A year or two out of high school I found myself hungover, broke and unemployed. That's the only time I seriously thought about going to college (it seemed an easier prospect than having to sober up and find a real job). I stopped by the local university and met with a student advisor (think guidance counselor with zits). I was thinking about getting an English degree so I could teach small school children the proper use of words like "y'all, yonder and ain't." When I told the student advisor this, he just sort of chuckled at my aspirations and asked if I had considered a career in welding. "Thanks, zitface," I felt like saying. "Here's your membership card. Welcome to the club. Help yourself to punch and cookies. Come on, I'll introduce you to my old man." About the only thing I learned from that visit was that going to college required a lot of money, something I didn't have. And this particular school's motto was: "Coffum opus dia doe or scatum dia hades offum dia campii!" English translation: "If you can't pay the tuition get the hell off this campus!" I couldn't, so I did. And now you know why I never went to college. At least I didn't waste eight years of my life getting a degree I never used. The guy who mows my lawn has a PhD in psychology. I guess he uses that $100,000 worth of advanced schooling to make sure my grass is "okay" with being cut. Then there are those folks who collect college degrees like my sister collects Beanie Babies. I have a friend who has a Masters in electrical engineering, a Bachelors in computer science, and a Doctorate in mathematics. You know what he does for a living? Nothing, he's too busy going to school. I don't feel so bad about ditching college when I hear of some of the things that are going on in our institutions of higher learning these days. Take the case of the Penn State professor who is trying to teach pigs how to communicate using a computer. That's right, f-f-f-olks, I said pigs. And I'm not talking about ugly coeds, either. Professor Stanley Curtis (a former student advisor, I'm sure) believes that pigs, like apes and some people from Michigan, can be taught to communicate with humans by using a form of computer sign language. Curtis, with all his college-tainted wisdom, thinks that pigs are much smarter than people think. I think Professor Curtis is one pork rind short of a full bag. Who wants to get email from a pig? Here's how the good professor summed it up to The Philadelphia Inquirer: "Pigs always have their eyes open for their next mouthful, so they are always surveying the environment. They are very alert, and if they see some food at a certain place, they have to figure out how to get to it." Is he talking about pigs or his fraternity brothers? Curtis continued, "They (pigs) solve problems every day and they have the ability to discriminate, so it should come as no surprise that their intelligence is high." Solving problems, the ability to discriminate, high intelligence... hmm, I guess he is talking about pigs. Curtis' goal is to provide the best possible environment for pigs and other farm animals. If these pigs could communicate that they're uncomfortable, unhappy, or hungry, he says, the farmer could then do whatever was necessary to make the pig's life a little easier. This is where I get confused. What farmer in his right mind would want a bunch of whiny pigs running around the barnyard stirring up trouble? And what farmer would go to the trouble of making a pig's life easier when he knows that said pig is going to be on the next train to Baconville? This is like giving death row inmates Dr. Sholes pads to put in their shoes so their feet don't hurt while they're walking to the gas chamber. You don't need a college degree to figure out that this is the dumbest idea since the invention of low fat bologna. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be able to communicate with pigs. I'm not a heartless person. I don't want to think that the pig that gave its life for my morning bacon spent its last moments sitting at a computer terminal frantically typing out, "PLEASE DON'T KILL AND EAT ME!! I AM NOT AN ANIMAL! PLEASE!!" Let's put the professor's computer sign language to work with animals we don't eat. I'd love for my dog to be able to tell me what the hell he's barking at at three in the morning. And I'd really like to know what my cat has to be so uppity about. Besides, what could a pig really have to say that's worth hearing? Unless it's, "Hey buddy, have you considered a career in welding?" Th-th-th-th-at's all, folks.Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

The Sky Is Falling By Tim Knox

When you turn on the TV and learn that a giant, killer asteroid is headed your way, you have to ask yourself certain questions. Like, should I have that second bowl of Crispy Hexagons or just stop at one? The other morning, I was sitting at my kitchen table eating my usual bowl of generic cereal (Crispy Hexagons, to be exact), when the national news came on TV. The top stories of the day were: "A giant, killer asteroid is headed toward Earth, and American hog farmers are demanding that manufacturers of pork and beans remove that little hunk of pork from the can, leaving just 'and beans.' Details after the weather..." WHAT??!! This can't be true! Don't these people know that pork and beans make up two of my favorite food groups?! What's next, getting rid of the Weinies and leaving just the Beanies? I won't stand for this! I'll... hang on, did they also say something about a giant, killer asteroid headed toward Earth? AAHHH!!! You know what that means? A run on pork and beans! Quick, where are my carkeys? I've gotta get to Foodland!! After making sure my pantry was fully stocked with P&B's, I settled back down and considered the other news of the day. What were they talking about? Oh yeah, a giant, killer asteroid headed for Earth. Hmm, that could be a problem. I usually don't put much stock into such stories of impending doom unless they involve the SWAT Team and one of my relatives (at our last family reunion the FBI cut the power to the compound), but this story peaked my interest. A giant, killer asteroid zooming toward Earth: I didn't take the time to calculate the odds, but the way my luck goes, I knew that sucker was probably going to land on top of my house. I ran outside and looked up at the sky. Nothing. No giant, killer asteroid. Just blue sky and puffy, white clouds. And one damn bird... Relieved that Rancho Del Weinstock was not about to become toast, I went back inside to hear the rest of the story. What's that? The giant, killer asteroid isn't going to hit the Earth until the year 2028. Well, why didn't you say so? That's in thirty years. I'll be dead by then. Let my kids worry about the giant, killer asteroid because I've got better things to do. I helped myself to another bowl of Crispy Hexagons and went off into the den to watch "Gomer Pyle." Of course, the next day NASA scientists announced that the giant, killer asteroid was really just a giant "gonna miss us by 600,000 miles" asteroid. All was well, the world's supply of pork and beans safe. Still, I wonder what I would have done had that asteroid really been about to hit this big rock we call home? I'd have skipped that second bowl of cereal, that's for sure. Beyond that, who knows. What would you do if you thought the Earth was about to become a floating ashtray? Consider the following chronology of what could have happened that fateful day. Only the facts have been changed to protect the ignorant. Dateline: March 12, 1998 07:15 am EST From ABC News in New York "We interrupt this program to bring you this breaking news story: The International Astronomical Union has reported that an asteroid measuring one mile-wide will pass within 30,000 miles of Earth and may very well hit the planet, possibly ending life as we know it. The IAU is appealing to astronomers and scientists around the world to study the asteroid called 1997 XF11 in hopes of obtaining more information about its size and orbit. If the asteroid is, in fact, on a collision course with Earth, IAU scientists say there is nothing we can do but pray. And now, another review of the movie, "Titanic!" PRESIDENT BILL CLINTON REACTS 08:22 am EST White House Press Room, Washington, DC "I'd like to start out by saying that I never had a sexual relationship with that asteroid..." HILLARY CLINTON REACTS 08:24 am EST White House Press Room, Washington, DC "This is just another part of the rightwing conspiracy designed to make my husband look like an idiot!" BORIS YELTZIN REACTS 10:10 am EST The Kremlin, Moscow, Russia "Bring me more vodka, dammit! And pork and beans! Lots of pork and beans!" THE POPE REACTS 11:04 am EST Vatican City, Rome, Italy "No, I do not think this giant, killer asteroid is a sign that the Apocalypse is at hand. I think if the Good Lord was ready to wipe the Earth clean he could find something better to use than a big space rock." BILL GATES REACTS 01:52 pm EST Microsoft Headquarters, Redmond, WA "Asteroid? Funny that you ask. Microsoft has been working on an asteroid of its own for some time now. We were going to release the beta version the very morning the news of this other asteroid broke. I think that once the consumer tries Microsoft's Asteroid 98 and sees that it is far deadlier than the giant, killer asteroid that's headed toward Earth, they will discover that once again, Microsoft has the superior product." STEVEN SPIELBERG REACTS 02:39 pm EST Dreamworks Studios, Hollywood, CA "I am pleased to announce that we have acquired the movie rights from the giant, killer asteroid and shooting will commence sometime this summer. Cast members will be named as soon as we see who survives the impact." DR. BEECHWOOD A. JING 05:30 pm EST (Happy Hour) South Hampton Institute of Technology "In the words of the late Mary Kay Abandondo, the world's very first airline stewardess, 'Ladies and gentlemen, if all else fails, please put your head between your knees and kiss your butt goodbye!' Hey, bartender, can I get some more peanuts over here?" PRESIDENTIAL PRESS CONFERENCE 08:00 pm EST The Oval Office, Washington, DC "My fellow Americans, since it seems that we are all doomed anyway, I thought this would be a good time to get a few things off my chest. In regards to Paula Jones and Monica Lewinsky and a whole slew of other women I have been accused of having sex with, I just want to say--" BREAKING NEWS REPORT 08:01 pm EST From ABC News in New York "We interrupt the President's press conference for this important announcement: NASA scientists have just announced that the asteroid known as 1997 XF11 will not collide with the earth, after all. Astronomers say that initial reports were incorrect and that the asteroid will come no closer than 600,000 miles from Earth when it passes by. To repeat, the Earth is not doomed. Resume your normal lives. We now return you to the President's press conference in Washington." RETURN TO PRESIDENTIAL PRESS CONFERENCE 08:02 pm EST The Oval Office, Washington, DC "Uh... nevermind."Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

The Religion Of Football By Tim Knox

Here in Alabama, there are three kinds of people: Crimson Tide fans, War Eagle fans, and atheists. Here in Alabama, there are three classes of people: Alabama Crimson Tide fans, Auburn Tiger fans, and atheists. Two of the three will go to Hell when they die. Which two depends entirely on who you ask. Those Alabamians who like football but have no particular team preference are called, "agnostics." It is the hope of the faithful that someday these poor, pathetic souls will purchase an Alabama jacket or be given an Auburn cap and thereby experience the joy of committing themselves to a particular team. Until then, they are considered social and recreational outcasts. To pray for them is all that we can do. Why all the religious references in a column that's supposed to be about football? Because religion and football are closely entwined, my friend, with much more in common than you may think. Note this passage from the Big Playbook of St. Gipper, recently discovered in a dark basement on the campus of Notre Dame University. The passage reads: "And on the seventh day God created football and all was right with the world... until Satan brought forth the referees..." It is impossible to believe in college football without also believing in a Higher Power. Here in Alabama - and in a whole lot of other places - football is a religion. To some, it is the only religion. Blasphemy, you say? I don't think so. More prayers are said and answered during the average college football game than in most churches during a month of Sundays. That explains why evangelists love to hold revivals in football stadiums. The mood has already been set. The congregation holds season tickets. Consider this: Alabama has been getting a lot of national press lately because of two things: (1) The quality (or lack thereof) of the University of Alabama's football team and (2) Moral stands being taken and legal battles being waged by Alabamians over the separation of church and state. Football and religion. Religion and football. And on we go. Playing offense for God in Alabama are folks like the high school students who walked out of class because they weren't allowed a moment of prayer before a math test. Personally, I'd rather have my teenagers saying prayers in school classrooms than singing rap songs and riding around in loud cars. I do think these young people are limiting themselves, though. When I was in school we prayed before EVERY test, not just math. Then there's Judge Roy Moore, one of God's team captains, if you will. Moore is the Alabama judge who has a plaque of the Ten Commandments hanging on the wall in his courtroom. The Supreme Court has ordered the plaque to be taken down, but our beloved governor, Fob "I'm The Law In These Parts" James, has said that he'll send in the National Guard to make sure the plaque stays up. You can call this beefing up the defense. Which brings up another question: if Alabama secedes from the Union because of ACLU and NCAA oppression, does that make Fob our king? If so, I think that's more than reason enough not to secede. King Fob. Sounds like a giant gorilla with a speech impediment, doesn't it. Back to the subject at hand, I think the opinion that football has become a bonafide religion is further attested to by the fact that no one has yet tried to shove a legal crowbar between organized religion and organized college football. Maybe they realize how futile their efforts would be. Or maybe they're just afraid of divine retribution. I understand Bear Bryant and Shug Jordan were not men to be crossed while they were here on earth. God forbid some heretic ACLU lawyer upset them now. When the Universities of Alabama and Auburn play one another as they did last weekend, the faithful drop whatever they're doing and flock to the game like wise men chasing a far off star. The entire state stands still. Try finding a washing machine repairman or an emergency room doctor during an Alabama/Auburn game. They are nowhere to be found. You may die in dirty clothes, but that's what you get for not attending the big game. The ending of this year's Iron Bowl was, as it always is, of apocalyptic proportions. In the final moments of the game, just before the buzzer sounded to signal the end, everyone's faith was put to the test. As the clock ticked down - 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... you were either devoutly for Alabama or had completely given your life to Auburn. There was no "Atheist" section in these stands. Amen.Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/

The Real McCaugheys By Tim Knox

What's it take to raise seven babies? Love, patience, understanding, and Prozac, lots and lots of Prozac. The birth of the McCaughey Septuplets has everyone thinking and talking babies. Even couples who have never before felt the desire to hear the pitter-patter of little feet stepping all over their stuff are considering taking the plunge. You hear them all the time, these poor, ignorant fools, saying things like, "Oh, the babies are so cute and the mommy looks so happy. And look at the daddy on TV, always smiling. Maybe we should have a baby, too." If you're a regular reader you know that I'm the proud sire of two girls: Sierra, my two year old who daily redefines the word "hyperactive;" and Chelsea, who is nine. Her goal in life is to become something called "a Spice Girl." I'm thinking about having her checked. So, as a longtime resident of the parent hood, I feel that it's my civic duty to give these mom and pop wannabes a good dose of the truth before they do something really stupid. First of all, that is not a smile of joy you see plastered on Papa Kenny McCaughey's face every time he's on the tube. That's the look of a man in complete and utter shock. You see the same dazed grin on the faces of people who open their door to find Ed McMahon standing on the other side or who have had their overextended Visa card confiscated and cut in half by some pimply-faced, convenience store clerk. That's a deer in headlights look, my friends. It will disappear as soon as the chrome bumper of reality slams into poor Kenny's head. Parental roadkill, that's what he's about to become. Secondly, it's definitely not a good idea to have children just because they look all cute and cuddly on the evening news. This is the same mentality that caused a run on Dalmatian puppies last year after the movie "101 Dalmatians" came out. The Dalmatian was the best selling breed of dog for months after the movie's release. Care to guess what the number one breed now being dumped at the pound is? You guessed it. Better think long and hard over this one, future parents. It's not so easy to get rid of kids. The McCaughey Septuplets have punched a number of biological timeclocks, including the one belonging to my friend, Candy. Candy and her husband, Clint, are DINKS (Double Income, No Kids), but they're considering becoming DORKS (Demented Outcasts Rearing Kids). Since I'm the biggest DORK Candy knows, my advice was sought. "Does life change when you have kids?" Candy asked innocently. I thought about lying to her, telling her that nothing really changes when a bundle of joy is thrown into what has been a pretty calm mix, but then I thought better of it. This woman is my friend, I told myself, and I owe her the truth, no matter how brutal it may be. Does life change when you have kids? I looked her squarely in the eye and said, "No, Candy, your life doesn't change when you have kids. Your life ends." If you're a parent, I'll bet you my Barney video collection that your head is bobbing in agreement. Come on, I'll admit it if you will: we are not the same people we were before our kids were born. Those fun-loving, free-wheeling singletons are gone forever, probably off playing poker and drinking beer with all the other former selves. They're living in a world where there are no kids, no responsibilities, no fear of hangovers. Bet they're having a great time, don't you? Now don't get me wrong. I love my kids more than life itself. Still, I can't help but think about my old self every now and then. I wonder what he's up to, how he's doing, how much hair he has. I say things like, "Before I had kids, I used to stay out all night and sleep all day. I used to take trips and wear fancy clothes and smoke and drink and drive a really cool car... that reminds me, I need to change the oil in the minivan before we go to Chuck E. Cheese on Saturday." Since the birth of their septuplets, the McCaugheys have been showered with attention and gifts. They were given a customized van from the car dealership where Kenny works as a billing clerk. They've been promised a new home, a lifetime supply of Pampers, free strollers and car seats, furniture, clothing, paid college tuition for the kids, book and movie deals, and the list goes on. Word to the wise, Bobbi and Kenny: all that stuff is nice, but in the end, it isn't going to make bringing seven screaming babies home any easier. An abundance of patience, love and understanding, that's all you really need. Oh, and an unlimited supply of Valium. I'll bet you can get it if you ask. And what did Candy and Clint decide to do? They're going to remain DINKS for now, though they are talking about getting a puppy. I recommended a Dalmatian.Tim Knox Entrepreneur, Author, Speaker, Radio Host "Check Out Tim's New Radio Show!" http://www.timknoxshow.com Preorder Tim�s New Book: Everything I Know About Business I Learned From My Mama http://www.timknox.com/amazon/