Now They’re Busting Truck Nutz

Okay, this one may take some explaining. It’s possible these things have gone global and everyone already knows what they are, but rather than research demographic data for ornamental polyethylene bull testicles, I’ll just assume you don’t know and post some pictures:

Truck Nutz, Bulls Balls, DragginNutz. Whichever your brand of choice, you're sure to find a wide selection of genuine replica gonads available for purchase from any of these fine retailers.

I first heard about these bumper ball sacks a couple of years ago, but to be honest, I rarely ever see a pair. And I’ve been looking. Whenever I’m on the road I scan the undercarriages of every large vehicle I see in hopes of sneaking a peek. Makes me feel like a perv, sure, but I can't help it.

I’ve only seen maybe three endowed trucks in the last two years, but the truck nuts must be out there somewhere, because here in Florida, State Senator Carey Baker is trying to ban them. I know, I know. Nothing is sacred anymore. Our liberties are being stripped from us one set of fake family jewels suspended from a trailer hitch at a time.

By the way, here’s my favorite paragraph from that article:

Baker made clear his proposal would not affect the decal that shows a "little boy doing bad things to other vehicles. That's not my issue. My bill refers to a reproduction of reproductive glands. So, if it doesn't show the glands, it isn't covered. And the little boy decals don't show the glands."

Clearly the Calvin-pissing-on-(insert-your-nemesis-here)-sticker lobby got to him first. Ruthless bastards.

Baker’s ball banning measure made it through the Florida Senate last week. I have no idea if it has passed, is in the process of passing, or will pass in the House. I doubt it though. Virginia tried to pass a similar law earlier this year, but failed. Of course, they wanted $250 per busted nut. The State of Florida is only seeking $60. No idea if that helps or hurts the cause. Whatever the cause may be.

Blatant First Amendment issues aside, there is at least one other aspect that Senator Baker has failed to consider:

It’s All Fun And Games Till There’s A Mid-Air Collision

If you haven’t heard about this yet, here’s the link to the story about the dolphin death at Discovery Cove yesterday. Discovery Cove is a smaller, “more intimate” theme park across the street from Sea World where tourists pay $280.00 to swim with dolphins and other less exciting creatures of the sea.

As you can see, it’s being dubbed a “freak accident,” apparently on the authority of

[This portion of the post is experiencing technical difficulties.]

It’s a wonder I’m still alive.

I realize this just happened, and I’m sure there will be follow up articles, but the only other one I could find as of this morning was this five sentence gem. The key sentence being:

The accident was apparently a freak accident.

I’m gonna step out of character here and say Sharky could’ve composed a more intelligent sentence.

Sea World will investigate the incident, and will be “looking into training protocols to make sure it doesn't happen again.” What they won’t be doing is contemplating the philosophical and moral implications of holding allegedly intelligent animals in captivity for the purpose of entertaining [reference redacted]. Look, I don’t rate animals above humans on the importance scale, but let’s not bullshit ourselves here. It doesn’t matter how cute they are, how friendly they appear to be, or how much you anthropomorphize them, dolphins are not magical water people. They’re wild animals and therefore unpredictable. Sea World knows this. That’s why they make Discovery Cove visitors sign a dolphin waiver before ever setting foot in the water.

I’m not saying Sharky was on a suicide mission or anything, but who knows? They’re animals, so we’ll never know. This or other “unusual” behavior can just as easily happen while people are swimming with them.

And I don’t care how much good Sea World has done over the years, they’re the biggest perpetrator of the dolphin myth, but even so, I don’t blame them. I blame everyone else who believes it. I don’t even have a problem with animals in captivity performing tricks as long as we don’t dress it up and pretend to be pursuing some loftier goal, like “awareness,” or “conservation.” Call it what it is. It’s entertainment, plain and simple. Dolphins are the A-listers of the animal world and they keep the money flowing. It doesn’t matter what kind of scientific research Sharky’s remains will be used for, that dolphin died in the name of showbiz and any other rationalization is just a lie.

Okay, I’m rambling, so enough of that. Tomorrow we’ll discuss something way more uplifting: Truck Nutz!

Yet Another Strange News Story

I’ve been on kind of a news kick lately. Here’s another one I just grabbed off the wire:

After Two Years, Mysterious Editor Still On The Loose

BLOGLAND – Today marks the two year anniversary of the emergence of one of the Internet's Most Wanted: Evil Editor. Authorities have been attempting to track down this elusive character since 2006, when he allegedly appeared out of nowhere and began flooding global server farms with dangerous mind-altering clipart. According to one unnamed FBI official, the extent of the potential threat posed by the clipart is unknown. "But," the unnamed official went on to explain, "Evil Editor tries to mask his activity by cleverly embedding the clipart into writing related blog posts. Query critiques, writing exercises, line edits for user-submitted work, that sort of thing. It's good advice, actually. I've had one full and two partials requested as a result of—er, never mind."

Publishing industry insiders have noticed too. “Oh sure,” said Randy Rimmerman, a literary agent with Fleishman, Noodle, and Beck, Inc. who represents mostly werewolf fiction. “Ever since the Evil Editor, we’re receiving queries we can actually read without, you know, laughing. And the writers seem more at ease too. They’re not taking themselves as seriously, which is great for us. There’s nothing worse than a writer with their panties in a wad.”

However, not everyone in the publishing industry is enamored with the notorious Evil Editor. Hardest hit by his rise in popularity has been the once profitable How-To-Write market. Over the last two years, sales figures for How-To-Write books have plummeted, causing many to speculate that unless Evil Editor can be stopped, the entire How-To-Write market may soon collapse.

One of his devoted followers, known as Evil Minions, confirmed this disturbing trend, though she wished to remain Anonymous. “I used to spend thousands of dollars per month on How To Write books, but I never learned anything from them. Ever. Then one day I found Evil Editor, and it was like a light went on inside my head.”

Anon said she particularly enjoys submitting continuations for New Beginnings, one of the many user-generated content features available on Evil Editor's blog. “If he picks yours, he’ll change it around and make it better, and I’ve learned so much from that. Where else can you have your writing edited by a real professional editor for free?!”

Anon has since sold her entire How To Write book collection on Ebay, averaging five cents on the dollar, and has placed the small recouped fortune in a special interest bearing account in hopes that one day Evil Editor will accept donations on his blog. “It’s not much, I know. But I’ve got to repay him somehow. I hope they catch him soon, because what I really want to do is give him a great big hug.”

Authorities have set up a special website for collecting information on Evil Editor’s whereabouts. However, as of late yesterday, reports indicated a significant spike in internet chatter among Minions, specifically rumors that The Minions themselves were planning to hijack the site with the intention of using it for an alleged Evil Editor Two Year Anniversary Extravaganza. Sources say there was even talk of clipart.

Harry Potter Update

Here's some late breaking news from the J.K. Rowling copyright suit. The point of this article, I can only surmise, is to go neener neener to the richest woman in the UK for having her work chided in an American court. Here are the key paragraphs:

District Judge Robert Patterson Jr said that he had read the first half of the first Harry Potter novel to his grandchildren, but found the “magical world hard to follow, filled with strange names and words that would be gibberish in any other context."

“I found it extremely complex,” he said, suggesting that a reference guide might be useful.

I'm no legal expert, so I have no idea what bearing the personal opinion of Judge Patterson has on the case, but there's no jury, so my guess would be "some." I'm just wondering how you get to be a District Judge without the reading comprehension skills of a third grader. By the way, if you changed the word "magical" to "legal" that sentence would make more sense to most of the planet's population.

I wouldn't lose any sleep over this case though. A few more years and it won't even be an issue.

Cockroach Synchronicity

I don’t know what this says about humans as a species, but these are some keyword phrases people plugged into Google, and as a result found their way to this blog:

authoritative clown - I don't think they meant me.

truck monkey throw a guy off bridge - That one, maybe.

chinese sit-n-spin sex chair - Don't worry. I Googled it for you, and I don't think it exists.

dolphin poems - Bet they were pissed.

my boyfriend is afraid to express his feelings - I hope I helped.

who's gonna win Xavier or Georgia? - That person I know I helped.

jockstrap central - I got nothing for this one. Feel free to fill in your own.

hayden christensen - Six people using Google Blog Search have landed here looking for this schmuck since I mentioned him in passing earlier this week. I wonder how many would show up for Brad Pitt?

i am leaving college and want a caption for underneath my photograph – any ideas - I'm guessing this person was writing an email, then looked up and saw the screen was still on Google and said, "Fuck it. I'll try it anyway."

poem of a killer whale - I didn't know there was such a demand for cetacean poetry. Perhaps I shall write some.

Honestly, that’s all this post was gonna be. I wasn’t feeling particularly ambitious last night, in fact, what I was feeling like was Oreos. So when I finished, I walked to the kitchen, flipped on the light, and instead of Oreos I found a half-dead cockroach in the middle of the floor. We're not slobs, I swear, and almost never do we find roaches inside the house. But Florida is pretty cockroachy, and I didn't think much of it. I grabbed a paper towel and sent the little bastard to the big roach motel in the sky. But then I discovered we were all out of Oreos. So I walked into the laundry room to get my shoes, flipped on the light, and what did I find? Another roach. This one was limping awkwardly in counterclockwise circles, and I dealt with it in the same manner. I thought it was a little weird that I would find two cockroaches in the house, at the same time no less, but all the lights had been out and, shit I dunno, maybe they hunt in packs. So I put my shoes on, grabbed my keys, and walked out to my truck because I was going to the store for more Oreos. I opened the truck door and you'll never guess what was staring up at me from the floorboard. Yes! Another goddamn cockroach! It hadn’t yet encountered our bug guy's perimeter defenses, so I had to use my Mr. Miyagi-like reflexes to stomp that bitch into the floor mat. Normally, victory over a quick-moving insect in a contest of agility would be cause for celebration, but honestly I was starting to worry. I mean, yeah, I eat lunch while driving sometimes, so maybe I’ve dropped crumbs here and there, and maybe it's not that weird to find a cockroach in your car. But three cockroaches in five minutes? If it’d been two, like I said, no big deal. Four and I would’ve just fired the bug guy. But three? Three is magical, so the whole way to the store and back I feared this might be some kind of foul omen. I drove extra carefully, making complete stops at every stop sign, using my blinker in the appropriate manner, and I didn’t dare think of speeding, not even a little, because who knows what kind of shit could befall you when you’re under the Three Roach Hoodoo. Obviously, I made it home safe, and then I ran straight to the computer and Googled "three roach omen" and several variations thereof. Thankfully, nothing about roach curses turned up, which was a load off my mind. But I did click on a few blog links those searches produced, just so they too could ponder the state of humanity.

Weird Ass Weather Dreams

This time last week we’d already had a couple of 90 degree days, 80% humidity, and even a torrential afternoon thunderstorm or two, and I thought: Woo-hoo! Summer’s finally here! Then over the weekend this cold front comes through and it hasn’t gotten out of the mid-70s all week. It’s like friggin January. Yesterday, was one of those “perfect” days where it’s cool and clear and slightly breezy, not a cloud in the sky. I hate those days. I don’t know if it’s the low humidity, or the sun’s just too damned bright, or what, but I always feel off balance on those days, like I’m about to fall off the edge of something. I can’t explain it.

Anyway, I never dream or remember my dreams unless I get eight or nine hours sleep, which I rarely do, but because the shitty perfect weather threw me for a loop, I crashed early and hit the road to dreamland. There was more to this dream I’m sure, but what I remember is I was surfing the internet (yes, in my dream, it’s embarrassing, I know), and I found a kind of directory site that listed all these people I used to know, people from grade school, high school, guys I used to play baseball with. And I could click on their name and find out where they were now and what they were doing, and I could email them and get back in touch. It was pretty cool, but then I came across a listing for Sigourney Weaver. And in my dream I was saying, “All right. Let’s see how Siggy’s doing.” But at that exact moment I realized I was dreaming, and another voice, which was also my own, was saying “What the fuck? You don’t know Sigourney Weaver. You’re dreaming motherfucker.” Then I woke up.

It’s not the first time I’ve had the beginnings of a lucid dream, but it is the first time I’ve ever called bullshit on myself while unconscious. I wanted the dream to continue, if for no other reason than to see how many ways I would try to con myself. So what I want to know is, are there any lucid dreamers out there? And if so, how do you keep your lucid dreams going? It’s shaping up to be another crappy perfect day, so I might get another shot at it tonight.

Another Crazy-Whack Trio

1. This story raises all kinds of questions. The main one, which isn't even addressed, is: Just how many elderly people are there on crack?

2. You may have heard about the Yankee Stadium hex, a ridiculous story being played up to persuade people to think about baseball in ways unrelated to steroids. Or the Mitchell Report. Or the rug under which the Mitchell Report's been swept. Or the players named in the Mitchell Report who just received full immunity. Which is fine with me. Really. Because baseball is the national pastime. And no player should be punished for trying to improve the national pastime. Except Barry Bonds. Because he's not media friendly. Which means he's an asshole. So they should nail his ass to the wall. But not everybody else. Because everybody else didn't really mean it. Plus, they smile for the camera. And answer all the idiotic questions. The ones Barry Bonds won't. Because he's an asshole. I used to love Major League Baseball. (Free Barry.)

Not to worry Yankee fans, your beloved new pleasure palace is now completely safe and hex-free, because insanity sells. By the way, all this makes me want to punch the Yankees in the face even more.

3. I just threw this one in here because it'll make you vomit. But it's got a happy ending. Very soon this guy will find a woman who loves him for who he is, warts and all. (Okay, sorry. That was cheap and mediocre and way too easy, I know. But how could I not?)

We’re Gonna Party Like It’s 1989

I was browsing summer movie trailers this weekend when I came across the one for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull*. I immediately turned to Blogless Jr., who’ll be nine in a couple of months, and said, “Dude, check this out! I forgot about the new Indy!” He looked at me as if my face was melting off from having stared into the Ark of the Covenant. Then he said, “Who’s Indy?”

I fell off my chair.

Up until that moment, I thought I’d been a pretty good father. I mean, he knows Star Wars forwards and backwards, he’s had a Silver Surfer poster on his wall since he was three, and only recently did he stop continually singing: Spider-Pig, Spider-Pig. Does whatever a Spider-Pig does. Can he swing from a web? No he can't. He's a pig. Look out! He is the Spider-Pig!

But the kid doesn’t know Indy. Then I also realized we don’t own any of the Indy movies on DVD, another oversight on my part that will soon be corrected. But until then, Netflix will be providing the study materials for Junior’s crash course in Indyology 101. If we can complete that over the next few weekends, that should leave us just enough time for the advanced courses, like:

How To Make A Convincing Bullwhip From A Jump Rope, Scissors, And Spray Paint (3 credits)

and

Mastering The Bad Ass Brogue Of Professor Henry Jones, Sr. (It tellshh me that gooshh-ssshhhtepping morons like yourshhelf should shhtart reading bookshh inshhtead of burning them.)

Now twenty years ago, Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and Harrison Ford—whether separately or together—made some great movies, instant classics even. However, sometime in the early to mid-nineties, the three of them must have been forced to drink the blood of the Kali. That’s the only explanation. Hopefully, they’ve woken from the black sleep. The trailer does look promising, and while Shia LeBeouf is in the new Indy, at least it's not Hayden Christensen.

Not only was 1989 the year of the last Indy movie, it was also the year of the first Tim Burton Batman movie. And as luck or strategic Hollywood planning would have it, the second of the new, restarted Batman series comes out this summer as well. I’ve never really been a comic book geek, but I’ve also never been in the camp that makes fun of them, because what happens when you don’t respect the comic book geeks is you end up with Jerkoff Clooney as Batman.

Thankfully, Hollywood seems to have learned its lesson, and The Dark Knight looks to be possibly the best Batman movie of all time, as long as they don’t screw it up.

*Of course, Krystal would be the perfect fast food chain for the movie tie-ins, but sadly, they don’t have a chance.

Tour Guide Troll – Lines, Tigers, And Beers

On Saturday, we went back to Busch Gardens for the opening of Jungala. Except for tigers and orangutans, we didn’t really know what to expect, but I deduced from the name that Jungala would probably be lame and boring:

Jungala = Jungle + Gala -->

Gala = Boring Celebratory Gathering -->

Jungala = Boring Celebratory Jungle Gathering -->

Cancel repetative terms: Boring Celebratory Jungle Gathering -->

Jungala = Boring Jungle

Because of this, and because our annual passes got us in the door an hour before the park opened, we arrived in Tampa at 7:30AM banking on the theory that who the fuck else was gonna wake up early on a Saturday for something so obviously lame and boring?

Answer: 2,500 other brilliant strategists.

Apparently, Busch Gardens thought their new attraction was lame and boring too, because they were clearly not ready to handle the large crowd efficiently. There were only about two hundred people in front of us, but it took us thirty minutes to get inside. They had everyone going through a side entrance, the major delay being the obligatory We Check All Bags For Security Reasons Illusion. If you haven’t been to an American theme park in a while, ever since 911 all bags are “inspected” by “people” who really don’t “give a shit.” What they do is they poke and prod the contents of your bag with a plastic chopstick, though it must be a magical plastic chopstick because they don’t have to actually see what they’re poking and prodding, or even check all the pockets. Look, I’m all for reasonable security measures, but if it’s just for show anyway, I’d rather roll the dice and take my chances. You think a guy making minimum wage, armed with a chopstick and a toy security badge is gonna stop a terrorist with a suitcase nuke? Besides, if the terrorists can’t do any better than Busch Gardens, we’re probably overreacting. I’m tired of waiting in line so that the lowest common denominator can feel secure.

I know it already sounds like I had a miserable time, but I’m actually capable of having fun while being completely annoyed. So don’t cry for me. Plus, Jungala wasn’t lame and boring after all.

Here’s a group of rude people blocking foot traffic for the sake of conducting their petty conversation. To protect their privacy, I’ve altered their appearance (but not much).

Tour Guide Troll Tip Of The Day: The best way to deal with people like this is to plow right through the middle of them, preferably with a stroller, and subtly offer suggestions as to how they can improve their behavior, like, “Hey, assholes! Let’s move the convention to the side of the road!” It’s the only way they’ll learn.

All right. Enough about the animals. Let’s see some wildlife. Here’s a random monkey:

Wait. Sorry.

This picture was taken from the top of the three story tree-top canopy playland, which is completely enclosed with nets so little kids don’t plummet to their death. I don’t speak monkey, but if I did, here’s what our conversation would’ve been:

“You’re in the cage.”

“No way, dude. You’re in the cage.”

“No, you’re in the cage.”

“No, you’re—hey, you got any bananas?”

I love bananas. Anyway, the orangutans were hiding, so I didn’t get any pics of them. But just imagine this guy with longer hair.

The tigers, however, were out in force.

It’s hard to tell from this photo, but the tigers were really agitated. Lots of pacing and snarling and swatting of paws. I think I saw a couple of them roll their eyes too. It was like they’d spent the last nine months in relative peace and quiet, and then all of a sudden a buncha humans showed up pointing cameras in their faces. Imagine you’re a celebrity and you’ve built this new house, and just when you’ve settled in, the paparazzi appear at every window and won’t leave you alone. Except it’s worse than that because the tigers can’t exploit themselves with a lucrative tell-all book deal after long bouts of drug and alcohol abuse.

The tiger enclosure was actually pretty cool and elaborate, all kinds of unique ways to get up close and personal without having your face flayed off. During the planning phase of Jungala, Busch Gardens conducted a series of focus group meetings with people who'd been to the park, and what they discovered was that tourists, more than anything else, wanted to see some tiger genitalia:

There was more to Jungala (I think), but about this time the rest of the park opened and there were roller coasters that needed riding.

Also, we totally missed it last time, but they have a baby gorilla at Busch Gardens. Here are a couple of pics for you to go ga-ga over:

Well that’s about it. Oh wait, the beers. On the way home we stopped and visited my wife's grandparents, who live close enough that we get to see them every so often, yet far enough away that we only have to see them every so often. Within five minutes of our arrival Grandpa offered me a beer, which, in retrospect, I should’ve regarded with a little more skepticism, but hey, free beer. I'm often amazed at how the human mind works, how various stimuli will trigger obscure memories of traumatic experiences long buried and forgotten. For instance, the taste of skunky horse piss on my tongue caused me to recall that this was the same crappy microbrew Grandpa tried to pawn off on me during our last visit, eight friggin months ago. And the only reason he had it in the first place was because his daughter stuck him with it when she visited, sometime in 2006. And pouring the shit down the drain never occurred to him because he lived through the Great Depression. I know I exaggerate at times, but this stuff really was horse piss. I mean, the label didn't even have any words, just a stylized etching of Mr. Ed's schlong. I nursed the "beer" for a full hour before vomiting in a plastic fichus tree, at which point Grandpa offered me another one. This is only important because it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever refused beer simply on principle. The things we do for family.

April Is National Poetry Month

If you haven’t done so already, go check out Pete’s blog. In honor of National Poetry Month, he’s writing one poem per day, mostly light verse, but I think there’s a limerick or two as well. And they’re all hilarious. He's in the zone. Go check it out. Now!

Don’t Be Evil Creepy

Check this out.

Is there a purpose to Google Street View? It seems they’re doing it because they can. Am I missing something?

Naturally Speaking

Okay, you writers. I need some help. I cleaned out my “Notes File” recently, which I do about once a year, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it just ain’t working. My Notes File consists of a couple of small notepads that I scribble in while driving, and about 30,000 itty bitty pieces of whatever was convenient to write on at the time—deposit slips, receipts, gum wrappers, straw wrappers, parking tickets, and for reasons I cannot explain, a photocopy of my palm with something scrawled on it.

Half the notes I can’t read because either my handwriting sucks or my subconscious knows Sanskrit, and most of the rest aren’t worth the time it takes to decipher let alone type into wikidPad (which is a cool way to electronically store notes, by the way).

So I briefly considered switching to a digital voice recorder, but then I remembered what a pain in the ass that is, because you have go back and transcribe it, and I’d rather paperclip my eyelids together. So I thought, wouldn’t it be cool if they invented something that would transcribe voice recordings to text, like, magically? And then I thought, wouldn’t it be cool if it already existed? So I prayed at the Google alter and to my wonderful surprise, I found Dragon NaturallySpeaking software, which claims to do exactly that. And then I thought, wouldn’t it have been cool if I’d thought of this before they reached version 9?

I’ve tried carrying a recorder around before, and aside from the time consuming transcription process, my biggest problem is I invariably lapse into a CSI medical examiner routine. Victim shows signs of hypothermia and trauma to the lower abdomen with—wait a minute. (Squishy sound effects) What appears to be a partial fish stick lodged in the upper trachea. Better get that over to trace. But if I don’t have to fast forward through that crap or even transcribe any of it at all, I think it might actually work better.

So, has anyone used or does anyone currently use any kind of speech-to-text software? And does it work as good as they say it does? Or, you got any other note taking organizational ideas besides writing shit down on straw wrappers?

Remember TaB?

Sure you do. TaB was Coca-Cola’s first diet soda, and the second diet soda ever produced, behind only Diet-Rite. Throughout its illustrious history, TaB has been sweetened with cyclamate, saccharin, and aspartame. But never sugar!

And who can forget TaB's cool pink can?

I love old commercials for once popular products. And now, through the magic of YouTube, they’re only a click away. Here’s a TaB commercial from the 1960s.

If you missed it, here are the key lyrics:

Don’t you want to have a good shape?
He wants you with a gooooood shape.
It’s great to have a gooooood shape.
Shape with TaaaaaB.

Here’s one from the late 70s.



Notice the subtle approval of teenage sex and bestiality? Advertisers used to cover all the bases. These days everything is so damned targeted.

In case you’re wondering, TaB is still produced today, though in small quantities, and it’s no longer advertised. Apparently, they make it solely for a small group of zealots who still drink the stuff. There’s even an official TaB fan site, complete with message boards. Like all pieces of half-forgotten Americana, there are people who think associating themselves with this retro consumer product makes them cool. But hey, live and let live. Or rather, live and then die twenty years later from an inoperable brain tumor caused by artificial sweeteners.

Have a good weekend. And be a Mindsticker!

DAT Is BS

As you probably know, I am highly suspicious of dolphins. I’ve explained my reasoning in previous posts, so I won’t get into it again. It’s possible you think I’m just a speciesist bastard, or I was somehow terrorized by a dolphin as a small child. But in fact, it's for their own good. When we deify the fucking dolphins, not only do their egos swell beyond repair, but we also end up with DAT – Dolphin Assisted Therapy.

If you’ve never run across this “new and exciting field of modern medicine,” it claims to cause “significant improvement of health conditions” in people suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome, emotional stress, phobias, depression, neurasthenia, and even cerebral palsy. I know. Pretty amazing. I bet that’s why those trainers at Sea World are always so damned perky. Apparently, swimming with these majestic creatures for 15-20 minutes per day for a period of 7-10 days produces the kind of health effects that, up until now, were only associated with…

…swimming for 15-20 minutes per day for a period of 7-10 days.

A little DAT history from their website: The foundation of the Dolphin Assisted Therapy program in Europe goes back to Eastern Europe, the former Soviet Union, and the Black Sea. The program was wounded in 1986 by Dr. Ludmila Lukina.

I’m pretty sure they meant founded, but never underestimate the truthfulness of a Freudian slip.

The website is also quick to point out that: Dolphin Assisted Therapy is not a miracle. (In case you were leaning that way.) But: A filing [sic] of a joy and harmony during the treatment sessions in the hearts of children, their parents and support team is a guaranteed outcome. Contacts with the friendliest creatures of the sea and therapy sessions are like a game for patients and others.

“Others” being “Ludmila Lukina,” and the “game,” “Easy Money.”

Here’s a photo from the Dolphin Assisted Therapy homepage accompanied by the following caption:

Direct contact with a dolphin in the water helps to cure children's diseases and shows strong and stable positive results.

Direct contact helps to cure children's diseases? That sounds like a, like a— What’s the word? A miracle!

The kids does look happy though. Alright, I’m convinced. Forget everything I said about dolphins. Those fuckers are magical.

Oh wait, maybe not.

By the way, allowing themselves to be exploited by infomercial hucksters masquerading as doctors only furthers my case that dolphins aren’t really that smart. Either that, or they’re just publicity whores. Probably both.