THE BOB BARKER TREATMENT- Yes, the One All Males Fear The Stroupe family cat, Smokey, got the Bob Barker treatment the other day. If you’ve seen Shrek 2, you know that this term refers to an animal getting "fixed". I know we all have to do our part to help control the animal population, but why poor Smokey? Don’t we need a few good ole’ boys to remain fertile to assure that cat heritage is passed down from one generation to the next? Maybe so, but it won’t be Smokey filling that role from now on. It’s not like a veterinarian’s office is a pleasant place to visit in the first place. I think I’ve discovered why animal doctors have to endure all those extra years of school. For one, they have to keep their cool when an animal starts passing worms and it looks like a plate of spaghetti come to life. But even more important, they have to conquer the smells. They have to be able to recognize, identify, and tolerate more pungent odors than one would ever encounter at a garbage dump on a hundred degree afternoon. I once entered a vet’s office just moments after an intern had performed the always delicate anal flush procedure on a German Shepherd. Lucky me. I was completely impressed with how the intern, casually and without emotion or expression, explained how she had accomplished the anal gland expression. That was the exact way she described it, as an anal gland expression. How professional sounding. Fearful that she might be led to enlighten me further, I decided not to pursue the topic beyond that point. Oblivious to the stench, she went about her animal tending business as the members of my family scavenged the immediate area in search of paper or plastic bags in which to breathe. On that particular visit, our poor dog had waited patiently for his moment to arrive. But the look in his eyes told me that he knew what was coming. "Sorry, boy, but it’s got to be done," I told him. "Yeah, well you jump up here and let ‘em try it on you first," he barked. "You’ve got three kids, surely you’re done for this lifetime." Though he had a point, I decided not to take him up on his challenge. At that point, our family was politely encouraged to depart and return the following day. When my wife arrived home with our humiliated dog that next day, it was all I could do to contain myself when I saw the upside-down-lampshade thing he was wearing around his neck. Then a horrible thought crossed my mind as anxiety rushed rampant throughout my body. Panic stricken, I asked my wife, "If I decide to get the Bob Barker treatment someday, will I have to wear the lampshade?" She just stared at me with one of those looks women give you when you’ve asked a stupid question and they think you’re trying to be funny. I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized I would never have to explain the lampshade to the guys at work. When my wife returned home from having Smokey the cat "fixed" the other day, I told her we should start calling him (or it) "Andro", short for androgynous. She just gave me that same look again. I’m sorry, Smokey, but it had to be done. It’s not your fault. Your irresponsible ancestors ruined it for your generation and now you’re paying the price for their "cattin’ around." But cheer up, it could be worse. At least you don’t have to wear the lampshade.

DEEP SEA FISHING NIGHTMARE IN THE DAYTIME (Excerpt from Embracing the Chaos: Wit and Wisdom From the Self-Proclaimed Hopeless Amateur)

While on vacation at the beach this summer, my wife and I took our three boys deep sea fishing. The trip out to sea was pleasant enough, but the situation deteriorated rapidly once the captain stopped the boat. Within thirty seconds, my wife announced that she was sick. I’ll spare you the details but I can tell you she never wet a hook for the remainder of the day. I had been deep sea fishing a few times in my life, but I had forgotten some of the details. First of all, just to stand on the deck and fish required the concentration and agility of a high-wire walker at a circus as the boat rode to the crest of every wave. Our captain informed us to bait our hooks and "go get ‘em". I reached in the bucket of bait and pulled out a slimy squid ball that looked more like something you might cough up if you had pneumonia. And so we began, minus Mom. Our four-year-old son J.T. couldn’t keep his balance, so I locked him between my legs to prop him up as I tried to fish, keep my balance, and hold my nose with one hand to block out the squid smell. Cal, our eight-year-old, kept getting his line tangled with a man on the other side of the boat wearing a Budweiser hat and no shirt. Meanwhile, my wife was curled up in the fetal position a few feet from me. She was unresponsive to my questions of concern for her, so eventually I just quit asking. Within thirty minutes, Cal gave up on fishing after catching his Budweiser friend’s hook for the fifth time. He just sat and stared into the abyss the rest of the day. My eleven-year-old son Will kept catching fish that the crew said were too small to keep and made him throw back in. I guess the old saying "There’s more fish in the sea" isn’t true anymore. Apparently they’re short on fish so they make us throw them back. By the way, they’re not particularly exciting fish anyway. All we caught were those ugly black sea bass that remind me of mutated carp. Where are all those fish I see on National Geographic Specials? I never see black sea bass on underwater television shows. I want to catch one of those blue and orange fish you see on television all the time. No such luck on this trip. An elderly gentleman next to us kept throwing up into the ocean. "Puke and Rally," we called him, because he never quit fishing. He could throw up while he was reeling in another too-small-to-keep black bass and never break stride. I was impressed. I felt a thud next to my right foot at one point. J.T. had finally succumbed to the urge to fall asleep and crashed unconscious next to me. I placed a flip flop under his head for a pillow to keep all that fish junk he was lying in from crawling into his ear and reproducing. Finally, it was time for the hour long trip back. Just as we were leaving, it began to rain. Some crammed underneath what little cover there was up top while others stayed down below in the cabin. Not my lovely wife. She remained in the fetal position and covered herself with her pullover and rode out the storm up top. I watched from the sheltered area as the love of my life got pelted by the rain and wallowed in misery. I would have stayed with her but J.T. was asleep in my arms, and I figured he deserved to be dry. Once we reached dry ground, the captain announced that his crew would be coming around to collect tips. I had already spent $120. In return, we caught fifteen ugly black gargoyle fish of which ten were too little to keep; we all smelled like squid, and I had to face permanent resentment from the woman of my dreams. It’s safe to say the captain and his crew remained tipless that afternoon. So if all this sounds appealing to you, head out to the open sea for a day. And on your way out, wave to the Stroupes. We’ll be the ones on the shore surf fishing.