Check out your food closely before eating it

The Nun Bun- Looks like Mother Teresa?

The Pringle’s company is at a disadvantage if you ask me. They make those potato chips whose geometric configuration allows them to stack perfectly on top of one another. Thus each chip is robotically identical to the next. Profoundly boring.

No one will ever attempt to sell a Pringle’s chip on Ebay. Not true with other potato chip brands. Those with unique personalities occasionally thrill us with their uniqueness. Recently a potato chip came out of the bag looking a lot like the state of Florida. Sold to the highest bidder.

I will resist the temptation to explore in this column what would possess someone to desire ownership of a potato chip shaped like Florida. I stand not in judgment, though I remain curious.

I would, however, like to offer further examples of foods that have emerged from their containers displaying various recognizable shapes.

1. Cheesy Chuck- It popped out of a Cheeto bag looking exactly like Chuck Norris in his finest military stance, poised to strike against terrorists, hostage takers, and other up-to-no-gooders. Cheesy Chuck is even toting a weapon. He sold on the internet for $16.

2. Ca-shoe- From a can of nuts emerged a cashew whose dimensions precisely resembled a high-heeled woman’s shoe. Instead of immediately attempting to cash in (pun intended) on his good fortune, its discoverer took the high road and proudly displays his trophy on his kitchen shelf in Seattle.

3. Unsolved Mystery- I’m cheating here. This listing has nothing to do with food, but fits nicely into the context of this column. It is a patch of ground on the Gardner-Webb baseball field where grass simply will not grow. Because of its profound mysteriousness and the fact that it is surrounded by Bermuda grass, we refer to it as the Bermuda Triangle. At one point, some grass creeped around its edges and it looked exactly like the state of Idaho. It has been sodded in completely now but whether it will survive the upcoming summer is yet to be determined.

4. How to spend your hard-earned dollar- This one, like all the others, is true though you’ll have trouble believing it. (Look it up on the internet if you wish.) Two sharp-eyed sisters from Virginia recognized that one of their Corn Flakes resembled the state of Illinois. They figured out a way to advertise online and the owner of a traveling museum in Texas paid them $1,350 for it. He even drove to Virginia to claim his treasure, fearing it would be damaged in the mail otherwise.

5. The Nun Bun- Cinnamon buns can make your arteries harden, but this one warmed the heart of a baker in Tennessee when he noticed it looked like Mother Teresa’s countenance. At the time, Mother Teresa expressed a sense of humor about the breakfast treat, admitting that it did resemble her and eventually agreeing to let it be known as the Nun Bun. Unfortunately some overzealous treasure hunter broke into the café on Christmas Day of 2005 and stole the artifact. The café owner described it as being like a death in the family. I pity the ultimate fate of the thief.

There’s more but I must be going. I’m about to open a bag of Gummy Bears and make sure none of them look like me.

Fans Need to Keep Proper Prospective

Recently a construction worker in New York, a Boston Red Sox fan, secretly buried a Red Sox t-shirt underneath the area where the new Yankee stadium is being built. In case you haven’t heard, they’re serious about their rivalry up there and the Yankee brass ordered the t-shirt dug up and removed before a curse ensued.

I appreciate this guy’s loyalty to his team. I’ve been a die hard Pittsburgh Pirates fan since 1971, sticking with them most recently for fifteen straight losing seasons. And with them I will remain.

I would, however, like to offer my thoughts on the extent to which sports team loyalty should be taken. I burned the baseball card of Pirates’ pitcher Bob Moose when he blew a decisive playoff game in 1972. He died tragically a few years later in an auto accident and a child’s sense of guilt persists to this day.

A huge on-the-field brawl between players took place a few years back after a Clemson-South Carolina football game, resulting in injuries, suspensions, and an even deeper intensity in the rivalry. What bothered me was what happened the following year at the game. The teams walked out and met at midfield immediately before the game to shake hands and exhibit sportsmanship. Refreshing. But some fans- and I hope it was only a few- booed loudly to voice their displeasure with the peace offering. Apparently they thrived on hatred and to demonstrate any indication of the opponent’s humanity was unacceptable to those few boo birds.

I know there are those who disagree, but I don’t believe your school colors or your team loyalties get you any points in Heaven. Bumper stickers claiming that God is a fan of their team based on the color of the sky or the shades of the leaves in fall are humorous- probably even to God. Surely these are done in jest.

But it can be taken too far. All the talk about Roy Williams- the basketball coach at North Carolina- wearing a Kansas sticker during the championship game perplexed me. Kansas gave him his first head coaching job and fifteen wonderful years but some fans took his attire to mean that he might not have done everything he could to help his Tar Heels win.

What no one mentioned- at least not when I was watching- was the ribbon he wore on his sports jacket during every game. It was a tribute to the recently murdered student body president from UNC, a young lady named Eve Carson, who was admired by everyone she came in contact with.

When my baseball team at Gardner-Webb played against UNC recently, I asked my friend and colleague from UNC if I could wear a ribbon to show my respect for Miss Carson. He gladly agreed and offered a ribbon similar to the one he was wearing.

Yet a few days later, the basketball coach at that same institution had to answer questions about a Jayhawk symbol on his shirt while the ribbon on his jacket went largely unnoticed. It makes me wonder about the priorities in our “enlightened” society.

I just hope the next time I make a poor coaching decision that costs my team a game, some overzealous kid doesn’t find a picture of me and toss it in the fireplace.

Read My Lips: Taxes Are Here to Stay

It’s tax time. At least for those of us who put such things off until the last possible minute. Normally the Stroupes have it all wrapped up by Valentine’s Day. Not this year.

I don’t like tax time. I was less of a Math student and more of a Social Studies type in school. Numbers perplex me. Especially government tax-related numbers.

Here is what I know about income taxes. Some government dude thought up the whole income tax idea during the Civil War. “It’s only temporary due to this crisis,” he cried. And sensible government representatives listened.

Until World War I came along. So much for temporary revenue. The feds made income taxes permanent. And the states quickly followed suit.

I blame it all on the British. They started it with all those silly taxes they imposed in the 1700s that caused rebellious and revolting colonists in America to rebel and revolt. Taxes on sugar, tea, alcohol, tobacco, and playing cards infuriated Americans back then. Sin taxes, they called them. Don’t like the tax on alcohol and cards? Then don’t drink and gamble, advised the King.

Not that there aren’t some interesting taxes nowadays. In North Carolina, there is a tax on illegal drugs. If you purchase them, by law, you must report yourself and pay a tax to the government. Since 1990, seventy-nine citizens have actually volunteered to pay the tax. Honest but not very smart.

Professional athletes and entertainers often have to pay a “jock tax” when they perform in a city. And if we pay to watch them, we’re charged an extra “seat tax” to sit and holler for or at them. I’ll save a little money by bringing a lawn chair next time.

And in Arkansas, you’ll have to pay an extra “tattoo tax” if you choose to adorn your body with your girlfriend’s name or an image of a dragon spitting fire. I’m assuming wash-off images of Mickey Mouse that come from a cereal box are exempt from the tax. But who knows?

We also have to deal with death taxes- pay to live, pay to die- and sales taxes on everything we purchase. Stayed in a hotel lately? Add state tax, local tax, and “Mint on your pillow” tax to the advertised cost. In return, you are welcomed to take the soap, shampoo, and ink pens in your room. But leave the towels where they belong, please.

Add to that list inheritance tax, property tax, and Social Security tax. I certainly don’t mind paying the Social Security tax, as long as there’s some of it left if I survive long enough to retire.

In this political season, nearly every candidate claims he or she will lower taxes. A few elections ago, a candidate lost reelection when he broke his promise about taxes. “Read my lips- no new taxes.” Poor guy. It seems there’s always new taxes.

Now back to income taxes. Several Congressmen complained in the 1860s that the 1040 income tax form was too complicated. If they could only see us now. The IRS currently has 92 different forms today, none of which I clearly understand. This number doesn’t include state tax forms, which are equally confounding.

Fortunately for me, there is no tax on venting a little in a column. At least not yet.

Share Everything Except Your Toothbrush

It is my hope that the following incident has occurred in most homes. If not, the Stroupes will be permanently regarded as weird, grotesque, and socially unacceptable.

It involves the occasional sharing of toothbrushes within the family unit. First off, this phenomenon has occurred quite by accident in all Stroupe instances- or at least I hope so. The most recent occurred in the bathroom inhabited by my two oldest sons. The twelve-year-old Stroupe discovered by chance that his fifteen-year-old sibling had been using his toothbrush for quite some time.

Rightfully disgusted, this middle child of mine sprinted to the other side of the house to inform his parents that his health and general well-being had been permanently jeopardized. Unphased, the oldest son continued to brush with the “borrowed” object.

My mind raced back to a particular morning when I was eight years old or so when my mom discovered that she, my brother, and I were all sharing the same toothbrush. To this day I feel violated because I know for a fact that the cotton-pickin’ (or tooth picking) brush was mine.

It was one of those deals where each family member was assigned a color and you snapped your brush onto the handle and clicked the “on” button. Magical vibrations and sensational sensations ensued. Tooth brushing was glorious.

Until my mom flipped out that morning. I know good and well my color was yellow but both she and my brother claimed otherwise. And there in its little stand stood an unused and lonely blue toothbrush, begging to be noticed.

Mom snatched the yellow stick and sped toward the kitchen where she boiled a pot of water and dunked the poor fellow in it. She left to continue morning preparations but vowed to return.

I watched- yes, a watched pot will boil- and noticed within a few minutes that my little yellow friend was uncomfortable with his surroundings. He began to twist and his bristles bent over like palm trees in a hurricane. When he started emitting a foul odor, I figured it was time to inform Mom.

She gasped in horror when she arrived to the sight of our destroyed toothbrush. Melted and mangled beyond all recognition, he was deceased by the time she plucked him out of the pot with a pair of hot dog tongs. Secretly I was relieved. If I couldn’t have him, no one would.

The entire Stroupe family of yesteryear eventually recognized the ultimate humor of the situation within minutes. The modern day Stroupes were less amused and the parents- my wife and I- lectured three boys on the virtues of sanitation all the way to church that morning.

Share food, drinks, towels, and kisses when you must, but never ever share a toothbrush. By the way, don’t kiss dogs. Contrary to popular belief, a dog’s mouth has three to four times as much bacteria as a human one. So don’t share a toothbrush with a dog- or a cat, or a dung beetle, or any other animal.

And if you discover your toothbrush has inhabited the mouth of another, don’t leave it in boiling water for more than a few seconds. Unless you’re prepared to deposit it in the bottom of the garbage can, which incidentally, is roughly equal to the sanitation level of a dog’s mouth.