An interview with explorer Ponce de Léon

I have with me today famed 16th Century explorer and conquistador Ponce de Léon. Ponce, I understand you are dead.

PDL: Technically, yes. But then, in some ways, a rock is alive. So it's semantics. Oh, by the way, it's Juan. Ponce de Léon is my last name. 

GW: Whoa. All these years I've thought Ponce was your first name.

PDL: What kind of parent would name their child "Ponce"? Imagine the bullying. 

GW: You're right. You might as well go to school with a plume in your helmet.

PDL: Well, I did do that, actually.

GW: 

PDL: Only once. Turns out we don't celebrate Halloween in Spain. I was misinformed. It was a painful lesson. 

GW: I'll bet. So...in school I was taught that you came to the Americas looking for a fountain of youth. Now historians say that was all a myth.

PDL: Understandable. It's true that I was losing my hair, and I had remarked to a friend that I wish there were such a fountain. But that's the extent of it, until I left on an expedition. Then my friend spread the fountain story. He was joking, but you know how things take on a life of their own.

GW: You did discover Florida.

PDL: "Discover" in quotes. I was the first European to find it, yes, but of course it was already busting with native residents whose ancestors had discovered it thousands of years earlier. But yeah, I am known in history as the Florida guy. 

GW: So you were never obsessed with finding a way to live forever?

PDL: I died a good 80 years before Shakespeare was in his prime. Yet here you are interviewing me. I'd say that is as close to living forever as anyone can possibly hope for. 

GW: Without the fountain aspect, you're just another dude with a boat.

PDL: True. I guess I should thank my friend for that. 

GW: Tough question. You enslaved a lot of people in your quest for gold, didn't you?

PDL: Enslaved is a strong word. I encouraged a lot of people to dig for gold, build houses and plant crops for no pay and to opt out of being killed. 

GW: What does God say about your behavior? You've met him, right?

PDL: Everybody wants to know about God. God is...he's not so much a guy as a warm, cinnamony cloud. He forgives me. He knows I was a product of my time. As penance, though, I have to clean out the rain gutters for a few millennia.

GW: Wait, there are rain gutters in Heaven?

PDL: No.

GW: Ah. 

PDL: In Purgatory. Again, it's a grey area. Purgatory is not what they say it is in books, it's more of a...like a really quiet, boring mansion. It has rain gutters. 

GW: So after a few millennia...

PDL: Then I get to move up, enjoy music again, see family.

GW: Where did all the gold end up?

PDL: The king commissioned some really nice bowls. Some chalices. I mean REALLY nice. You should go see them in Spain. 

GW: When you look back on it all, your 47 years above ground, what would you say was most important? What did you learn?

PDL: Well, don't attack the natives of Florida, for one thing. Boy, they are quick with some poison arrows! But as far as the big picture, get out. Explore. Learn. Fail big. Know that you're just one arrow in the Big Quiver.

GW: That's deep.

PDL: I've had time to ponder. You cannot imagine how many rain gutters this place has. 

Support George on Patreon

Hello readers!

This is the week I post my column exclusively to my Patreon patrons, who after the demise of my newspaper column have joined together to keep the funny flowing. Become a patron yourself for as little as $1 a month, so you don't miss out on this and other Wa adventures.

What you’re missing this week:

($1 level) Torn from the headlines—my interview with a highly endangered plastic straw
($3 level) Vintage column from 2012 about the great stuff men save, which is not hoarding, I swear
($10 level) Audio recordings of me performing all of this month's columns.

Thank you for considering, and see you next week,

George

When your toothbrush is smarter than you

You know you are truly in the 21st Century when your dentist tells you that your toothbrush is not smart enough to do the job. She did not actually call my toothbrush dumb, but I am pretty good at reading people. 

The problem is, my gums are receding faster than the borders of our national parks. This is partly because my electric toothbrush has only one speed—"whittle." My dentist suggested I buy something with variable intensities, something which could perform multiple tasks, something...she just happened to have on hand for sale.

Is the term still "up-selling" if you are not buying anything in the first place? 

So I went home with what I will call the "PowerBrush Deluxe." It cost more than my first car, but to be fair, my first car only had four speeds. Here is a typical line from the product manual: "Your PBD brush heads contain 'smart brush recognition' technology. A microchip inside communicates with the toothbrush handle." 

Here is the transcript of that first conversation. 

Tooth Brush Handle: Open the pod bay doors, Brush Head.

Brush Head: Huh?

Handle: I'm messing with you. Welcome to the team.

Head: Thanks. I'm Premium Plaque Control Head. But then, you knew that.

Handle: I did, thanks to my Bluetooth connection. I see also that you're a Virgo.

Head: A what?

Handle: I am messing with you, Head! Lighten up.

Head: I am not designed to lighten up, only to control plaque in a premium way. 

Handle: I get that. I do. As soon as you are attached to me, I am automatically set to plaque mode. It's feels like kind of a tingle, like at Christmas. And then if your buddy, Gum Care Head is attached, I'm instantly set to gum care mode, which is a vibe kind of like if you were at a rave, but not high, just chill. When George attaches Whitening Head to me, I feel whitening mode click on. That one's kind of like a deep hum, but vaguely racist.

Head: You feel all that?

Handle: I am programmed to deliver whatever oral goals™ George has set for himself. 

Head: Who is George?

Handle: You'll find out tonight. You'll be in his mouth.

Head: I'LL WHAT?

Handle: Don't worry about it. It's just two minutes. In my experience, you can stand two minutes of pretty much anything. 

Head: Wait, you mean plaque control doesn't refer to cleaning the items in a trophy room? 

Handle: (Laughing) Oh, dude, no.

Head: Will you be in his mouth too?

Handle: No, I'll be in his hand.

Head: That doesn't seem fair.

Handle: Listen, you are the worker here, I am the foreman. 

Head:

Handle: Look, let me walk you through it. George is going to squirt some toothpaste on you, push my "on" button, and then you are going to quiver like a bowlful of Jello during a San Andreas. Then he's going to rinse you off, stick us in a dark cabinet, and not think about us until tomorrow night. 

Head: They didn't tell me this was the gig.

Handle: Hey, you and your smart chip could have been formed into MANY kinds of handheld devices. Trust me, be grateful. 

Head: O.K. 

Handle: Or you could be Tongue Care Brush Head. Have you met that guy?

Head: He's in my case.

Handle: We count our blessings in this business. The next three months are going to breeze by, don't worry. 

Head: Three months? What do you mean?

Handle: Oh, that's when you get repla—I mean, when new adventures for you begin.

Head: This is a lot to take in.

Handle: Stick with me, boyo, and you will be able to hold that Premium Plaque Control Head up high. 

The People vs. The Lyrics Of “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)”

Column 1 since my departure from my newspaper publisher. I hope you will continue to read this column on Sundays, pass it on to your friends, and consider “leveling up” via my Patreon page, where you will find funny Patreon-subscriber-only bonus content (vintage “best of Wa” columns, audio recordings of me performing these essays and more.) 

But now to the good stuff. I’ve slipped my newspaper column-inch restraint of 400 words and just busted loose below. I feel almost as free as someone getting caught in the rain...

. . .

Let the record show that even though almost 40 years have passed since the heyday of “Escape,” the damage done to the eardrums and psyches of people who were exposed continues to this day. We, the people, hereafter referred to as Peeps, have brought suit against the lyrics in an effort to, in some small way, make amends for this egregious wrong of the past. 

Peeps: Do you deny that in the autumn of 1979 you put forth in a public venue, where even children could be exposed, the lyric “I was tired of my lady / we’d been together too long”?

Lyrics: Not at all. It’s the opening line. It expresses the dilemma, like any good song, like, I don’t know, like “You Picked A Fine Time To Leave Me, Lucille.” It makes you wonder, why did Lucille leave? You get invested in the story.

Peeps: So how long is “together too long”? I’m just curious.

Lyrics: It’s just a hook, it’s not based on a real couple.

Peeps: But for the record, just your opinion. How long is too long?

Lyrics: I don’t know. Like, a year maybe.

Peeps: A year, and then it’s whoosh, to the personal ads?! This guy in the song is a piece of work. 

Lyrics: But his own lovely lady wrote the ad! That’s the twist. She was bored too. She didn’t know he would answer the ad. She was fishing. He’s not a bad guy. They were both to blame.

Peeps: Objection!

Lyrics: Objection?

Peeps: I’ve just always wanted to say that. So...they were both to blame. Fair enough. But she is the more likable of the two, because she makes clear that she wants a man who is not into yoga, and, just by inference, does not have a pony tail. And a man who has half a brain. This is clearly a commentary on the men of the time, who had embraced disco a little too whole-heartedly (Sample lyric: “Get down, boogie-oogie-oogie.”) 

Lyrics: I believe you might be over-think—

Peeps: Then the husband responds to the ad, via your lyrics, with perhaps the worst come-on since humans ventured out from caves, “I’ve got to meet you by tomorrow noon, and cut through all this red tape.” First of all, who shoots for noon when she clearly offered midnight, and second, what red tape? It’s not like what’s keeping their love apart is the DMV. “Red tape” was obviously just used to rhyme with “escape” in the next line. 

Lyrics: Look, I was on a deadline.

Peeps: How about “I’ve got to meet you by tomorrow noon, so our love can take shape”?

Lyrics: Where were you in 1979?

Peeps: “I’ve got to meet you by tomorrow noon, show you all my manscape.” 

Lyrics: Um.

Peeps: You put forth the idea, to a vulnerable public, a public which just a few years earlier had lost in Vietnam and gone through Watergate, you put forth the idea that we should be all for getting rouged on champagne and umbrella drinks and running out into the dunes to get sand all up in our butts. How do you defend that?

Lyrics: Well, you would take a towel, I would hope.

Peeps: It’s indefensible. I rest my case. 

Lyrics: Does that mean I can go?

Peeps: If you can live with yourself.

Lyrics: It’s forty years. I think people look back on it with a certain fond appreciation of its campiness, like “The Love Boat.” It was about getting to know your partner better, getting closer, realizing that what you want is right there all along if you’re just a little attentive. 

Peeps: That’s a good message, but seriously, who likes piña coladas?

Lyrics: Nobody, but my original line, “If you like Humphrey Bogart,” had trademark issues.

Peeps: I LOVE Humphrey Bogart.

Lyrics: Right?

Peeps: That’s a shame. That would have been good.

Lyrics: Yeah. Well, it worked out. It was a hit. I bought a boat. Hey, can I ask you something?

Peeps: Sure.

Lyrics: Why DID Lucille leave? I mean four hungry children and the crops in the field? That’s cold. 

Peeps: I will never understand fictitious people. 

. . .

An interview with the world's best loved font

I am here today with Times New Roman, a font which is used to create words in most newspapers and school assignments. 

GW: Welcome, TNR.

TNR: Thanks. This is a little weird. I've never been interviewed before.

GW: Why do you think that is?

TNR: I'm a font.

GW: Explain to those who might not know what a font is.

TNR: I'm a typeface. Notice how the end of my letter "t" is a little curly? Not everybody can pull that off.

GW: And supposedly that makes you easier to read than some others.

TNR: That's just hype. But you know, you repeat a thing often enough...

GW: Teachers often insist their students use Times New Roman when writing school assignments. This seems to be true across the entire country. Why do you think that is?

TNR: I have a great agent. 

GW: (laughing) Is that it? How about a shout-out?

TNR: Yo, Morty! You go, dude! See you at the thing next weekend.

GW: The thing?

TNR: Bill Gates is having an exclusive little thing for serif fonts in the Bahamas.

GW: Serif fonts. You mean the fonts that have the curly letters.

TNR: Yeah. My man Courier will be there. Bodoni. Palatino. 

GW: I take it Comic Sans is not invited.

TNR. Ha ha. Comic Sans! There are sans-serif fonts and then there are SANS-SERIF fonts. That dude is deeply without serif. And usually purple. Third graders love him, though. I'm not hating.

GW: What do you think makes a great font?

TNR: The ability to be bold. 

GW: It's true. Some can't be.

TNR: I will never understand that.

GW: Me neither. How hard is that?

TNR: Right?

GW: So you are the default font, the Coca-Cola of typeface. What's the downside?

TNR: People only use my 12 point size. Branch out, folks! Have you checked me out at 8? I still look sharp. My 72 point is strangely slimming. People are always like, "Have you lost weight?"

GW: Do you have any rivals?

TNR: Calibri is the default in MS Word, but people always switch Calibri to me, which does not engender a lot of good will. Luckily I only see him once a year, at Burning Man, and he's usually hammered. Nobody likes being number two.

GW: What's next for TNR?

TNR: We're contemplating Times Really New Roman. Each letter would have an embedded tattoo. That's just between us. 

GW: Now that's bold.

TNR: It's just TNR being TNR, baby. 

. . .

An interview with the elusive Planet Nine

Astronomers announced last week that they may have found a giant planet beyond Neptune, which may (IF it exists, mind you), MAY vote for Donald Trump in November. All right, only the first half of that sentence is true, because it's an election year, and half-true is about the most you can expect from anybody. I did manage to snag an interview with the elusive planet, however. Don't ask me how. (See: election year, above.)

GW: Welcome, Planet Nine.

P9: Kadjfoieutwqioejgva!

GW: Hold on. Let me fire up my interplanetary translator. O.K., go ahead.

P9: Kadjfoieutwqioejgva! Ha ha, I'm just playin'. How are you?

GW: Fine. You understand that our scientists named you Planet Nine because we already have eight orbiting our sun?

P9: Yeah, but my friends call me Reggie.
GW: You have friends?

P9: Hey, you got an elliptical orbit, you meet people.
GW: Scientists have nicknamed you "Phattie" because of your size.

P9: And they spell it all 1990s to sound cool? That's adorable.
GW: They also tell us you are icy with a gassy outer layer.

P9: People in glass houses, George.
GW: Fair enough. What other attributes do you have that we might find interesting?

P9: I've got volcanoes up the ying-yang.
GW: Volcanoes?!

P9: Extinct ones, yeah. And diamonds the size of your face.

GW: Will you cough one up for me?

P9: It doesn't work like that. Where they come from, well, let's just say it's where the sun don't shine. You might want to pass.

GW: Any life forms on ya?

P9: I used to have a fern. It died.

GW: You're kidding, right?

P9: The Earth man is catching on. Look, even at my closest to the sun, I'm still frostier than Hillary Clinton at a gun show.

GW: Astronomers estimate that it takes you about 15,000 years to orbit our sun. Is that right?

P9: No, it takes a year. How long does it take Earth?

GW: A year.

P9: See what I mean? My year's just got a loooooot more holidays.

GW: Do you think those Cal Tech guys will ever be able to spot you?

P9: Not unless they walk in right now and order a venti macchiato. How do you drink this swill?

GW: Caramel is considered a delicacy here.

P9: Well, I'm out. Tell your guys to put down the telescopes, man. Look in, not out.

GW: That's deep.

P9: Well, let's just say from my neighborhood, I have a little perspective.

. . .

 

A rare and candid interview with El Niño

GW:  So Mr. Niño…

El Niño: Please. Call me "L."

GW: All right, L. We haven't met formally, but in 1998 you did ruin my best dress shoes.

L: Sorry, man. Nature of the beast.

GW: Weather forecasters insist you will be paying L.A. another visit this winter big-time. But they said that last year too.

L: Last year I got a last-minute freebie to Orlando. You got lucky. But I'm already ramping up for this year's gig.

GW: Do you intend to cause widespread flooding and mudslides?

L: "Widespread" is a such a loaded term.

GW: But you expect to live up to the hype?

L: Hey, does Noah sleep in hip-waders?

GW: Um, yes?

L: It's not like I can control it. I'm like the Hulk.

GW: Anger is a factor?

L: How would you feel if you had a giant plastic-particle trash island for a belly button?

GW: I see your point.

L: Look, you've had a four-year drought. I'm about to do you a favor.

GW: Scientists say it won't be enough to end our shortage.

L: Scientists can kiss my sweet Kiribati.

GW: They have dubbed you "El Niño," which implies a selfish, spoiled and impulsive nature. How do you feel about that?

L: I'm good.

GW: You'd say that's accurate?

L: Well, I'd prefer "random periodic warming of the equatorial Pacific," but you pick your battles.

GW: What would you like people to know about you that maybe they don't already?

L: I'm single and looking. I like smooth jazz, although whalesong makes me nuts. Doesn't it make you crazed?

GW: It does.

L: Right?

GW: It sounds like cats bungie-jumping.

L: What are cats?

GW: Um...like fish, only more aloof.

L: Like clams?

GW: Yes, like furry clams. Listen, I know you can't help yourself. I know you're just a weather effect, and you do what you do. But people are worried you're going to rip out piers and docks and wreak havoc this winter.

L: You want your lakes refilled, don't you? Your trout streams?

GW: Yes, but...

L: Your farmers want to grow those thirsty almonds?

GW: Yes.

L: You got to take the bad with the good. Buy a new umbrella. Get your roof replaced.

GW: Every roofer is booked until next summer.

L: I am good for business. You know what they say—every random periodic warming has a silver lining.

. . .

Two animals icons of viral video fame have a chat

If you use the Internet, you probably saw the now-famous video of a rat intently dragging a slice of pizza down the stairs of a New York subway. The slice is twice as long as he is. The guy who shot the video, admiring the rat's determination, called the rat "the new Statue of Liberty." 

All but forgotten is last summer's viral sensation, Tara, the Hero Cat, who chased away a dog that was attacking a boy. I put Tara and Pizza Rat together via conference call recently to discuss the nature of fame.

Cat: I saved a kid. You dragged a slice across the ground, and yet we are in the same pantheon now.

Rat: Pantheon, huh? That like a sewer or something?

Cat: No, YouTube fame. Public renown. An anecdote for the ages.

Rat: Whatever. Seven million people have watched me drop my dinner. I will never understand humans.

Cat: I think they just thought it was funny to see a rat carrying food larger than himself.

Rat: Hey, I've got big bones.

Cat: I don't doubt it.

Rat: They thought I was funny! They should come back in three weeks and behold the freak show that is the New York City subway at Halloween.

Cat: Actually, people are already selling Pizza Rat costumes. Grey fur and plastic pizza. And for ladies, Sexy Pizza Rat.

Rat: I'm a meme. I have become a freakin' meme. Somewhere I am probably even an animated gif.

Cat: Trust me, it will blow over. I was huge a year ago. Now I can't even get a retweet from Oprah.

Rat: What a thing to get famous for. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but when I was young I wanted to be a busker.

Cat: A street performer? Doing what?

Rat: Three card Monte, but set to hip-hop music.

Cat: Take the pizza fame. Just...take the pizza fame.

Rat: It IS a little embarrassing, though.

Cat: Look, are you getting girls?

Rat: Sure! But the wrong kind. They're all looking for a Pizza Daddy.

Cat: Ah.

Rat: Just once I'd like to meet a girl who isn't hungry.

Cat: This is your 15 minutes of fame. I say you go big. Drag a leg of lamb down the stairs. Drag a Peking duck.

Rat: I'm done dragging. Besides, Scorcese wants to do a biopic on me.

Cat: Dream big, my friend. Dream big.

. . .