Collaborate

Collaborate: (v) to work jointly on an activity, especially to produce or create something.

A pot of soup is a collaboration.

So is a deli tray.

Yet there is a massive difference between the two.

No one takes a bite of soup and comments on the beauty of the onion. It is a completed, dissolved entity, where all collaborations of flavors work toward a
common title: SOUP.

On the other hand, a deli tray has cheese, meats, vegetables with dip and maybe even some tomatoes. They lie side by side, collaborating, but simultaneously promoting themselves.

Once upon a time in a land they called the New World, people of all nationalities arrived on the shore of a budding wilderness and worked together to make “one nation under God, indivisible.”

When the need arose to provide “liberty and justice for all,” it became necessary that we melt into one another instead of segregating off into our individual portions on some sort of national deli tray.

The success of this country is based upon how well we have done that.

Right now it appears that our collaboration is a Dutch oven of boiling water, with all the ingredients sitting on the stove, waiting to be placed inside–a merger.

Instead, we put it off and we just boil.

Nothing cooks together.

Nothing flavors another.

We try to be a soup but we still resemble a deli tray.

Sooner or later, great collaboration demands that we drop into the pan and disappear, to form the “one perfect union.”

 

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Coleslaw

Coleslaw: (n) sliced raw cabbage mixed with mayonnaise and other vegetables

I’ve actually only seen one person ever eat three-bean salad. It appears at pot luck dinners and buffets before my eyes, but I never have the courage to spoon it out.

I do like potato salad. Not too much mustard.

I always favored macaroni salad–mainly because it’s the most unhealthy of the existing sides at a picnic, so of course, I feel compelled to
 gorge.

Coleslaw has always been a tough one for me. Eating sweetened, raw cabbage by itself just doesn’t seem to ring my bell.

Now, if I’ve got a hamburger or a hot dog nearby, I’ll use it as a sophisticated dipping sauce. Or if I’m making a sandwich, dribbling some coleslaw on it can be delightful.

But just to sit down and consume a small bowl of coleslaw always makes me feel as if the world has ended, the bomb exploded, and this was the last bit of edible food on the planet. So after seven days of starvation, I finally decided to consume it. (Well, that’s a little dramatic.)

Some people swear by their coleslaw. I have sworn at it. (Not really, but once again, sounded clever.)

I’m sure if I sat down and listened to a promoter or an evangelist for coleslaw, they could explain to me the saving graces.

But for me, I like it best with a nice roast beef and provolone cheese sandwich, smearing the coleslaw over the top–ala mayonnaise.

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Cold war

Cold war: (n) a state of political hostility between countries

It happened over the summer between sixth and seventh grade.

When we returned in the fall for football practice, some of the guys in the locker room had hair on their balls. Some didn’t.

Needless to say, this developed class warfare.

Those who had been endowed with hairiness were also convinced that their “hanger” was “better hung.”

Having no follicles sprouting black shrub, the other boys were at a loss to rally much of a defense. For two weeks, it literally created a separation on our football
team…over pubes.

Supposedly not having it was hilarious to those who did.

Even though the coach sat us down and explained puberty, and that the rest of the “penile Chihuahuas” would eventually sprout some overgrowth, there was still a cold war for most of the football season, until nature took its course.

Now, you may wonder why I begin this essay talking about junior high school football. I do so because I don’t believe that we, as men, ever progress much beyond it.

Whether we’re comparing our gross national products, our armies or our missiles, there is certainly not much difference from the locker-room jabber that caused so much tension and brooding in junior high.

Maybe we should just go ahead and call it a “cock war” instead of a “cold war.” Maybe such a revelation might stir a consciousness of the futility of comparing strength and might based upon physical virility.

Is it really necessary to know how many times the world could be destroyed by nuclear weapons, or might it be intriguing to contemplate clever and inventive ways to avoid it?

If you don’t want to fight, stop comparing.

It’s that simple.

The minute you feel the need to compare what you have–especially favorably–to what others have, a chill will fill the room.

If it gets cold enough, unfortunately, somebody may want to warm it up.Donate Button

 

 

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Cold sore

Cold sore: (n) an inflamed blister near the mouth, caused by infection with the herpes simplex virus.

Treating a cold sore is an example of a microcosm of all human self-improvement.

  1. First, you have to be willing to admit you have one.

No–it’s not dry crusty “corner-mouth.”

You didn’t burn yourself on jalapeno juice.

And it’s not because you haven’t had the chance for a big yawn.

There is actually something growing there, threatening to take over all lip service.

  1. It doesn’t get better because you pick at it.

Yes, we’re human beings so we pick at our problems instead of addressing them and trying to heal them. Picking off the top layer of dead skin only leaves the underlying layer of bright red, infected skin.

And as unbelievable as it may sound, some people find it a little gross to see you pick at your cold sore.

  1. The cold sore has an agenda–so you’d better get one as well.


Yes, most cold sores sign a lease. They feel they have an absolute right to the location for the entire time they desire to stay.

To evict them demands that you use extreme measures.

Some folks try the septic pencil. (Not only does this hurt like hell, sting and often make the sores bleed, but it has have never been proven to be effective.)

  1. Antibiotics do not kill viruses.

Yes, a cold sore is a virus. We’re just going to leave out the whole discussion of the word “herpes.”

As a virus it cannot be treated with antibiotics, though people often rush to the doctor to get a scrip of the anti-bios.

  1. It’s almost impossible to cover a cold sore with make-up.

Actually, you might want to say the cold sores sport make-up. They accentuate that you have a well-made-up mountain at the corner of your mouth.

  1. The truth is, if you increase your fluids, get a little more rest, don’t pick at it, and try not to draw too much attention, it normally will depart within a week to ten days.

Having a cold sore is not a pleasant experience (and every once in a while, one will occupy both corners of your mouth, as if going North and South to fight in the Civil War.)

Be patient, child of God. You are not alone.

The only guarantee for making yourself socially unacceptable is to lose your cool and run through your office complex, screaming and begging for somebody to cut the little boogers off your face.

This is extreme.

There is no cold sore that has not found a human face it does not like.

Coming soon to a crevice near you…

 

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Cold sore

Cold sore: (n) an inflamed blister near the mouth, caused by infection with the herpes simplex virus.

Treating a cold sore is an example of a microcosm of all human self-improvement.

  1. First, you have to be willing to admit you have one.

No–it’s not dry crusty “corner-mouth.”

You didn’t burn yourself on jalapeno juice.

And it’s not because you haven’t had the chance for a big yawn.

There is actually something growing there, threatening to take over all lip service.

  1. It doesn’t get better because you pick at it.

Yes, we’re human beings so we pick at our problems instead of addressing them and trying to heal them. Picking off the top layer of dead skin only leaves the underlying layer of bright red, infected skin.

And as unbelievable as it may sound, some people find it a little gross to see you pick at your cold sore.

  1. The cold sore has an agenda–so you’d better get one as well.

Yes, most cold sores sign a lease. They feel they have an absolute right to the location for the entire time they desire to stay.

To evict them demands that you use extreme measures.

Some folks try the septic pencil. (Not only does this hurt like hell, sting and often make the sores bleed, but it has have never been proven to be effective.)

  1. Antibiotics do not kill viruses.

Yes, a cold sore is a virus. We’re just going to leave out the whole discussion of the word “herpes.”

As a virus it cannot be treated with antibiotics, though people often rush to the doctor to get a scrip of the anti-bios.

  1. It’s almost impossible to cover a cold sore with make-up.

Actually, you might want to say the cold sores sport make-up. They accentuate that you have a well-made-up mountain at the corner of your mouth.

  1. The truth is, if you increase your fluids, get a little more rest, don’t pick at it, and try not to draw too much attention, it normally will depart within a week to ten days.

Having a cold sore is not a pleasant experience (and every once in a while, one will occupy both corners of your mouth, as if going North and South to fight in the Civil War.)

Be patient, child of God. You are not alone.

The only guarantee for making yourself socially unacceptable is to lose your cool and run through your office complex, screaming and begging for somebody to cut the little boogers off your face.

This is extreme.

There is no cold sore that has not found a human face it does not like.

Coming soon to a crevice near you…

 

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Cold-call

Cold-call: (n) an unsolicited visit or telephone call made by someone trying to sell goods or services.

“Good morning! My name is…”

I immediately could tell that the person on the other end of the line was not convinced of the goodness of the morning, and did not give one flying Frito pie as to what my name was.

In baseball that’s called Strike Two.

What I did next would determine whether I would immediately go to Strike Three in the first twenty seconds, or survive, crossing thirty seconds–or the amazing possibility of a minute.

Cold-calling.

So referred to because it is calling that is made to human icebergs.

Usually when I realized that the person I was speaking to was not convinced of the beauty of the day, and was not impressed with my name, I would unfortunately have that two-second gulp in my throat.

This was always the length of time it took the individual who had already expressed indifference, to come in and close the deal on me.

“Listen, I don’t need anything. Bye.”

My supervisor in the company pointed out to me that when I was doing the cold-calling–the phone solicitation–I had deprived this individual of the benefit–dare he say, blessing?–of hearing about the terrific product.

All of this done through a misplaced gulp.

I got better. Sometimes I survived past the first gulp and got all the way to this phrase:

“What I’m calling you about today…”

Then a second wall, needing to hurdled, standing tall, wide and thick, suddenly rose before my nose–and once again, was terminated with the party on the other line (who, by the way, was not having a party) excusing him or herself and hanging up.

If I could get to the one-minute mark, where I explained how the product I was offering was not only beneficial but terribly inexpensive, I found that one out of four times I actually made a sale.

Let’s analyze the numbers:

Ninety percent of the people cut me off at my first gulp.

Five percent of the people stopped me with “the great wall.”

This means that five out of every one hundred people became my potential market of sales. I would have to ask you (and myself) what I would do in life if the potential for it only rallied five out of every one hundred times?

Honest to God, I think I would give up sex over that.

Cold-calling is something that many adults in the past experienced in an attempt to escape being criticized for not having a job.

And by itself–with its trials, its rejection and its nastiness–it nearly turned all of us into vagrants.

 

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Cold-blooded

Cold-blooded: (adj) without emotion or pity; deliberately cruel or callous

The reason we call someone a sociopath is because our social abilities should be on a path. When they aren’t, it is odd, it is dangerous and it shows that something is horribly wrong.

Although it seems to be popular to imitate ruthless, the conscience placed into us by a Creator keeps us from being able to pull it off without great personal destruction.

I remember coming into the yard of my home and seeing that my dog had killed some guinea pigs my son was using for his science fair.

I could have sworn that my puppy was smiling.

That canine had no idea that he had done anything wrong. Matter of fact, he seemed a little proud of his teeth prowess.

Not until I began to yell and chase him did he realize there might be a problem and that he should get the hell out of the way.

You see, that’s not the way it is with people.

Maybe we watch too many TV shows.

Maybe that one hundredth horror movie was detrimental to our thinking.

But even though human beings are temporarily capable of cold-blooded actions–where it seems like they have no soul whatsoever–they actually are so tormented that they often end up mentally ill, committing suicide.

The danger with being cold-blooded is that too often guilt sets in–and it’s your own blood that’s cold.

 

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Colander

Colander: (n) a perforated bowl used to strain off liquid

The key is in finding the secret.

For instance, the secret to good lasagna is the cheese blend.

The secret to good pizza is a toss-up between the crust and the sweetness of the sauce.

The secret to good sex is to make sure the woman has an orgasm before the man pursues his.

The secret to spirituality is to read less, be more.

The secret to politics is to tell the truth.

Which brings me to the secret for spaghetti. (You may not see any particular clarity in the path I’ve taken, but here we are.)

The secret to spaghetti is the colander.

Some would insist it is the texture–preferring al dente–but spaghetti can have perfect texture, but still cling to too much water, making the sauce ineffective.

The colander allows you to shake off the extra moisture, which puts the spaghetti on your plate drier and more able to make love with the cheese and tomatoes. Anybody who has ever tried to make spaghetti without a colander always finds that at the bottom of the pan is a whole bunch of liquid that hangs around to steal the taste.

Sometimes I wish I could be thrown into a colander and shaken around–just to get rid of all the extra meaningless residue. Of course, I would never fit into a colander, and the shaking would probably kill me.

So I shall not do that. I promise.

 

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Coke

Coke: (n) A popular short term for the popular soft drink Coca Cola.

I had an explanation. I really did.

I did not wish to share it because it made me look wimpy. I don’t like to look wimpy. I don’t think I’m alone in this. All of us want to appear noble, brave and strong.

Yet a bit of wimpy lives inside each of us, and jumps out at the wrong moments, exposing us for the sniveling cowards we are.

For years I refused to drink Coca-Cola–or as my friends called it, Coke. Every once in a while I got challenged.

“Hey, man, what’s with you and the Coke thing?”

I would put on my face–a combination of perturbed and surprised. “What do you mean–Coke thing?”

This aggravated the questioner. He or she followed up by saying, “You know–the fact that you never drink Coke.”

It was an easy accusation to side-step. “I do. You just don’t see me.”

But the truth is, they were right. I did not drink Coke. I wanted to, but I desired a drink which could be guzzled–and only certain carbonated beverages could be consumed that way without burning your throat and making you cough. I was not about to share that Coke was too strong for me.

So one day, in a fit of determination to achieve normalcy, and having completed some exercise which left me hot, sweaty and thirsty, I grabbed a bottle of Coke, tilted it back and began to swill.

About three seconds into the process the Cola burned my throat. I choked and spit it out in all directions. This created alarm and humor from all bystanders. I was completely emasculated.

After the laughter calmed down, a friend took me to the side and said, “Listen. Between you and me–Coke is too hot. So here’s what I do. When they offer me a bottle of Coke, I hold it behind my back and shake it up, life my thumb from its place on the top and let off some of the steam and carbonation. I do that about three times, so when I put the Coke to my mouth and down it, I look like one of the guys.”

I was so relieved. I followed the idea completely. He was right. It worked. I was able to slurp my Coke with a big gulp. It was a little flat, having lost its carbonation.

Wait a second…

Maybe that’s how they came up with RC Cola.

 

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Coitus

Coitus: (n) physical union of male and female genitalia

I think I was about nineteen years old when I realized it was much more permissible to talk dirty when you used scientific words.

You could then open up the conversation to pleasantly naughty subjects by making sure you didn’t use gruff language or street lingo. No one is going to consider you appropriate or intelligent if you say “screw” if “coitus” is available.

One of the powers of this process is that there’s always someone in the room who is not familiar with the term, so you can explain it in detail, and therefore make yourself look quite virile.

In other words, “What is coitus?”

Answer: “A very good question. I guess some people would use terminology like ‘screwing, humping,’ or even the ‘f word,’ but ‘coitus’ is the term scientists have pushed forward to represent that natural interaction of two human beings when they’re involved in the process of love-making.”

Honest to God, at this point everyone is leaning forward, having lost interest in the s’mores they just made over the fire.

When you isolate off human sexuality, it really is as basic, simple, carnal and primeval, whether done by human beings or tigers. Matter of fact, when we’re in the heat of passion we often envision ourselves being some sort of animal groveling for greater domination and pleasure.

Once I heard a man say that the difference between humans having sex and creatures of the Serengeti is that Homo Sapiens normally require a good meal, a stiff drink and lovey-dovey Motown tunes to make the whole process seem plausible.

(Of course, Papa Lion probably does bring home an antelope before they get down to business.)

We are such a fussy species. We want to believe that our genitalia, which often smells like dead bats in a cave, is somehow holy and sacred in the sight of God and must be given great consequence.

And then, all of a sudden–maybe two drinks in?–she touches his penis and he fumbles to find her clitoris, and they’re off to the races.

Yes.

Like two horses in a pasture.

Giggle we must at our foolishness, and certainly should continue to insist that we are having “coitus” instead of “bumping uglies.”

 

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