You must be joking

You've got to be so careful these days.

Political correctness is the new normal, and the easily and unjustifiably offended have more recourse, retaliation and restitution available to their fragile sensibilities than ever before. Which makes it especially hard to tell an off color joke at work.

I recently worked at an agency that, thankfully, has a short memory and keeps calling me back in. Repeat business is good for business.™

Anyway, one of my friends, we'll call her Ashley, likes to binge Breaking Bad, loves Better Call Saul and has a wicked sense of humor. So hard to tell why we get along.

I have two jokes I love and will tell anyone who's willing to listen and won't sue or fire me. I knew Ashley would appreciate them, but the trick was finding a place to tell them to her. It had to be someplace we wouldn't be overheard, and somebody wouldn't be offended and decide to break a land-speed record running to HR to report me.

Although frankly I'm not sure what's so offensive about a joke that starts with, "So this bus full of Catholic schoolgirls goes over a cliff..." I know, right?

That's actually not the one I wanted to tell Ashley. That one starts with, "So this guy walks into a bar, and in the corner he sees a huge gorilla in a cage..." Even just writing the opening line it's taking everything I have to resist typing the rest of the joke.

If you see me ask me to tell it to you.

I decided we had to be on neutral turf outside the agency in order to tell it to her. Fortunately, one day we went out to a group lunch with about fifteen people. In what can only be considered a bold move, or maybe a stupid one, I decided to use all the chatter and side conversation at the table as camouflage. Then I leaned over to Ashley and told her my joke.

It got exactly the reaction I was hoping for, and she couldn't wait to tell it to her boyfriend.

Even if you're not telling off color jokes, working in agencies means using your Jedi instincts to figure out who your real friends are. Note: they're usually the ones who won't get you fired for telling a joke.

I don't have time now, but in a future post I'll tell you about the time I tried stand-up comedy ("I'll be here all week..."). Not going to say how the story ends, but you might've noticed I don't do it for a living.

Which reminds me: a rabbi, a priest and a hooker are at the Pearly Gates.

I better not. You never know who's reading this.

A little bitmoji

Almost every time I text with a good friend of mine, at some point she'll reply with a caricature of herself. When I asked what it was, she said, "They're Bitmoji's! You have to get the app!"

Well, priding myself on knowing how to take direction, I decided to downloaded the Bitmoji app.

As you can see from the stunning likeness, the app allows me to build myself as a cartoon character who says all sorts of snappy little sayings I'd never say in real life.

Hello was the closest I could get to something I'd actually say.

Over time, I've found Bitmoji's are actually a handy shorthand when I don't feel like typing long, involved texts. But like personalized license plates, they're funny the first few times, and then not so much.

Anyway, if you're one of my many friends who text me, and I happen to be in the right frame of mind, I might just treat you to a reply with my own personal Bitmoji.

Although there's more than a good chance this is what it'll say.

Ad hair day

Creative directors often have an over-inflated sense of their contribution to the process.

Their value to the agency.

Their rapport with the creative department.

Their indispensability.

And, if you read the Revolving Door section of AgencySpy.com, apparently quite a few of them also have an over-inflated sense of hair styles.

It seems there's no middle ground. In the pictures that accompany the articles, they either look like a nice guy, or a douche who's trying way too hard. Which is a shame, because they might actually be the first one coming off as the second.

Part of the problem is too many creative directors want to make sure their clients, their department, their bosses and the viewing public know exactly how creative they are at first sight. And what better place to start than from the top down.

From perms to pigtails, curls to comb overs, I believe none of it makes the impression they think they're making.

Some of these people have worn their hair the same way for years. Ironic for an industry that waves the banners of change and disruption every chance it gets.

There is a great benefit to the readers of AgencySpy.com every time one of these pictures pops up: we get to read the comments. AS is kind of a lawsuit free zone, where readers can anonymously post any kind of disparaging, libelous, childish, defaming and derogatory comments they want. They're always a great read.

I think the lesson we can take away from all this is to dial down the judgment, and try as hard as we can not to judge a book by its cover.

After all, some of these salon-challenged people might be hair apparent to running the agency. All the more reason not to wig out at something as superficial as a hairdo.

Or hair don't.

Out to lunch

If you know anything about me, and if you've read this blog for any length of time you have no excuse not to, you know I'm pretty much of a social butterfly. I wouldn't go so far as calling myself a people person, but there are people whose company I enjoy immensely.

One way I have of showing it is by scheduling lunch with them.

Here's the thing: besides my brutal good looks, my keen insights, my Twain-like humor (I was going to say rapier wit, but sometimes that word gets misconstrued) and my keenly honed sense of modesty, I believe the most valuable thing I have to give is my time.

Well, that and my Spiro Agnew wristwatch. That reminds me, I have to check eBay later.

Anyway, there are only five lunches in a business week, so I find myself being extremely selective whom I choose to dine with. I have a small circle of repeat lunches I try to have because I enjoy them every time. You gotta eat, but you don't gotta eat with just anyone.

As fun as it would be, I'm going to show a little restraint (just to see what it feels like) and not name names. But you know who you are. You're the people who always have a standing reservation on my lunch dance card, no matter how full it is or how far away you are.

I don't mean to sound like I'm saying people should be happy and grateful they're having lunch with me. In fact, I'm saying just the opposite.

If we're having lunch, I'm the one who's thrilled to be there. I value our friendship. It's something I've carved out time for, and you can bet I've been looking forward to it since we made the plan. Sure I'll have the occasional casual lunch with someone in the outer circle, but my heart's not really in it. If there's a raspberry tart for dessert it's a little better, but still.

Not only am I giving my time, I'm aware you're giving yours. I'm flattered and honored. And if you enjoy our lunches half as much as I do, then I enjoy them twice as much as you do.

It's just that simple.

I'm screwed

I have a fairly sizable scar on my right forearm. When people see it, they always ask what happened. And every time, depending on the mood I'm in, they get a different story.

Sometimes it's the one where I was scuba diving off Catalina and a baby shark bit my arm. Other times, it's the guy who pulled a knife on me so I shot him. Rarely is it what really happened: a bad auto accident.

Decades ago, a guy in a Monte Carlo decided to run a red light just as I was going through the intersection at Crescent Heights and San Vicente (for you Angelenos). I was driving an orange '71 Super Beetle. He t-boned me, and because I wasn't wearing a seat belt (which the police said probably saved my life) I flew out of the car, wound up sanding the asphalt with my face and breaking my right radius in three places.

I know, stay out of those places.

And unlike the kind I'm used to making from jobs and relationships, it wasn't a clean break. So in order to set it properly, they had to put in the steel plate you see here.

Now when I think of medical equipment, I think of hi-tech, thin, durable composite whammy-jammy that can stay in my body unnoticed for eternity. What I don't think of is a door hinge with five screws in it.

There were some interesting things about it. When I ran my thumb over the scar, I could feel the five screw heads. I used to always set off the metal detectors at the airport. And when the weather would turn damp or cold, my arm would ache like a sonofabitch.

Eventually the arm healed. But then, in a moment of over-confidence and feeling thin, I had to go play volleyball one day with my then girlfriend, now wife, and repeatedly smack my arm until it swelled up three times its size.

That was the minute I decided I was going to have the plate taken out. I wasn't looking for a second surgery, but the arm muscles (yes, I have them) rubbing over the plate and screws all the time was just too irritating.

After the plate was removed, it took about seven months for the five holes from the screws to completely heal.

So it's all good. I have a nice souvenir and a good story. Plus now I can walk down alleys at midnight with my sleeves rolled up and no one bothers me.

It's because of the scar, you know, the one I got when I was sky-diving and my arm caught the door just as I jumped.

Dead wrong

I believe in this election year, the Republican clown car is filled to overflowing much more so than in years past. And Donald Trump is sitting in the driver's seat.

But under the heading of even a broken clock is right twice a day, I'm going to say something I never thought I'd hear myself say. I agree completely with Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz and Donald Trump about one thing: eliminating the estate tax.

I've never been much for labels, but if I had to put one on myself (besides "do not feed" and "wash only in hot water") I'd call myself a centrist Democrat. Another thing I've never been much for? Falling in step with the party line, especially positions I don't agree with. And on this one issue, both Hilary and Bernie are dead wrong.

This isn't a new position for me. I first posted about it here a little over five years ago, although not in any great detail. But the reality for me, and I imagine a lot of other people, is that I'm not feeling particularly under-taxed. During my working life, the government hasn't missed any opportunity to reach its greedy, mismanaged, politically-motivated, oversight-free fingers into my paycheck and take my hard-earned (well, hard-earned if I had a real job) money.

Whenever the time comes, and I finally catch the last train out, there's no reason my children should be taxed on what I spent a lifetime building (and paying taxes on) so they could have a better life when I'm gone. Any person who builds a business, savings, real estate or portfolio during their lifetime - and pays taxes on it all along the way - shouldn't have it all taken away or wiped out because the government wants it's share, again, when you finally take the big dirtnap.

In 2016, estates exceeding $5,450,000 in value are currently the only ones who pay the tax, which means most people don't. But that number isn't written in stone. It's written in the legislative branch and that makes it subject to change. As you can see on the chart, Hillary and Bernie both want to lower the threshold to $3.5 million. Who's to say if the government needs a little more money, maybe the next administration lowers it even further.

Here's the truth: most of the millionaires who do have to pay it actually worked hard and earned their fortunes. They didn't inherit it. They shouldn't have to pay a penalty because they succeeded, and neither should their families. The battle cry that they can afford it so they should pay it is pure nonsense designed to create class war. Do you want the government taxing or taking away what you've earned? Didn't think so.

When it comes to government, I've been taught there are some truths we hold to be self-evident. One of them should be that it's fundamentally and morally wrong to have an estate tax in the first place. It's double taxation any way you slice it, and it de-incentivizes and deters people who would otherwise bring valuable contributions and ideas to the world. It also encourages offshore shelters and keeps money flowing out of the country.

The fact there's even an estate tax at all reminds me of a line in the movie Quiz Show, when one of the characters says, "It's not exactly Jefferson and Lincoln down there anymore."

Ain't that the truth.

Getting hosed on a new sprinkler

There are so many things I can't do. Now, contrary to popular belief, not all of them are because I don't have the brains or the ability. Some of them are merely because I just don't want to. No one's ever accused me of being an overachiever.

One of the many homeowner repair items, and one of the more common ones, that falls under the second category is sprinkler repair.

I had to take my beautiful daughter to school Tuesday morning. I know it was Tuesday, because that's one of the two days a week my city allows me to water the lawn without getting fined. No one said the drought was going to be easy.

Anyway, when I got back home from her school I noticed one of the sprinklers on my front lawn doing its impression of a knocked over fire hydrant. Or 'Ole Faithful. What I'm saying is it was a gusher.

Now, I know, you know and the American people know all that means is a sprinkler head was broken or gone, probably taken out by our gardener when he was mowing the lawn (another thing I don't want to do).

I actually do know what's involved in fixing the sprinkler. Dig up the dirt around it, unscrew the old sprinkler head, screw on a new one and replace the divot. Pretty simple.

And yet, as I like to say, no job too small for somebody else to do.

So I had a sprinkler repair company come out - ironically, they're called the Sprinkler Repair Company - and had them fix it. It took fifteen minutes start to finish. I don't even want to tell you what they charged, but at least the "making me feel stupid" was free.

Lesson learned.

From now on, I'm going to make more of an effort to do the things I don't want to do, both around the house and in the outside world, even though I damn well know how to. And maybe save a few samolians in the process.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to call and get somebody out here to change this lightbulb.