The Overlaughers

We all know the overlaughers. We encounter them in everyday life. You may even be an overlaugher. Typically the overlaughers have no idea they are one. Typically, overlaughers also annoy the hell out of the rest of us. I'm five sentences in and you're all still thinking, "What the hell is an overlaugher Phil? Get to it already would you!" If this was your thought, you are probably not an overlaugher. An overlaugher is a person whose laughter is often disproportionate to the stimulus which provoked it. On the one side of this, it is nice that these people are enjoying life so much that they find even the most modestly amusing things bring them unmitigated joy. The other side of this coin is that the rest of us have to listen to them guffaw loudly during meetings, in casual conversations and during movies or television shows. Don't get me wrong, I love to laugh and I love hearing others laugh at my jokes, but even if it is my joke, I still get the urge to slap an overlaugher right out of their fit of hysteria if it is unwarranted. There are three types of overlaughers. I'm not sure which is more irritating.

The first type is the Self Overlaugher, or an Overlaugher Type I. For most of this week I was at a conference for work. Eight hours a day for three straight days I sat in a conference room being lectured at. This first day presenter was a very attractive 28-30 year old woman who had just gotten her Ph.D. the day before yesterday and couldn't wait to enthusiastically share all the brand spankin' new information they had taught her in college, but which has no useful application in the real world. In an effort to spice up her presentation she interspersed jokes and amusing personal anecdotes. Early in the day I was very pleased with this approach. Then I noticed she was an Overlaugher Type I. She found herself hysterically funny. So funny in fact that she often began laughing at her jokes before the audience had a chance to. Sometimes the audience chose not to laugh since she had already done it for them. It is fine to tell jokes, in fact I do it all day long. Sometimes it is even Ok to smirk or chuckle a bit when you say something amusing. A Self-Overlaugher laughs loudly and profusely at their own jokes as if someone else had just said something side-splittingly funny.

The second day we had a different presenter who was a bit more low key. Unfortunately for the rest of us an Overlaugher Type II had taken up residence in the front row. As a performer or public speaker it is wonderful to have several Type II Overlaughers in your audience. Type II Overlaughers seem to have an over-reactive funny bone. They find everything hysterically funny and usually have very little self-awareness regarding the volume at which their laughter emanates from their body. The problem for public speakers and audiences alike is when there is just one Type II Overlaugher in the audience. When there is just one Type II Overlaugher in the audience their laughter, which is either too loud, occurs alone, or outlasts the group response, tends to make a joke seems less funny because of their singularly exaggerated response, which usually causes everyone in the room to look at them and think, "What the hell is wrong with him? It wasn't that funny"

The Type III Overlaugher is known as the Combo type. A Combo Overlaugher laughs loudly and frequently at both their own jokes and everyone elses. The Combo Overlaughers are exhausting to be around and give most of us a headache. These people must collapse exhausted at the end of each day from the sheer energy required to maintain this laughter all day. The Combo Overlaughers strike me as very sad though because you know damn well that no one is that happy 24/7 and if they behave as if they are they're probably hiding something. Like seeing a clown at a bar drinking and smoking at the end of a long day of making ballon animals I imagine that the Type III Overlaughers go home and drink themselves to sleep every night. The one place I do love Overlaughers however is in my comments, so please, feel free to embrace your inner Overlaugher. Which type are you?

Welcome to New York! Not Everyone gets Mugged !

Is it just me, or does everyone think that almost every single state motto is idiotic and outdated? When I'm elected President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first, I vow to pass a new Phil law mandating that each state motto must in some way be relevant to the state. Just off the top of my head, here are a few state mottos and how I would change them:

South Carolina: The state of South Carloina has two mottos, both of which are in Latin. Really? Latin? How many people in South Carolina do you suppose speak Latin? How about something more appropriate such as: Welcome to South Carolina where tobacco is the 5th food group!

New Hampshire: We all know this one, Live Free or Die. Who the hell thought that phrase was befitting of New Hampshire? Was there ever a chance anyone was going to enslave New Hampshire? How about a motto such as: New Hampshire! The other kind of narrow state that looks like Vermont upside down!

California: The California motto is actually the Latin word Eureka! The English translation is "I have found it." Brilliant eh? Somebody stumbles on a piece of land 770 miles long and they want a freakin' motto? How the hell could you miss it? Dora the Explorer finds more shit than that in a 22 minute episode. What the hell is her motto? For California how about the motto: Welcome to California! We don't give a rats ass who our governor is!

Maryland: Maryland's state motto is actually in French, which makes sense because...well, it doesn't make any sense. The English translation of Maryland's state motto is: Manly deeds, womanly words. What the hell, I'm going to leave that one be.

Delaware: Liberty and Independence. Not bad. Sounds very distinguished. But seriously, c'mon, it's Delaware! Have you looked at this state on a map? If the United States has an appendix, Delaware is it. It may be time for an appendectomy. New Phil motto for Delaware: Shhhhh! If anyone really notices how small we are they'll take away our statehood!

I could go on like this all day, but what fun would that be? How about your ideas for state mottos for your own state or others in the comments?

The Comment Police

I appreciate the time anyone takes to read what I write here and I love your comments regardless of whether you do or don't like what I've written. Bloggers are the nicest group of people I know. Only once in the 4 years I've had this blog have I found it necessary to delete a comment. I wonder why so many other bloggers have 'comment approval' enabled. Are you afraid of dissenting opinions? If you're a woman, do you get a lot of inappropriate comments from men? Do you have control issues? Do you fear what other bloggers will think if they read a negative comment? Will they leave you if someone else disagrees with your post? Are you obsessive-compulsive and feel the need to proof-read and spell check everything first? I honestly don't care if you have to check over my comments before they appear on your blog, but seriously, what's the big deal? I don't mean to sound critical if you're a comment approver, I'm curious. If you've got a good reason I'm sure I'd agree. Could someone explain why you do it?

Send In The Clowns

I'd like to address a very serious subject. A malady if you will, that afflicts thousands, maybe millions, of people each and every day. It is a subject of such horror, such an abomination, that those who suffer from this disorder hide it, even from their loved ones. I am, of course, speaking of Coulrophobia. No, Coulrophobia is not the fear of Dave Coulier. If it were, that would be my problem. Well, me and Alanis Morissette. Coulrophobia is "the irrational and persistent fear of clowns." Yes, it is so prevalent it has been given a scientific name by psychologists. Apparently this is a very serious subject because there are hundreds of websites dedicated to discussing and curing this fear. I don't get it!!!! What the hell is so scary about a guy in makeup, big pants, and floppy red shoes? You know what they say, big feet big... I suppose that's why they have to wear the big pants. Do you Coulrophobes think that the squirting flower they wear is symbolic of what's going on in the big pants perhaps? Is it the swollen red nose that suggests alcoholism? C'mon, we all have a lovable, old drunk somewhere in our family tree! And yes, I intentionally put that big clown picture at the top of the article just to freak out the clown-o-phobes. Aside from John Wayne Gacy, can anyone else name a clown that has ever done anyone any harm? (No, Michael Jackson doesn't count!) If you weren't creeped out by clowns before, I'll bet you are now, but in a different way. Enjoy the circus this year everyone!

Selfishly Giving The Gift of Life

Our story begins with our hero walking into the crowded waiting room of the local American Red Cross office. He has a 7:30 appointment, but quickly realizes that he probably won't be taken on time. Every seat in the waiting room is full as he approaches the desk and accepts the obligatory "What You Need To Know Before Donating" packet of information from the 107 year old volunteer. He quickly scans the notebook pages pretending to read. He's donated blood many times before, so none of this information is news to him. He notes with mild interest that there seems to be new questions regarding Mad Cow disease and visiting England in the past 25 years. England, apparently still sore about that whole Revolutionary War fiasco 230 years ago, has been exporting Mad Cow disease to the States. I turn my packet back in to the volunteer and look around, mentally counting how many people are ahead of me. Fortunately two of the waiting room denizens appear to be there as spectators for a young lady who is having trouble maintaining her state of consciousness while donating. I settle in to a recently vacated chair and open my cell phone to play a game to pass the time. The two elderly volunteers, Ma and Pa Kettle as I'm beginning to think of them, lean on the desk making small talk with each other and anyone who makes eye contact.

To my right a young woman speaks up, "Excuse me, but I had a 7:00 appointment and I've been waiting a half hour." Pa Kettle responds with the usual platitudes about how busy the day has been and that she's next on the list and will be taken ASAP. The young woman, who's voice seems to get more grating each time she speaks responds, "Well, what's the point of making an appointment if no one is going to be seen on time? I might as well just walk in whenever I feel like it." The rabble rouser's husband/boyfriend/lap dog chips in, "They always book more appointments than they should because a lot of people don't show up." Again Pa Kettle attempts to placate them, but the young woman is undeterred as she relates the story of her tardy dentist and how she won't schedule with her doctor on a Monday because of all the weekend illness people who back up the schedule on Mondays. Her lap dog of a husband, apparently eager to stay on her good side in hopes that the lack of blood will make her loopy enough later that she'll actually deign to have sex with him, again pipes in with his brilliant theory about overbooking. Pa Kettle offers to let her fill out a survey after she donates. She continues to whine. Like some sort of philanthropic Rainman, lap dog boy again restates his position on their scheduling policy. Pa Kettle tells the woman that he'll include her comments on his end of day report in the "customer concerns" section. This exchange goes on a good 10 minutes as the rest of the waiting room watches, our heads bobbing from side to side with each volley as if we're at a tennis match. By now I'm tempted to raise my hand and say, "Excuse me," pointing my finger directly at her, "if I'm ever in an accident don't give me her blood. I'm pretty sure it's spoiled."

The Modern Worry Stone

Worry stones are smooth, polished gemstones usually in the shape of an oval with a thumb-sized indentation. They originated in Ancient Greece. Held between the index finger and thumb, rubbing them is believed to lessen one's worries. This action is a type of stimulation which can often create feelings of calmness and reduce stress levels.

Of course the ancient Greeks needed worry stones. They were constantly stressing about getting lost in the giant mazes and attacked by Minotaurs, or perhaps getting lured to their death on the rocks by the beautiful Sirens that sang to them on their commute to work. Then, if you were a guy, you had to constantly be on the lookout for one up the Gods coming down from Mount Olympus and trying to impregnate your girlfriend. It wasn't the Gods fault. I mean, seriously, there were only about 12 of them. That's like going to a high school with only 20 kids in your graduating class. Occasionally you're going to have to date a freshman. Or even worse, you hook up with a cougar (hot older woman) and she turns out to be your mom. Bottom line, ancient Greece was a stressful place and some crazy old crackpot with an impossibly long name that ends in "ates" decided that rubbing a stone with your thumb would relax everybody. It was the ancient version of the pet rock. I'm pretty sure it was advertised in the Parthenon by the Sham Wow guy.

I propose that we as a culture have unkowingly created our own high tech version of the worry stone. The cell phone. What decreases worries more than communication? Our cell phones are our links to the entire world by call, text, I.M., and the internet. If we have a question, somehow, some way there is an answer in that little ball of technology we hold in our hand. And don't we often just hold it, perhaps looking at it, feeling the weight of it and the smooth curves of it in our palm, reassured knowing that because of that little device we are never truly alone? Unless of course the battery dies, you can't get a signal, or you've lost your charging cord. That's when Zeus comes down from Mount Olympus and offers to charge it for you with one of his lightning bolts in exchange for sex.