Filthy Dirt Sucker

A couple weeks back, I got a phone call that changed my outlook on life forever.  You see, I was a real skeptic before this call.  When offered anything of value with no perceived commitment or required purchase, I'd assume it was a scam and blow the person off.

This archaic, unenlightened approach to life was blown away with this one short phone call.  With this divine telephonic outreach, I realized that there truly is good in the world and when someone says you've been selected to win a $500 shopping spree and a 3-day/2-night vacation at one of many destinations around the globe, just for inviting someone in your house for an easy product demo and survey, you'd be a chump to not take advantage of this naive person.

Apparently I'd answered a few "survey" questions a few weeks prior and had been entered into a completely legit "drawing" and won these fantastic prizes.  What were the survey questions about you ask?  They were hard-hitting and extremely valuable ones relating to my age, sex, and marital status.  And something about my preference regarding "Boxers vs. Briefs."

Because of my esteemed cooperation, I'd won.  I was a winner.  I hadn't won something this major since dominating a game of musical chairs and winning a lemon meringue pie back in '85 (Beth, if you're out there somewhere, I'd just like to apologize one more time for totally accidentally clothes-lining you in the neck with my boney arm, stepping on your femur (twice), and using your crumpling body as a prop to keep me from falling as I blew past you to the last remaining chair.  I sincerely hope everything has healed properly).

Still, being a skeptic, I had to do my diligence to make sure this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was completely legitimate.  So, I turned the tables and played the role of market researcher.  Behold me unveil the facts like a seasoned CIA interrogator.

Me:  "I don't have to buy anything?"
Very Pleasant But Suspiciously Vague Woman:  "No. All you need to do to claim your prize is participate in a product demo and answer some survey questions at the end."
Me:  "Well, that sounds good.  What's the product?"
VPBSVW:  "It's a new high-end vacuum."
Me: "Interesting.  Are you guys going to try to sell me a vacuum?"
VPBSVW:  "Getting you to answer the survey questions about the product is my guy's primary concern."
Me:  "Are you sure you're not going to try to sell me a vacuum?"
VPBSVW:  "The product will be available for purchase, if you like it."

Me:  "This is market research though right?"

VPBSVW:  "Mm hmm."
Me:  "And this is not a sales call?"
VPBSVW:  "Yes."  
Me:  "Wait, yes it's not a sales call or yes it is a sales call?"
VPBSVW:  "Yes."  
Me:  "Can you be more specific."  
VPBSVW:  "No.  My legal team will not let me."  
Me:  "But I still win a $500 shopping spree without buying anything right?
VPBSVW:  "Right."  

Me:  "$500 U.S., right?"

VPBSVW:  "Yes! And don't forget the 3 day/2 night trip also!"

It's clear to me at this point that I better act fast before this idiot company goes bankrupt.  I confirm a 45 minute in-home product demo for later that afternoon and hang up the phone.  
Me:  "Heh, suckers!"

A gentleman named Mike showed up that afternoon and, after buttering us up with small talk that would embarrass a politician, launched right into his demo.   He pulled out what can best be described as a fat, blue robot.  "This," said Mike "is the Blue Thunder!"  That's obviously not the real name of the product.  No one would name their product something that silly.  I changed the name for this article to protect myself and the Blue Max vacuum company from any liability.

Mike, if that's his real name, went on to dazzle us on all 734 uses of the Blue Thunder (air freshener, leaf blower, day laborer, infant babysitter, etc.) - none of which entailed actual dirt removal.  If that wasn't enough to elicit fresh drool, he started vacuuming our rug.  This is where Mike blew his cover.

Apparently the purpose of Mike's visit wasn't to do a product demonstration.  The real reason it seems was on behalf of the National Clean As A Hospital Home Public Safety Administration (NCAAHHPSA) to deliver the message that my house was filthier than a public handrail and that it was a miracle that my wife and I had not yet died from some dirt-borne illness.  He demonstrated this through the use of vacuum filters, which he courteously laid out on our coffee table for us to look at in horror.  It took the Blue Thunder a dozen filters to make our rug look brand new again.  It took my wife a dozen martinis to keep from going into shock.        

To our defense, the Blue Thunder is a modern marvel and cleaned well beyond surface dirt.  It found particles of dirt which I'm pretty sure weren't left by us.  It appeared that the last few filters held old ancient Anasazi toe jam left at the site of my house some time shortly before Hugh Hefner was born.  This is the raw power of this little blue drum of steel.

Believe it or not though, the supernatural cleaning power of the Blue Thunder was not the real shocker.  Mike spent the next 15 minutes preparing us for the retail value of his product.  You know the drill, he began quoting prices of comparable products such as Gulf Stream IV's and mega-yachts (Blue Thunder is both capable of flying and cruising the high seas).  Mike finally revealed the price silently via paper.  This vacuum was roughly the cost of a new home.  Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit.  It was roughly the cost of a used home.  In the distance I could hear my bank account shriek before closing shop faster than a sphincter at the proctologist.

Although this was technically still a product demonstration for the purpose of market research, Mike spent the next 45 minutes trying to get us to buy one.  He even went as far as to cut the price in half after we employed the hardball negotiation tactic of, "we don't have that kind of money."  Even after the "discount" my wife and I would have rather taken on ownership of the national debt than commit financial suicide by making this purchase.

As for the prizes, Mike was seemingly legally obligated to hand us the certificates on his way out.  Upon scrutiny, the $500 shopping spree was for esteemed products (such as an inflatable patio table) worth no more than $0.47 and a buyer-covered shipping cost per item of on average $10.  So essentially, in order to claim $500 worth of products, I'd have to spend $750 in shipping for items that were worth in aggregate $20.  The trip prize was okay.  It boiled down to two free nights at a hotel - we're still unsure whether that requires our presence at a timeshare meeting.

With the price of the Blue Thunder, one sold vacuum alone could cover roughly (let's see, move the decimal over, carry the one, forget the remainder) . . . 347 trips and a number too large to actually fit within this post of shopping sprees of "quality" products.  So continuing the mathematical problem solving above, with four sales at retail price, the Blue Thunder vacuum company would make the gross earnings of the entire Fortune 100 combined look like those of an 8 year-old's lemonade stand in the middle of winter.

The moral of the story, besides me having the marketing savvy of a macaroon?  Don't do market research, it will just end up crushing your false sense of cleanliness and dig up ghosts of your past - literally.  Besides, my wife is pressuring me to buy this amazing product and once we do, I won't have enough money to cover the shipping on the amazing ultra-utility Flashlight/Compass/Water Pick/HD Sunglasses product.  At least I'll have someone to throw the Frisbee for my dog while I'm at work.  Let's see if I can get a Blue Max for less than the GDP of the Dominican Republic.

Jet Blue-Balled

Steven Slater sure knows how to make an exit.  The 38 year-old (ex)flight attendant stuck it to the man in a fashion suitable for the big-screen.  Slater quit his job in a sequence of events that would make a Judd Apatow screenplay turn tricks for a typewriter just to get this scene down on paper.  

What did he do?  If you haven't heard this popular news story already, you either spent the last 72 hours in the "hole" at the local "Super Max," or you're like me and have the short-term memory of rock salt.    

On a Jet Blue flight from Pittsburgh to New York on Monday, Slater got into a little tiff with a female passenger who apparently told him to go pleasure himself in so many words.  In return, our bashful flight attendant went to the PA system and publicly returned the favor.  He proceeded to grab a couple beers from the beverage cart - well that kills the insanity argument, he's obviously thinking clearly - and then deployed the airplane's emergency slide for a quick getaway.  Passengers could hear a fading "Yippee Ki-Yay M***** F***ers!" as Slater slid into the sunset.   

This guy emits more drama than Broadway.  He's going to need it too if he's to beat the rap in court.  Needless to say, he's been "Blue-Balled" by Jet Blue - their term, not mine . . . maybe.   

Quite frankly, I'm surprised a complete meltdown from a flight attendant hasn't happened sooner.  They should be given medals for surviving a certain amount of time with Joe Public - say every 5 minutes.  This isn't just normal public either; it's the dreaded "Traveling Public."  You know, the folks who wouldn't think twice about "shanking" a fellow traveler if they thought it would get them to their gate 5 seconds earlier.  

I can't even make it 3 minutes at the grocery store without feeling like I need to stick my head into the deli section's chicken rotisserie (roast until golden-brown), let alone deal with Satan incarnate - aka "Travelers."  For the good of society, and my non-roasted melon, I should really just stay at home.   

If I ran an airliner, my employee recognition program for flight attendants and crew would be similar to that to Alcoholics Anonymous.  The annual awards banquet might go something like this:

President of Airline (me, of course):  "Ladies and male flight attendants of Wingless Air ("We Fly In Straight Lines"), we've given out our prestigious tokens to those of you that have hit the one-minute, ten-minute, and thirty-minute periods of maintaining a fake smile.  Congratulations to the four of you.  And now it's time to give out the most coveted prize of the year.  The benchmark and goal of our customer service mission statement . . . the ROUND TRIPPER Token!"

[Mass applause and rambunctious cheers from 401K invested employees and spouses or significant others in attendance]

PoA:  "We actually have a winner this year!"

[More of the same from audience unable to contain their excitement]

PoA:  "For resisting the urge to perform unnecessary tracheostomies on passengers with a plastic spork, for an entire round trip flight between Houston and Austin, our winner this year is . . . (. . . . . drumroll . . . . . ) . . . Sandy B. Hines!  Come on up Sandy and tell us how you did it."

[In their elevated height of excitement, the crowd begins throwing chairs and removing various articles of clothing in their frenzied scramble to get closer to the stage]

Sandy B. Hines:  "Well, oh my gosh, I'm so excited.  I can't believe I really actually won.  How did I do it?  Well, my secret is to take one minute and one passenger at a time.  That, and totally legal prescription medications.  Lots of them . . . together . . . and all throughout the day."

Now, let's slowly back away from my little fantasy and recap this post (aka "Two minutes you'll never get back").  Steven Slater may be out of a job, but the good news is he's gotten his 15 minutes of fame and is almost guaranteed a book deal and/or reality show.  Also, for those of you looking for a job that offers career advancement via slide, I hear Jet Blue has an opening.

If you need me, I'll be in the basement watching Judd Apatow movies.  There seems to be less Public down there.  

Coronal Mass Ejection

I don't want to alarm any of you out there, but according to this story, a massive solar flare - dubbed "cosmic tsunami" - which may or may not have marked the end of times last night and/or in the next five minutes, is heading directly towards Earth, if not already here.

The Sun's surface erupted early Sunday morning, shooting a wall of ionized atoms directly at Earth, scientists say.  "This eruption is directed right at us and is expected to get here early in the day on Aug. 4," said Leon Golub of the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics.

The article continues to describe these eruptions as "coronal mass ejections," which sounds suspiciously like what happens after a long night of drinking cervezas at Senor Frogs - also known as a good time.  So what does this mean for us exactly?

When a coronal mass ejection reaches Earth, solar particles stream down our planet's magnetic field lines toward the poles. In the process, the particles collide with atoms of nitrogen and oxygen in the Earth's atmosphere, which then glow, creating an effect similar to miniature neon signs.

Numerous reports have been received that solar particles have already affected liquor stores and "man-caves" across the country.

As for the solar eruption's arrival, if the Sun's transportation industry is anything like ours, the flares should arrive several hours late, hungry (their ticket price did not include a meal), and with a full bladder.  Citizens are urged to avoid airport bars and public restrooms - this PSA has absolutely nothing to do with the solar flares.

Speaking of airlines, pilots and passengers may be at the most risk for exposure to radiation, described in this report as "levels akin to getting an X-ray."  So, if you are fortunate enough to be flying today, it is highly recommended that you call your dentist immediately upon arrival and schedule a regular appointment, so that he/she can examine your glowing roots from the convenience of their office while you're still in the parking lot - and you can avoid the expense of losing your lunch due to gag reflex when the dental assistant jams those lunchbox-sized film holders into the back of your mouth, roughly 3 inches from your large intestine.  Getting X-rayed at the dentist is about as much fun as trying to fit Shaq's fist in your mouth, but with a little more discomfort.

Dental Assistant:  "Okay, just a few more pictures of your molars now.  I'm just going to use this ski pole to push the film back in place.  [prod][poke][jam]  There.  How's that?"

You:  "Aglglgllglagll." [drool]

Dental Assistant:  Good.  Don't move . . .
     
NASA scientists are also concerned about the negative effects of these electric pulses on our country's electricity grids.  They fear our electricity infrastructure could be crippled for years.  Upon hearing this warning, the House of Representatives, in a rare show of bipartisanship, leapt into action and passed a 750 trillion dollar "emergency" bill to cover our power stations in microwaveable plastic wrap.  The 50,000 page bill has been named the "Tsunamic-sized And Robust Pillaging" program or "TARP III" aka "Return of the TARP," which has many returning actors from the first two installments.  

No reports of outages have been received yet from cities across the nation, but Detroit seems to be especially quiet on the matter, which is believed to be due to the absence of - for lack of a better term - infrastructure.  Also, the cordless bulldozers leveling the city are assumed to be a modified version of the battery-operated Chevy Volt, whose 40-mile range has been deemed "more than enough" and "of no concern" by union officials if such a power failure is to occur.  Although cheaper to produce than a Chevy Volt, traditional bulldozers were scrapped last month because of their rumored "efficiency" in moving things.  This problem is not anticipated with the $41,000 Volt.    
Authorities are asking anyone who experiences power outages, radiation poisoning, or a tan - quote "darker than George Hamilton" - to report it immediately to Congress so that they can cast you in TARP IV - Jason Vs. Freddy.  

On a final note, if you need me I'll be at the bar and/or the polls for some much needed coronal mass ejection.

Pre-Game Coverage

Well gang, another new sports season is almost upon us.  Can you smell it in the air?  It's the smell of blood, that special ingredient missing from baseball that keeps it a sport only worth watching on a hot, lazy summer afternoon as you doze off on the couch.  Blood is definitely not missing from this fall sport.  No it's ruthlessly splashed by the fried chicken bucket loads - along with vulgar insults, dirty tricks, below-the-belt attacks, broken bones, and fingers to the eyes and other exposed orifices.   

That's right, the 2010 midterm elections are almost here.  

The political season brings out individuals more bloodthirsty than a vegan vampire.  Speaking of vampires, this one-day event is preceded by 90 days of non-stop coverage by the media (Slogan: "We can make a turnip seem like breaking news."), where one can gain invaluable insight into ongoing debates on important issues such as immigration reform, renewable energy sources, and what Sarah Palin will be wearing.  

More importantly, through reasoned and civil discussion, but mostly anonymous TV ads, we'll learn who to blame for our problems.  From the oil spill in the gulf, to the state of the economy, to Justin Bieber's fame.  Nothing will be kept secret. 

So dear readers, we have a civic duty to tune into the cable news networks and stare at our television screens and monitors until we are fully informed on the issues and/or our IQ has dropped to that of a cast member of the Jersey Shore.  One unnamed political party is actually rooting for the latter - you know, new voters.    

Listen up folks, this is our big chance to vote out those old, corrupt, morally bankrupt, elitist blowhards and replace them with young, more energetic corrupt, morally bankrupt, elitist blowhards.  If our country is going to be run by people who exercise the common sense of an olive (I would have compared them to my dog Gunner, but that'd be unfair - even he knows when his food bowl is empty), then it's going to be MY picks taking office.    

The conclusion of the midterm elections in November also kicks-off the highly anticipated "700 days of even more grotesque coverage", i.e. the 2012 Presidential race, where you and I will play an integral part in who becomes the next "Most Hated American!"  It's like So You Think You Can Dance, but with an age minimum of 50, an Ivy League prerequisite, and contestants are dancing around issues, not the floor.  No word yet from Simon Cowell's people on whether he'll moderate televised debates.   

"That was a terrible idea, I mean just awful.  My advice would be if you want to pursue a career in politics, don't."  

Speaking of debates, one of topics that will undoubtedly dominate the midterms will be the high unemployment rate, or as a politician will never put it, "a deficit in jobs."  However, there's some good news out there according to a news story by Ellen Wulfhorst (loose translation:  Horse Dog) titled North Dakota, Alaska Lead U.S. Job Creation, Study Says. 

A study I'm sure any incumbent with the common sense of an olive will be quick to point out and try to take credit for - possibly even the politicians from these two states.  The article details that North Dakota and Alaska have added the most jobs in the last five years at a combined 31,400, which is oddly close to their combined populations.  

So, if you're looking for work, why not pack up your family and give one of these two foreign lands a try?  Here's a brief profile of each state to further entice you:

North Dakota

State Motto:  "If you want to kill yourself out of boredom on the drive out here, you're halfway there!" and "No, we're not the one with Mount Rushmore."

Home of the:  "Fleischkuekle" - a deep fried entree of fleisch covered in dough.

State Mascot:  "Pavey" the desolate highway.

Alaska

State Motto:  "Making Canadians look tan since 1867!" and "[sound of chattering teeth]"

Home of the:  Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race and the universally renowned Alaska Hummingbird Festival

State Mascot:  "Steven Seagal" for reminding the "lower states" that Alaska still existed in his 1994 film On Deadly Ground, which took place and was filmed within the state (rumors abound that Mr. Seagal's ponytail died of frostbite during filming and has been replaced by hair extensions ever since).

As you can see, the stakes are high.  We hold our very destinies with our votes and it's crucial we make the right decisions.  Lest we be forced to move to North Dakota and drown our country's sorrows with martinis - hold the olives.

The Granny Panty Bandit

I'm sure you've all grown tired of the coverage of the "Barefoot Bandit."  You know, that teenager from Washington with freakishly oversized feet.  Judging by the chalk outlines he left behind in many of his Bahamian robberies, I'd guesstimate those ground-pounders to be about 30 inches long, or roughly what you'd expect from the love child of King-Kong and Big Foot, which is totally plausible considering we all know that Big Foot resides in the mountains of Washington and that the Washington coastline is closest to Skull Island - birthplace of King-Kong.  It was really only a matter of time before those two monkeys engaged in an elaborate mating ritual involving the climbing of tall buildings and scaring intoxicated, toothless hunters.

Where was I?  Oh yes, of course - the Barefoot Bandit.  Clearly this was a case of a child drowning in the Lake Huron sized shadow of his follicly-saturated parents.  Cast in this light, it's no wonder he both hid from and egged-on the authorities, doing his best to garner a larger following of Facebook friends than the P-units.

This story is over and we are definitely moving on, but what we may have not seen coming is the inspirational effect this lad's toe jam has had on other criminals in the underground bandit world.

In the spirit of Jesse James (not the tattoo gunslinging one), I present you the first awesome copy cat of the Barefoot Bandit - and I'm not making this up - the "Granny Panty Bandit."

At 3 AM last Tuesday morning, a 51 year-old woman robbed a McDonalds in Oklahoma wearing a "white stretch girdle" around her face as a mask.  Don't believe me?  Here's a link to the story and a picture (disclaimer: any damage to property or bodily harm caused by violent convulsions and/or spitting of liquids brought on by this image is purely on purpose and you can thank me later).          

Now, anyone who's ever seen an episode of Cops - or lives in certain parts of Florida - knows that white stretch girdles are actually granny panties (not that there's anything wrong with that), hence the name.

It's been rumored (by me) that this robber stated, "stick'em up, or I'll put these things on" during the attempt.  Money was exchanged faster than an octogenarian can say, "Bingo!"

The list of unorthodox bandits doesn't end here.  The next on the list - and again, I am NOT making this up - is the "Bouquet Bandit."  From the article at Reuters:

Dubbed the "bouquet bandit" by local news media, Pemberton is accused of pulling out a note demanding money -- first from under a potted plant and then from inside a bouquet of flowers -- and handing it to the bank tellers.

This bandit tried gold jewelry on his first attempts, but quickly found out the banks were getting the better deal.   He then tried boxes of chocolate, but had a hard time making the exchange with female tellers who were on diets, which naturally led him to employ flowers.

Ladies and gentlemen of the internet jury, I give you Evidence C:

The Force was with a man when he robbed a bank wearing a Darth Vader mask and a cape.

Armed with a gun instead of a light saber, the man entered a Chase bank branch in Setauket, New York, about 50 miles east of New York City, on Thursday and demanded cash from a teller, police said.

This particular bandit has been branded - you guessed it - the "This Is No Halloween Costume It's A Lifestyle 40 Year-old Virgin Living With Mom Bandit."  There's no proof, but this writer would bet a dozen still-in-their-original-packages Princess Leia figurines that this guy's only friend Skip was waiting in an '83 Honda hatchback in full Storm Trooper gear.

Next up for public adoration?  The "Trout Shin Guard Bandit." I may or may not have court recognized proof of the actual existence of this criminal (I'm sure it's only a matter of time).  Inspired by the recent conclusion of the World Cup and for his love of fishing, this bandit affixed fresh rainbow trout to his shins in the hopes of thwarting any attempts at slide-tackling him during his getaway.  Estimated Facebook fans: 1,438,330.

Gee, this horrible economy is getting terribly entertaining.  It's a good thing we have so many heroes to cheer on.

Maniac Drivers

If you’re like me and have an attention span greater than a standard keyboard, you also have probably noticed that there are a lot of bad drivers out there.  Luckily for us, I’m a trained journalist and have done some research.  By trained I mean I’ve become proficient with Google search. 

There are three kinds of drivers in this world: 1.) Drivers who go too fast, 2.) drivers who go too slow, and 3.) drivers who are completely insane, devoid of any rationality, and probably on the juice (anabolic and/or apple).  

You and I both know that we are always going the perfect speed for any given situation and we’re never the “jerk” out there.  So, this leaves us with only two possibilities for those who cut us off without using a turn signal, swerve across four lanes of highway to make an exit, or tailgate us doing 80 only to violently peel out from behind our car, drive beside us and flip us a spiny, calcium carbonate covered arm.

This culprit could possibly be someone from Green Peace, but they drive solar-powered vehicles made from hollowed-out trees incapable of going faster than a slug, so that leaves us with only one conceivable option – a Starfish.

You see, these oceanic creatures are not like you and me.  When we drive we generally recognize the existence of traffic law.  Oh sure, we don’t always adhere to the less significant laws such as stopping for red lights, but overall we’re courteous to one another.  Not the starfish.  The starfish’s sole purpose in life is to lie on the ocean floor and wait to be eaten and/or bullied by much stronger species – like the sea cucumber. 

So, it comes as no surprise that when washed up on the beach, these five-armed bandits jump at the opportunity for some action.  With a pocket full of sand dollars, they hot-wire the nearest car and set out in search of the closest casino to be reunited with their distant, four-times removed, cousin – the one-armed bandit.  It’s not all fun and games.  If the starfish fails to find a casino that comps drinks, they dry-out and die – hence the urgency and suicidal speed on the road.  The starfish’s favorite drink is a gin and tonic.           

Oh sure they look cute nestled in a tide pool, but get them behind the wheel of an F-350 and it's a totally different story.  Take it from me, twisted metal and dismembered crustaceans is not a pretty sight.  So when you see one of these drivers out there, lock up your lobsters and get to a safe place - such as your local aquarium - immediately.  

Why an aquarium?  I feel silly explaining this, because it seems so obvious.  Aquariums are correctional facilities for all sea-faring criminals and the last place any self-respecting Echinoderm would want to be.   

"But Cynicus, what if my town doesn't have an aquarium?"  

A town without an aquarium is a lawless outpost where a lemon shark named Sparky calls all the shots.  In this place, the Sushi holds the knives and the chef’s special is Turf and Turf.  In other words, not a place you want to call home. 

Be safe out there friends.  You never know when you’ll get in between a starfish and his favorite gaming destination.

Some of you may be wondering about other dangerous distractions with drivers.  A recent Pew research study found that nine in ten 34-45 year-olds drive and talk on their cell phones at the same time – very unnerving indeed.

My response to the survey is two-fold.  First, wow, I didn’t know starfish lived that long and, secondly, how do they get their appendages to dial such tiny keys?

Ho Ho Ho, Green Giant

While strolling about the backyard for an early morning walkabout (sometimes I wake up in the same place I went to sleep and it disturbs me, so I just need to get out of the house to clear my head), something caught my eye in the corner of the yard.  Actually, "caught my eye" is probably the wrong phrase.  "Blocked the rising sun" is more accurate.

"Holy Mother of Papa Smurf! What in Heidi Montag's name is that?"

"That wasn't here last night," I thought.

Here's what I saw:

Notice the one gallon gasoline container I put beside the growth, so that you too could fully appreciate the sheer enormity of this beast.  I pragmatically chose the gas just in case I need to quickly douse and burn this bad boy if it ever threatens to overtake my house.  I could have used a plastic toy soldier to exaggerate its height, but I'm not one to employ the deceitful trick of exaggeration.

Now, I'm no botanist, but I know a stalk of sweet corn when I see one.  It's either that or a Redwood.  It can't be anything else, because I Googled both "massively tall sequoia" and "tall skinny vegetable stalk grown in the Midwest" and only could connect this life-form growing in my backyard with these two species and an SUV the size of Pittsburgh.  I do remember hearing something about Redwoods only growing on the West Coast, but then again we have had a lot rain this season.  I mean, if a large animal like the Ostrich can fly, anything is possible.

Some other possibilities were found, but drawing any correlations would be stretching it.  A true scientist never stretches, with exception to picking up a dropped beaker.  A true scientist also never eats a large meal prior to swimming.

While taking this majestic sight in, my dog Gunner trotted over and peed on it, so it must be a good thing.  He only pees on objects valuable to my family, like our raspberry bushes, the sofa, or his sister Piper.  Rest assured, if this was some kind of Amazonian Yard Weed he would have steered clear.  God knows if it were broccoli he would've eaten it.

To determine the real value of my Sweet Redwood Corn Tree I looked up the records for height on both corn and Redwoods.  The record for corn is 16 ft. according to Guinness.  The tallest Redwood on record is 379 ft.

I'm going for it.  Here's my logic.  The corn record is going to be cake.  In a mere twelve hours my prized crop grew 3 and a half feet.  That's 42 green inches total, or 7 feet per day for you math aficionados out there (What's that on your shirt? Ah ha! Made you look Urkel!).  According to Texas Instruments this little big guy will surpass the Redwood record in approximately 54 days.  

So in a couple months, I'm having the neighborhood over and I'm lighting this sucker up for a celebration that will make Burning Man look like a bunch of kids hovered around an Easy-Bake Oven.  You bring the movie and I'll provide the popcorn.