The UK Takes Health Care Seriously

Sorry I've been slacking lately - I've been busier than usual. However, I have come across the linked article, one that gives me hope that the US might follow the British example in taking health care more seriously - they have a new chairman for regulating alternative medicine.

I think that his commitment to his job speaks for itself:

But the witch doctor stressed the therapists would be judged not on the effectiveness of their treatments but on the strength of their mogambo.

Limba said: "There are many frauds and not everyone has as strong a connection to the serpent god Demballa as they like to make out.

Truly, an inspiration to us all.

Ethnography of the Assless Chaps

This is another one that I wrote for skepchick.com back when it was an on-line magazine. Again, I have asked them multiple times if they’d mind me putting it up on my own blog, and received no response (to be fair, they’re pretty damn busy over there, so I don’t take it personally). So, on the off-chance that the good folks over there read this and object to me re-posting it, I’ll talk with them about it later. But I wrote it, I’m proud of it, and I’d like to display it. So, there ya’ go.

Some time back, a friend of mine, who shall be known here as “Lunsy,” told me about the home of the Assless Chaps.

Many of us are familiar with the leather pants that have had the posterior removed thanks to the wonderful consciousness-raising work done by such social activists as the Village People and Prince (AKA weird symbol-guy). What few people know, however, is the remarkable story of the people who make this garment.

Lunsy, in her tireless work as a procurer of leather products for the good people of Kansas, discovered that these leggings were produced primarily in a small village in the Florida everglades. Lunsy knew little of the place except that few people traveled there and that all companies producing knock-off chaps were put out of business through a little-known, but tough patent law from the early days of the American republic. She went onto explain that the execution of said law often resulted in public floggings and defenestration of the CEO’s and head garment designers of the companies that attempted to make fake chaps. Other than their potentially litigious nature, however, little was known of these people.

Upholding my duty as an anthropologist, I mounted my Schwinn, put it into 10th gear, and headed east.

A few weeks later I found myself in the Everglades. I knew I was near the village as the leather trees all around me were bearing fruit, and each sheet of leather had a strange hole grown into the middle of it. Finding that my trusted Schwinn was of little use in the swamp, I dismounted and continued on foot, pausing occasionally to empty the mud and leeches from by boots.

After several hours of trudging through fetid water and attempting to surf on top of alligators (they were not cooperative), I began to hear human voices. I followed the sound of the voices, and found myself peering through a patch of tall grass at the village of the Assless Chaps.

It became immediately apparent why they were known as the Assless Chaps and not simply the “Assless People.” The women of the village appeared perfectly normal, and indeed many would not have appeared out of place in a painting by the master artist Rueben or in the “Baby Got Back” video. The men, however, all had such astoundingly under-developed gleuteals that while they had their belts tight, they still routinely had to reach behind themselves to pull their pants up. Indeed, it was only the chaps who lacked asses.

I was soon spotted, and given the well-developed and sexily sculpted backside that my keyboard exercises and steady diet of apple fritters has given me, I could not blend in and hide as Malanowski so successfully did in the Pacific islands.

At first the villagers gathered around, as if uncertain whether to send me packing or place me in their primitive crock-pots (indeed, they clearly had been buying the Ronco telephone-order versions, so primitive were they that they lacked a local K-Mart). Eventually, a man dressed in a loose-waisted Armani suit came forward and introduced himself to me as “Bob.” Bob served this village in a capacity known as “the mayor.” Bob took me to his home, and as his wife proceeded to stew up lemonade in their crock pot, we sat on amazingly well-cushioned chairs while he told me of the history of his people.

The ancestors of the assless chaps were once scattered throughout Europe and had mingled with the general population. So long as the common items of clothing were tunics, kilts, togas and the like, these people did not stick out in any significant way.

However, with the fall of the Roman Empire and the coming of the panted hordes of northern Europe, the fortune of those who lacked backside development began to change. Those who were unable to keep their pants up without considerable effort found themselves ostracized, often running afoul of the decency and sumptuary laws of the new European order. Although the women rarely showed the lack of backside that the men did, it was known that it ran in families, and so women who had kinsfolk without proper cushioning would find themselves unable to find husbands.

The people who had this genetic anomaly found themselves segregated into communities that were usually downstream of leper colonies and technology salesmen conventions. It was a miserable existence, with fear and superstition forcing further ostracism. Indeed, every year on All Hallows Eve, it was common for storytellers and village elders to warn children that if they misbehaved, the “flat-backers” would come to “steal your bum, and wear it about, and eventually wear it out!”

It was at this point that Bob had to wipe tears from his eyes as he spoke of this tumultuous part of his people’s history. A few moments later, Bob’s wife brought us mugs of warm freshly-brewed lemonade, and he continued his story.

The Assless Chaps had tried settling in Scotland, where the local custom of wearing kilts could hide their physical differences. However, their unwillingness to eat rocks and violate sheep led to their eventually expulsion from the islands.

Eventually, a group of the Assless Chaps found themselves on a Spanish boat sailing to New World. They settled far away from the Spanish mission, and learned that the local population did not mind having them around as their constant drooping-drawer appearance provided the natives with much amusement. Even when the Spanish colonies failed, the Assless Peoples found their community thriving as the primary purveyors of slapstick comedy to all neighboring peoples.

Over the year, occasionally an errant son or daughter would leave the Assless colony to seek their fortune in the broader world. The two best known of whom are Twiggy and Fiona Apple, two of the rare women to show the outward signs of belonging to the Assless community.

However, the real change in fortune for these people came with the development of the motorcycle. For decades, the men of this community had been wearing leather workpants that had the backside cut-out in order to reduce the weight and make it easier to keep the pants up. After all, why waste material and add weight to provide protection to a non-existent body part? With the invention of the motorcycle, outsiders began to see some use in the traditional Assless work-pant as a piece of safety equipment and fashion accessory.

A second market appeared in the mid-60’s as musicians began to adopt the distinctive pants in an effort to appeal to such markets as bikers and interior decorators. Ever since, the fortunes of the Assless Chaps have been increasing.

Today, the community is vibrant and alive with a culture free of fart jokes and filled with a rustic joy. While the bacteria counts on their sofas and kitchen chairs may be higher than one might be comfortable with, these people are nonetheless a beautiful and exciting community.

As I walked back through the swamps, I had a new appreciation for these people. So what if they lack butts and a K-Mart. They made up for it in a rich culture and leather sales.

Now if I can just keep the leeches out of my boots.

Wisdom Of the Ages

I stepped into the local bakery while on my lunch break, and stood next to a booth in which a group of people were discussing the current banking/real estate crisis. I should point out that I was standing in line, and the line went by the booth. No, I'm not that creepy guy who walks into eateries and looms over booths uninvited, no matter how much I may look like the picture on the wall at the post office.

But I digress.

I was in line next to a booth which held an elderly couple (the male half of which was wearing a baseball cap with the word "GRANDPA" emblazoned across the front), and a young couple. From what I could gather, the male half of the young couple worked in finance in some capacity or another.

The young fellow was discussing the current banking/real estate problems, and the conversation went like so:

Young Turk: "Japan had a similar problem back in the 90's. The government refused to allow the banks to fail, but they may have done more harm than..."

Old feller: "The Japanese make fine cars. Those Toyotas and Hondas. Fine Cars."

Young Turk: "Umm, yeah...well, anyway, the Japanese government may have set up a precedent by which the banks have become reliant for bail-outs, and this may have changed the practices of the banks. You see..."

Old Feller: "Japan also has a high suicide rate."

At this point, I moved up in line and didn't hear the rest.

But I will say this - when I get to that guy's age, I want to be the odd old codger who stops conversations about finance to talk about cars and suicide rates.

The Sacred Mountain

So, I have been sent to Lancaster to perform archaeological survey surrounding access roads for some power lines that Southern California Edison wants to upgrade. Lancaster, as you may know, is in the California Desert, and is surrounded by mountains. The mountains to the north contain uranium, and, in point of fact, the town to the north is notorious for Cancer clusters as a result. The mountains to the south contain quartz and rhyolite and, as a result, are not carcinogenic.

Well, I was walking along the road, up one of these wondrous non-carcinogenic mountains, listening to the field tech on the other side of the road prattle on about all things purple (no, I don't understand her fixation with purple, either), when I heard a voice coming from a scrub oak next to me. It said "Ouch"

"Pardon," I asked the scrub oak, "did you say ouch?"

"Yes." The plant's answer was decisive.

"Why?"

"Because you stepped on my foot!"

I looked down to see that my rather large foot, encased in a rather large boot, was stepping on a human foot clad only in a ratty, old pair of Birkenstocks. Yep, I had found a mountain hermit.

I seperated the branches of the scrub oak to get a look at the hermit's facial hair. The facial hair of mountain hermits is distinctive to each species, and if I was going to report this to the biologist, I would first have to determine whether this was an endangered species or not. Poking my head in, I could see the long hair at the chin, surrounded by somewhat shorter hair, typical of the former goatee of the Western Post-Yuppie Pseudo-Hippie (scientific designation Homo sapien obnoxious), an invasive species that competes with habitat and displaces the native Californian burned out hippie hermit.

"Sorry about that," I said as I pulled my foot off of his. I guessed that the wildlife biologist would have to put out some bait and capture this one in order to ship it off to either Los Angeles or New York, depending on where its plumage indicated that its source of origin was.

"So?" The hermit looked at me expectantly.

"So?" I replied, with my usual wittiness and panache.

"Why are you here?" He asked, looking a bit annoyed.

"Me? Oh, I'm an archaeologist. I'm doing surveys for the utilities company."

"No, that is why you think you're here, but you are really here to learn something. Something profound." He looked very pleased with himself.

"Uhh, no, I'm here to do archaeological surveys. Here's my business card, you see that it says 'archaeologist' on it? Well, that's me, the archaeologist."

"But are you not also a seeker of wisdom?"

"Not when last I checked." I said, adjusting my backpack to better reach my tazer should the need arise.

"Have you not come to this place, the sacred mountain, to find a master whose teachings you can follow?"

"No. I'm just here for work."

"Have you not come so that I can impart my wisdom to you?" He seemed to be almost pleading. I felt sorry for the guy, and could see that letting him down would break his heart. Of course, being the way I am, that didn't stop me.

"No." I answered. I had puled out my cellphone and was scrolling for the wildlife biologist's phone number.

"Can't I impart just a little wisdom to you?"

"I'm really not in the market."

"How about your friend?" He indicated the field tech.

"Oh, I don't think she can handle any more wisdom. She just finished reading 'The Secret', you see."

"Oh." He looked disheartened.

"Well, I'd better go now, we're behind schedule and need to make up time." I lied, of course.

"Well, may the road you go down..."

"No." I said, holding my hand up, "No wisdom, no sayings, no parables, and no homilies."

He then slipped back into the vegetation, and I could actually hear him slump as he vanished from my sight. I hit the "call" button.

"Hey, it's Armstrong, the archaeologist. Yeah, we've got another of the hermits up here. No, no, this one's non-native. Yeah? Gas now? Well, whatever you think is best. I'll text the UTM coordinates over to you."

I checked my GPS, fed the coordinates into the text message, flipped the phone closed, and walked away.