Why do some people talk on the phone when they’re walking/jogging at Memorial Park? Can they not go 30 minutes without their cell phone? The jogging trail seems like the one place you should be able to go without hearing cell phones and people’s annoying chatter. What can I do to solve this annoyance?
– Eric W., Houston

There are a few options at your disposal, Eric. But before we get to those, let’s think about why people make calls from the jogging trail. You know, run a mile in their Nikes. People who talk on the phone while hoofing it down the trail are in desperate need of recognition of their efforts. It’s not enough to be one of the nameless and sweaty going around the track. No, they need the “good for you” of talking to one of their friends who’s NOT exercising. Preferably one who’s sitting in a bar or at Chili’s. Or, better, at the bar at Chili’s. The fastest way to get one of these goobers off the phone is for them to call someone who’s in the middle of a higher cardio burn than they are – at that very moment. Perhaps someone who’s cross-country skiing with a Volkswagen strapped to their back while lifting weights and focusing on the core muscles. Sadly you can’t arrange for that, but there are other things you can do.

– You could strap a bullhorn to your waist and blow it at the jogging jackass as you pass each other. Trouble is, you’ll become more bothersome than the cellphone talker is, and I don’t think that’s your goal.

– An almost noiseless option would be to casually put your foot out as the distracted runner goes by, tripping them up and sending the phone flying. The problem with this one, besides the obvious threat of injury to both of you, is that you’d have to be really nimble to pull it off. Jog, jog, foot out, foot back, jog, all without missing a beat. And then you’d need to run really fast to get away.

– A different approach would be to hand the offender one of these. The issue with this option is you’d have to carry a pad and pen with you, which might require a fanny pack. Fanny packs are almost as annoying as people chattering into cellphones.

I think you should handle this issue by behaving the way that I do when I see someone driving a Hummer. Point and laugh. People respond to humiliation much more than they do a roll of the eyes or a flip of the bird. If enough people point and laugh at dumbasses with cellphones on the jogging trail (and other places where phones are really ridiculous – the restroom, the movies, in bed), those cellphones will dwindle in number. They won’t go away completely, of course, because some people have to talk all the freaking time. But a couple of phone conversations during your evening jog instead of a couple hundred is what I’d consider an improvement. Break a leg. I mean, good luck.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Who should have control of what we watch on TV at home – my roommate, whose TV it is, or me since I own the house?

Assuming your roommate is paying rent and thus contributing money toward your mortgage payments, he/she retains control of the TV. You’re getting a long-term payoff with those rent payments while your roommate is only getting an immediate need fulfilled. Yes, shelter is important – one of the big three – but the payment of rent puts your house partner on more equal footing with you. In other words, you don’t get to lord around the house in an open robe and a Speedo taking control of your roommate’s stuff as you wish.

If your roommate isn’t paying rent, then you must be talking about your spouse or your mother. Either way, the remote stays in their hands and out of yours.

How many unpaid parking tickets can one rack up before getting a boot on one’s car or having said vehicle towed?

According to the City of Houston’s website, your ride can get the boot after three or more citations are past due (over 104 days). Getting your booted car freed can cost nearly $500 (including a $50 “notification fee” in case you’re too much of a dumbass to realize what the big yellow thing attached to your wheel is), so it would be worth it to pay your tickets on time.

Is there any other mechanism, besides years of shitty government, to get folks to realize that voting is actually important?

Most Americans are non-plussed by the typical pool of elected officials we have to choose from and are therefore not that interested in voting. With so many candidates who are variations on the same theme, we often talk about having to choose the lesser of two (or more) evils. It pisses us off, and it makes us not that excited about voting.

At least there are some interesting options for the upcoming Presidential election. We have more to choose from than the typical old white guys. Maybe that will make a difference. Maybe that will be the start of a new trend, where candidates start looking like the people who live in the place they claim to represent. Or maybe people will just concern themselves with American Idol and consider that their civic duty.

If only we could get Kelly Clarkson to run for office…

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]

Ok, why does Mr. Whipple ask me not to squeeze the Charmin, yet he does it himself? Whipplecrites! They really irk me!
– Connelly Wirth, Houston

First of all, for anyone born after 1980 or so, here’s a link. You will note that once upon a time there was a pencil-thin mustachioed man whose sole purpose at work (we shudder to think about what he was like at home) was to keep women from squeezing the toilet paper. The catch was – the four-pack of rolls was so irresistible, poor Mr. Whipple couldn’t help but squeeze the exact toilet paper he was trying to protect. You can see the pain on his face as he grabs hold and works his hands. He wants to stop, but he can’t. So he focuses his frustrations on the people who so blatantly flaunt their squeezing – right out there in public, next to the Spam and the Rice-a-Roni and the Cheerios.

Though no longer gracing our TV, Mr. Whipple could very well be the mascot for many of our “I resign, wait, no I don’t” members of Congress. They, too, try to regulate that which secretly calls their name. They tell people that they can’t have sex with or marry someone of the same gender, while they are sneaking off to airport bathrooms in hopes of catching someone’s, uh, eye or are sending seriously unsexy text messages to all the young dudes. Under their expensive suits and starched shirts, these poor fools are bubbling cauldrons of desire, wanting so desperately to squeeze the charmin of the guy next to them. But they can’t.

Because they rose to power on a platform of finger-pointing and eeewwww-grossing, they can’t exactly let their secret out. So they attack those who have what they want. You know, the guys in the matching pink polos who are holding hands next to the Spam and the Rice-a-Roni and the Cheerios. In public, Mr. Congressman is condemning Adam and Steve for their lifestyle. In private, Mr. Congressman is nervously following them into the bathroom.

Poor Mr. Whipple and poor Mr. Congressman. If only they’d grown up in more tolerant environments. Perhaps if they’d been allowed to pick out their own toilet paper and squeeze it in the way they most wanted to, perhaps then they would be satisfied to pay attention to their own sex lives and leave everyone else’s alone.

So, Connelly, do not be irked by the Whipplecrite. Hope that he comes on out of that closet and squeezes his charmin however he likes. As long as he doesn’t squeeze it vertically – that’s just wrong.

[This column originally appeared in its entirety on Houstonist.]