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Did you ever notice that we’re surrounded by information but hardly ever come across an idea in the media that might help us lead sane and happy lives? Oh, not the usual self-help drivel about how to lose weight or enjoy sex, but answers to the really big questions, like what to think about when you wake up in the morning and how to drink water out of a plastic bottle without burping.

Try this experiment. Next time you go up to your favorite newsstand, scan all the overwrought front pages and smiley cover stories and try to find at least one suggestion that addresses the biggest questions your have about life. We’re not kidding around here. We’re talking about the big slam-dunk ideas that can actually help you get along with a commendable degree of rationality and happiness.

Of course, you’d think everybody would know enough about such mental resources by the age of sixteen or so, but, judging by the amount of craziness and misery in the world, even among supposedly intelligent people, apparently very few folks ever do marshal their defenses against life’s tribulations and their inspirations toward its delights.

For instance, how about Spalding Gray, whose recent successful foray into New York’s East River, shocked and depressed us all? What was he thinking? Or, going back a way to another misguided riverine escapade, take Robert Schumann, one of the brightest and most generous composers who ever lived. The distracted soul became so frantic and depressed, even with a cute and accomplished wife like Clara, that he walked into the Rhine in the middle of February and, having accidentally survived, begged to spend his last days in an insane asylum.

Obviously, there’s a real need here for some handiwork. So, to help make up for the pervasive vapidity of the usual media and not wanting anything untoward to happen to you, precious reader, but actually wishing you perpetual joy, we herewith present twelve ways to help jaunt through life sane and happy, at least, most of the time.

1. Believe you were born to be sane and happy. It helps you think better of what’s behind it all.

2. To be sane and happy, do great things, because it’s fun, helpful, and makes you feel good about yourself. It’s also generally, but not always, rewarding to be considerate and, if you can afford it, generous.

3. Let other people believe anything they want to and just be happy that they have something that helps them get through this frequently challenging life, unless what they believe is likely to hurt somebody else, especially you. Then just clear out. You can find better friends. If they’re part of your family, wait till they figure out how to love you on their own.

4. Take good care of your life and whatever “made it” will take good care of you, if it takes good care of anybody, providing, of course, it’s sane and happy enough for you to be concerned about, and we do hope and trust it is. Otherwise, why do birds sing, even if some of them, especially the caw-caw choir, obviously never went to music school?

5. Be nice to everybody who isn’t entirely despicable, because everybody else is at least as fragile and uncertain as you are, no matter how big his or her mouth is or how inconsiderate and selfish he or she can be.

6. Remember Philosophy 101 and big Ari’s two generally neglected chestnuts. One: happiness is more likely to come your way if you guide your life “according to reason,” instead of hearkening to the plenteous varieties of idiocy that are somehow still afoot in the world. Two: be guided by The Golden Mean, that is, avoid excess of any kind, primarily because it’s likely to get you into excessive trouble.

Notice, for example, how many people mess up their relationships because they don’t know that the quest for more and more generally leads to less and less, since that inconsiderate rampage negates the value of the individual, who happens to be the only person you can hug and kiss. Also notice how many celebrities are twisting on the agonizing spit of neediness, apparently unaware that infinite need can know no satisfaction.

7. Always keep the wholeness of your life in mind and never let a detail subordinate it and drive you completely to distraction, even when the detail is the person you love, telling you, “I just decided my happiness depends on kissing you goodbye.” Times like these are ideal to remember what your grandmother taught you: count your blessings.

8. Curse without feeling guilty. It’s an outlet that never hurt anybody. And what are words really but just sounds in the air? Never forget: the most forbidden word of all rhymes with luck.

9. Actually, don’t feel guilty about anything, unless you’re so perverse you actually hurt somebody else or, on rare occasions, yourself. Then you should feel really guilty, unless, of course, the other person was trying to hurt you. Then you should feel terrific for beating him or her off and he or she is the one who should feel really guilty.

To free yourself from guilt, we advise the following half-original remedy: See your superego, which may, unfortunately, be parked on your flattened ego, as an agglomeration of internal objects that represent the most influential people in your past. Pretend they’re in a jury box, observing you. They are probably not smiling and saying, “Do whatever you want to, sweetie. We love you and just want you to be happy.” No, they are probably frowning and wagging their fingers, sternly advising, “Don’t do that.” Or “How could you do that?”

Now, here’s the original part of the remedy: one by one turn these oppressive adjudicators upside down and bounce them on their heads.

This innovative tactic helps you realize they’re now just in your mind and therefore they’re within your control. You’ve “internalized them,” like Freud’s perpetually unhappy sons internalized the primal father, along with all of his troublesome rules, and, as Siggy tells us, now this stern but deceased terror is more powerful than ever, because he’s in their minds, even watching their most embarrassing thoughts.

As you no doubt know, helping most guilt-ridden people find a little space where they can breathe free is based on prying their garbage-truck-size superegos off their egos.

One easy way to kick the primal father in the butt is to realize that being able to think of every alternative is the very dynamic that let’s you decide, nobly or ignobly, what you’d actually like to do.

Who knows? With a little persistent head-bouncing, one day you may be able to dismiss the entire jury.

10. Enjoy sex and alcohol. You were born to enjoy the first, and you need to enjoy the second.

Amazing how many people take responsibility for the fact that they have normal desires. Relax. You didn’t design the setup. Your job is just to live with it. Obviously, nature believed in pleasure more than any moralizer you’re likely to come across, at least, when he or she is speaking in public.

Second, ever notice how people who don’t drink are usually really uptight and frequently get pale about the age of 40, lock up, and eventually stroke out. Your body needs a nice, reliable way to relax, especially in a workaday world that’s all set up to stress out even The Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, and the thing booze has over pills is that it tastes good.

Just don’t get drunk, because you’ll feel sick and maybe get arrested for DWI or kill some innocent person or other drunk who’s driving toward you.

11. Don’t worry about when the sun is going to burn out. You have more immediate concerns.

12. If you become overly concerned about what may await you when the curtain comes down on your life, remember how many problems you had before you were born. If still concerned, consult sane and happy hint number seven, sentence two.

Bonus idea. We said only twelve but we have another big idea, alluded to, for comic effect, at the start, that we can’t resist sharing for good luck.

13. How to drink out of plastic bottles.

Surprisingly, there is a way to drink water out of a plastic bottle without inhaling so much air you have to burp revoltingly three or four times. Astonishingly enough, there is also a way to drink soda out of a big plastic bottle without the bubbly getting flatter as the bottle gets emptier.

When you drink right out of a bottle of water, especially Poland Spring, which, as you may have noticed, has an orifice so tiny you almost think the company doesn’t actually want you to drink it, just buy it. Place the rim on your lower lip so that the upper part of the curve is still exposed to the air. Then you can pour it down, instead of sucking on it like a desperate baby dealing with a retentive nipple.

With big bottles of soda, each time you pour a glass, squeeze it until there’s very little air in it and then put the cap on tightly. Now, there’s hardly any space for the fizz to evaporate into. Admittedly, the flattened, bent thing will look odd in your refrigerator but at least the bubbly stuff will stay tangy.

Unfortunately, this resourceful trick doesn’t work with champagne, because it obviously doesn’t come in plastic bottles, at least, not yet.

We assume that now you’re ready to face life, prepared for any eventuality, which, if experience is any indication, will contain the usual confoundedly unpredictable mix of devastations and delights, which, if you really think about it, is the main thing that makes life mind-teasingly interesting.

The Federal Reserve took the unusually considerate step of raising the interest rate again while providing that banks could not raise the mortgage rates on people who already have mortgages with them.

While the banks called foul, the new head of the Fed commented, “I think it’s time to be forthright about how the Fed manages the economy and the consequences of it. As you know, when the economy slows down, we lower the rate to stimulate it, which inevitably results in people going out and buying homes for the simple reason that they can now afford them. Then when the economy picks up, we raise the rates, which has always meant the mortgage rates go right up with it. So a lot of these people can no longer afford their homes. Well, it’s time to end the carnage and come to the rescue of these poor suckers. Banks can raise the rates accordingly but only on new mortgages.”

“Ruined, ruined &ndash we’ll be ruined!” a spokesman for Citibank wailed, as it declared record profits.

“This will break us,” a spokeswoman for Bank of America bemoaned.

Their comments soundly reminiscent of the cries that have until now echoed through the hallways of homes that would otherwise, in the wake of rising rates, be foredoomed to foreclosure.

Todd, out of town on business and looking for a bit of comfort, knew he was in trouble when the topless dancer he just couldn’t say no to slipped his next twenty into her silver garter, and, with a twinkle in her green eyes, asked, “Would you like to go to the champagne room? It’s more private in there.”

Although this was Todd’s first visit to this particular club, he had been trapped into that expensive intimacy once before at another topless spot in New York and knew, legally, she could offer him little more than he was enjoying in the crowded main room, except higher prices.

“Sure,” he replied, unable to put wisdom before attraction, as straightforward men have been unable to do from time immemorial.

Lila took his hand and led him toward the blue neon sign that heralded The Champagne Room. She pushed aside the black curtain and led him past it.

There, in the dim light, were about a dozen small tables, with topless dancers at work on their eager attendees. She looked toward an unoccupied table that was promisingly back in the right corner, offering what might be considered a little more privacy, and winked at him, as she said, “How ‘bout that one?”

He smiled and followed along, like a happy male puppy with the woman who supplies his every need.

When they arrived at the table, he took his seat, and Lila, to afford herself a rest from her physically demanding occupation, as well as to present the illusion of enhanced intimacy, took a seat beside him. Moments later, a waitress showed up, in her own scant black outfit, obviously with aspirations to join the big earners in topless entertainment, should the occasion arise.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked, cleverly taking their thirst for granted and looking at both of them, just so Todd would know that Lila also obviously had the right to a beverage.

He decided to make a show of his capacity for foolish extravagance, and asked, “Would you like champagne?”

“Love it,” Lila replied.

“Do you want to see the list?” the indulgent waitress asked.

“Yes,” Todd said, wary of the usual overpricing and hopeful of finding a halfway decent deal.

“Be right back,” the waitress told him, and off she went.

“I could use some champagne,” he said with bravado. “I’m tired of drinking beer.”

“I love champagne,” she replied, seeming distracted, and slid a little toward him. “We can be so much closer back here.”

Todd gulped. “I like it.”

“Me, too,” she told him.

Just then the waitress returned with the champagne list. Todd looked it over and noted that, as expected, each bottle was marked up about five times over retail. He avoided the cheapest bottle, a California brand with a tenuous French heritage, lest he take some glitter off the festivities, and ordered the second least expensive bottle, which was authentically French and had some credibility toward extravagance. Obviously, California “champagne” has not made as big a dent as California wine in French claims to being superior custodians of the grape. Price: just over a hundred dollars.

“We’ll have some Moet Chandon Brut Imperial,” he said.

“Very good,” the waitress replied, and off she went to get the valuable bubbly.

Todd reached down to hold Lila’s hand, feeling he had, by his unspoken agreement to overpay for the champagne, earned the intimacy.

She looked down at the sudden conjunction of flesh, and then, smiling, said, “You know we have a different way of charging back here?”

“You do?” Todd asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry but I have to charge you for holding my hand.”

“You do?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s part of our Intimacy Price List. Would you like to see it?”

“Naw,” he replied bravely. “You keep track.” Then, looking down at their irresistibly joined hands, he said, “But, tell me, how much am I spending?”

“Ten dollars,” she told him.

“Is there a time limit?” he asked warily.

“No,” she smiled. “Once you pay, you can hold it all night. Holding hands is one of our better values.”

“Great,” he said, and, feeling he had copped a bargain, took out ten dollars.

She tucked it in her garter.

The waitress returned with the champagne and held the label toward him.

He smiled, and soon he and Lila were toasting like a voluntarily enchanted couple.

“To a great night,” he said.

“With you,” she replied, and flicked her tongue at him, as if to intimate the possibility of more than the law allows.

He looked at her lovely, long blonde hair and couldn’t resist stroking it lightly.

“You’re very pretty,” he said, catching his breath.

“Thank you,” she breathed back. “You don’t mind if I bill you for that, do you?”

“For what?” the poor soul wanted to know.

“Caressing my hair.”

“Oh,” he said, and withdrew his hand. “How much is that?”

“Only ten dollars.”

“Is everything ten dollars?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, smiling as if to indicate that more intimate things would rightly cost far more.

He took out another ten and handed it to her.

As she tucked it, he was unable to resist giving her a little peck on the cheek, breathing, “Lila, tonight money is no object.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, “twenty dollars.”

“Twenty? For what?”

Wagging her finger at him charmingly, she replied, “Kissing my cheek.”

“Oh,” he said, “I should have known.” Then, feeling just a tad upset, he reached out and pinched her arm. “How much is that?”

“Thirty,” she said.

“For pinching you?”

“It would usually be only fifteen dollars, because it comes under Innocent Contact. But, since I could get a bruise due to its intensity, it comes with a fifteen-dollar surcharge.”

“I see,” he said, and took out his wallet. “Kind of inflationary, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t everything?” she asked cannily, and then added, “On my last job, I had to give them away.”

“You did?” he replied, wishing he had known her then. “Why?”

“I was a stewardess.”

“Oh,” he said, with understanding but certain that by now women’s advocacy groups would have overcome such a flagrant incursion into an unsuspecting lady’s space. He paid her for stroking her hair and pinching her arm and decided that for convenience, he would leave his wallet on the table. There didn’t seem to be anybody nearby who would run away with it while he had his eyes on her. “What else do you offer?” he asked with wily charm.

“Oh, lots of things,” she said, visibly excited.

“Like what?”

“Well, intelligent conversation.”

“You offer that?”

“Yes, a lot of men seem to want it. So we have to take a course in it. Pick any topic &ndash philosophy, politics, literature, finances. I got a Pink Pussycat in finances.”

“You did?”

“Yes. It’s the highest grade.”

“Good for you,” Todd told her. Being a bit of a literary buff himself and eager to dwell on romance, he said, “Let’s talk about Romeo and Juliet.”

“Sure,” Lila said, and, looking into the distance, as if reciting from something she had memorized, she went on, “Romeo and Juliet is a play by William Shakespeare. It is based on the timeless theme, ‘The course of true love never runs smooth.’” Her recitation complete, she turned to him, and said, “My personal choice for Romeo would be Brad Pitt.”

“Excellent,” Todd said. “Would you like to continue our literary discussion?”

“No, that’s enough for tonight.”

“Good,” she told him, and held out her hand. “Ten dollars, please.”

“For what?” he asked. “I didn’t touch you.”

“The intelligent conversation,” she let him know. “I had to study hard to learn that.”

“Oh, well, that’s understandable,” he told her, and slipped a ten out of his wallet, which, he noticed, was quite a bit thinner than it was when he arrived, fresh from a nearby ATM. “I seem to be running a little low on cash,” he confessed. “Would you like to buy some funny money?”

“Sure,” he told her. Lila waved her hand at the waitress, who happened to be nearby. She was at the table in a flash. “He needs to buy some funny money,” Lila told her.

“How much?” the waitress asked.

Uncertain of how expenses would mount and wishing to present the impression of throwing caution to the wind, he said, “Three-hundred dollars.”

“Would you like me to put it on your credit card?” the waitress asked.

“Please,” he said, pretty certain he had enough credit left on it to cover that amount.

When he had arrived, the club, being punctilious about matters such as money and identity, demanded custody of a credit card and his driver’s license, with assurances that both would be returned when he departed.

He turned to Lila, and, with a slight indication of passion, which he felt he had by now earned the privilege of displaying free of charge, and said, “What else do you offer?”

“Thanks for asking,” she replied. “This week we have a sale on games.”

“Games? Like what?”

“Oh, you know, scrabble, monopoly.”

“What about video games?”

“We don’t allow those. They’re much too distracting.”

“Then how about kissing games?”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Sure, why not?” he asked.

“Where? My hand, cheek or my lips?”

“I’ll take the lips.”

“For how long?”

“What do you mean, for how long?”

“Rates vary, according to location, duration, and tongue placement.”

“Tongue placement?”

“Oh, you know. Regular kissing or French kissing.”

“This place is amazing,” he said. “Is there anything you don’t charge for?”

“Not very many,” she joked.

“How’d it get that way?” he wanted to know.

“It was started by a dancer who saved up and got her CPA.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She worked her way through college by dancing. Someday I hope to go to college myself.”

“Going for your CPA, too?” he couldn’t resist asking.

“No,” she said, “I expect to be retired by then and just enjoy life. Maybe I’ll study art and paint.”

“That’s a nice dream. I hope you achieve it. But, please, don’t try to earn your entire retirement package tonight.”

“I won’t, you silly man. Now, back to business. Where did you want to kiss me?”

“The lips,” he said.

“For how long?”

“As long as I feel like it.”

“I’m sorry, Todd, I need a number. What if we say thirty seconds?”

“How much is that?”

“Tongue in or tongue out?”

“Out.”

“Oh, you are so sexy.”

“So how much did I spend?”

She added the figures in her mind assiduously. “Thirty dollars,” she told him.

“For one kiss? That’s a dollar a second.”

“Well, it is me.”

“You’re right,” he said. J

ust then the waitress returned and held out her hand. “Here’s your funny money, Mr. Watson,” she told him.

“Thanks,” he replied, and, as a token of his appreciation, he gave her back a twenty.

“Thank you,” she said, and off she went, to leave them to their extravagant privacy.

Clutching the funny money, as a moment of self-reflection intruded to incriminate his intellectual self-respect, he nevertheless resolved to proceed and leaned forward to give Lila the most passionate kiss he could manage. She returned the lip-pressing interlude, with only an occasional glance at her watch.

When thirty seconds had passed, she tapped his back. But he did not stop kissing her. She attempted to tell him his time was up but could not free her lips to do anymore than make an indefinite noise. She whacked his back again.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, breathless.

“Your thirty seconds are up.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, but I have to abide by the rules. Or I could get penalized, even fired.”

“Oh,” he said. “If you got fired, does that mean I could date you for free?”

“You’re too funny,” she said.

“You know the saying? The best things in life are free.”

“But not here,” she told him.

“Maybe we should go back to lap dancing. It’s cheaper.”

“OK,” she said.

“Oh, come on,” he informed her, “that’s not even foreplay. It’s before-play.”

“I never thought of it that way,” she replied.

“And now that I’ve had you in my arms, how can I settle for just seeing you naked? I want to kiss you and hold you and &ndash you know.”

“We can do everything except, you know.”

He held up his funny money. “I have $250 left. How much can I get for that?”

“Oh, Todd, you say the nicest things,” she effervesced.

“I mean it,” he confirmed.

“You can kiss me &ndash and I won’t even watch the clock.”

“Take it,” he said, handing her the funny money, “take it all.”

She did, and he became lost in her wildly extravagant arms.

In the wake of having reported that God told him Tsunami-like storms were likely to hit the U. S. coasts this year, Pat Robertson appeared on his TV program visibly shaken, and announced, “God has told me something else, and it’s something I didn’t want to hear. He said, ‘Pat, you lost your mind.’

“Naturally, I was surprised and asked why he would ever think such a thing of me.

“God went on to ask, ‘Did you report that I told you America should assassinate Hugo Chavez, the leader of Venezuela?’

“’Yes, I did,’ I confessed.

“’And did you recently tell people I told you that this year I’m going to send fearsome storms to batter the coastlines of America?’

“’Yes, I did,’ I confessed again.

“’But, Pat, ask yourself, if I’m the benevolent being people expect me to be, how could I have said those terrible things?’

“You mean, you didn’t say them?’ I asked.

“’Heck, no! I’ve got my reputation to consider. What I actually told you is, on the first point, that America should invite the President of Venezuela to Washington to talk things over.’

“’You did?’ I replied, swallowing hard.

“’Yes, Pat. And on the second issue, I told you I felt Katrina was enough of a Category 5 hurricane for the time being and I intended to hold off on such destructive whirlwinds for years to come.’

“’Really?’

”’Yes, Pat. But what has happened? You misheard every message I delivered. Now, since I know you would much prefer to be my dutiful servant, I can only assume you’ve lost your mind.’

“Yep,” Pat continued to his enthralled audience, “that’s what God told me and, let me tell you, His mighty words gave me pause. So I said, ‘In the future I’ll listen more carefully.’

“But God wouldn’t have anything to do with that. He was just too upset with me.

“’I appreciate your good intentions, Pat, but I can’t take anymore chances. My reputation is already too damaged.’

“Then the Lord told me the most hurtful thing I can imagine.”

“’Pat, I’m not going to show up and talk to you anymore.’

“’Oh, God, no, please,’ I told him. ‘I’ll listen to your every word more carefully with all my heart and mind.’

“’I know you’ll have the best of intentions, but, I regret to say, the next time we talk is when you arrive at the Pearly Gates. I have to find somebody to appear to who can get the story right. But listen to me, Pat. If you do exactly as I say, I, in my infinite mercy, will forgive your every misinterpretation. And here is what I say. If you ever think I told you something in the future, tell yourself it can’t be true and you made it up. Do you hear me, Pat?’

“’Yes, God,’ I told my Lord and Master. ‘Not only that, I apologize for any damage I might have, through no conscious intent, done to your magnificent and forever undamaged reputation.’

“’Good, Pat, good,’ God told me, and put out His hand. “’I look forward to seeing you again in ten or twenty years.’

“’Thanks, Your Worship, see you then,’ I told Him.

“Then we shook hands and he disappeared.

“So let me just announce to my faithful listeners, that’s it, folks. I won’t be making anymore announcements about what God told me. I have gotten the message from on high that I am now out of personal communication with the Infinite. From now on I am as much a creature of the finite world as you all are.

“And I am confident that, because of this decision, God loves me and you more than ever. So please donate more generously than ever.”

Microsoft announced today that its new Vista operating system would support only products made by Microsoft.

The announcement immediately set off a tsunami of furious responses from all the other software companies and a renewed sharp eye from regulatory authorities.

The company effusively denied that the move is in any way indicative of monopolistic practices.

Microsoft CEO, Steven Ballmer, known to insiders from competing companies as The Embalmer, noted, “Since Vista is a Microsoft product, what reason on earth is there to support products made by other companies? If they want people to use their programs, they’re free to create their own desktop operating systems.”

His announcement did not sufficiently palliate representatives of other major software companies.

A representative from google lashed out, saying, “It wasn’t enough that the new version of Internet Explorer will have a default setting to MSN Search. Now, we understand when people click on options, there won’t be any. That just doesn’t seem fair, even though, I admit, he-he, google is the default setting in Firefox.”

Questioned about the contentious issue, Bill Gates stated flatly, “I have always been very influenced by my last name, and, in this case, as it appears in the well-know phrase, ‘Sorry, the gates are closed.”

It appears that the issue will finally be determined by how courts view the Microsoft insistence that other companies are still free to create their own desktop operating systems.

As far as the American economy is concerned, the most significant development seems to be that, as a result of the pending flurry of lawsuits, zillions of lawyers are currently gleefully employed.

Remember the MG? Worse yet, did you ever own one? Then cower in fear. The Chinese bought the MG brand name and are about to open a plant to build the malfunctioning suckers in Oklahoma.

The Nanjing Automobile Group, which acquired bankrupt MG Rover Group last year, plans to be the first Chinese automaker to open a factory in the US. The product will be called the MG TF Coupe and will be out in 2008.

Let’s hope they do a better job with the racy brand than the Brits did.

I never did own an MG, but I owned another British car, a venerable Jaguar, that I had repaired at a place that specialized in servicing MGs.

Here is my story, with one caveat. I understand now that Ford bought the Jag brand, it works better.

My old Jaguar XJ 6 sedan was a beauty, prettiest car on the road. Only trouble is the mechanical aspects brought home the idea of a hornet’s nest. There were always at least five things going wrong at the same time.

To save money on the upkeep, I used to take it to place that worked on MGs instead of to the Jag dealer. I asked the guy who ran the shop, a wily Irishman, why the cars always had problems.

“Well, you know the limeys,” he replied with a ornery glint in his eyes. “A bunch of socialists. So they’re on the assembly line, and they see an engine with a loose screw. So Frank looks at Harry and says, “Harry, would you look at that? A loose screw.”

And Harry says, “Why, yes, I believe you’ve got that right. It is a loose screw. ”

But do either one of them bend over and tighten it. No. The engine just keeps moving along the assembly line.

Then there was the day I was parked outside the shop, waiting for a space inside the busy place, so I could pull my car in for repairs, when suddenly I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Then there was a huge thump on the side of the car near the sidewalk. I turned and an otherwise normal-looking businessman in a suit had a furious look on his face and was actually kicking my car.

I rolled down the window and, in keeping with the British spirit of the car, I asked calmly, “Excuse me, sir, but why are you kicking my car?”

“I used to own one of these damn things,” he shouted, “and every time I see one I think how many problems I had with it and I get upset.” Then he quieted down, as if the confession let the hottest steam out. “I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I couldn’t help myelf.”

“That’s OK,” I said, “I might decide to kick it myself.”

Then there were the two worst problems I had with it. The drain in the dashboard for the air conditioner used to get plugged. Apparently, it was too small. Anyway, the condensation would build up, and pretty soon I could hear water sloshing in the dashboard. The real problem was, when I turned a corner, the water would rush to one side and pour out of the vent onto my lap or, worse yet, onto the lap of the person who was unfortunate enough to be on the passenger side.

The other rather inconvenient problem was, when I’d be driving down the highway at night and a car would come my way, and I’d push on the button on the floor to dim the headlights, they’d go out completely. That’s right. I’d be hurtling down the highway in pitch darkness, except for the scant illumination provided by the distant oncoming lights. So I’d quickly start slamming at the button, and, after three or four desperate shots, back on would come the headlights.

When I brought the problem to the attention of my world-weary mechanic, he referred to the name of the manufacturer of the electrical setup, as he informed me, “You now what they call the Lucas electrical system, don’t you? The prince of darkness.”

To add insult to injury, I went to the automobile show at the old New York Collesum one year. When I saw the Jag on display, I went up to the dealer in attendance and asked, “Why can’t they make a Jaguar that works right?”

He smiled slyly and gestured toward the sleek, gleaming grey sedan, and just said, “But look at it.”

Yep, if you liked the design, you were expected to put up with the malfunctions.

Last, when the time came that I could no longer stand the wreck, primarily because the radiator wouldn’t stop leaking, I looked in the yellow pages for the places that buy used cars. I saw an ad that said “2000 Cars Wanted.”

I called. The guy who answered was very receptive till he asked, “What kind of car do you have?”

“A Jaguar,” I confessed.

“Oh,” he said, his voice growing recessive, “that’s the only car we don’t take.”

So I loaded the radiator of the embarrassingly rejected beast up with fresh water and drove it to the nearest dealer in American cars, swearing I’d never buy another import. Fortunately, I arrived before the thing started to smoke and managed to make a halfway decent deal.

I drove out in a new American car. While it didn’t turn out to be a flawless mechancial achievement, either, it was at least a hundred times better than the Jag.

Obviously, this article strayed from MGs, but the car was cut from the same carelesss cloth as the Jag. Both brands help account for why, in these sleekly robotic times of exact Japanese assembly, English cars now own even less of the road than Detroit’s.

Recent exploration of sediment deep beneath the Artic Ocean has led geologists to estimate that approximately 1/4 of the world’s untapped oil and gas reserves are located there. After evaluating the impact of the news, the U. S. may seek membership in OPEC.

President Bush, smiling and joking with King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia at a press briefing in Nome, Alaska, stated, “Since it looks like we’ve got about as much oil off Alaska as our good friend the King here has in the Saudi desert, it seems like a pretty good idea for America to consider membership in OPEC. The least you can say is, maybe then we’ll have more influence on prices at the pump.”

King Abdullah, who flew in to tour the newly oil-rich region with President Bush and Vice President Cheney, commented, “Until now, I thought a country had to have a lot of sand to have oil. Now, I see it can also have a lot of snow. If America wants to join OPEC, we will be very happy to consider the application. But, of course, we only have one vote.”

Reaction across the Middle East was not unmixed, even in Saudi Arabia. A member of the nation’s delegation to OPEC, speaking on condition of anonymity so he could remain in the employ of the King, cited Allah’s usual ways to man in terms of the oil trade, saying, “The eternal wisdom of Allah has provided that no part of the world is able to have more oil than Saudi Arabia. But our King likes to visit George Bush at his ranch in Crawford or wherever he is, so if we see enough gushers blacken the Artic Ocean, I suppose we will bring ourselves to consider U. S. membership.”

The Iranian representative was, expectedly, evasive while definite. “If the U. S. wants to join OPEC, we may say no or yes, never or maybe, later or now. There is, of course, more likelihood that we will say yes or maybe sooner if the U. S. agrees that our proud and progressive Islamic nation has the right to develop nuclear weapons for peaceful purposes.”

When asked about possible opposition to U. S. membership in OPEC, President Bush made no maybes about his intentions, turning to the King first, and saying, “Excuse me for saying this, but you how I’m always forthright.” Then he turned to the reporter, and stated, “We have a backup plan. If the other nations who control OPEC vote against American membership, we intend to form an oil cartel with Canada, which, like our own state of Alaska, borders on the Artic Ocean. Greenland, which also has a presence there, has indicated interest in the cartel, which, by the way, we’ve given the working name of APEC, with the “A” standing for “Artic.” I also plan to invite Russia, which, as you know, borders on the other side of the Artic Ocean, to consider the benefits of membership in APEC.”

Vice President Cheney, flashing his usual fleeting acidic smile at the King, took his turn at the skillful conduct of international relations, adding, “It’s quite a relief to know we’ve got as much oil up north as we do, and frankly, I kind of like the idea of APEC. So just let me say that, with all due deference to the King, the choice for OPEC is clear. It’s their cartel or ours.”

Environmentalists were widely distressed. A leading researcher of the multinational team that extracted the deep cores which indicated the vast reserves said, “It’s disheartening to think that our discovery of how much oil and gas lie under the Artic has led to a desire to extract it. I would have thought everyone would just appreciate the wisdom of leaving it there. Now, I shudder to think how much the combustion of the reserves will contribute to global warming, which, unfortunately, will make it even easier to pump out the oil, since there won’t be any ice left to get in the way.”

Eskimos generally applauded the news, with many expressing an eagerness to trade in their traditional garb for Arabian dress. One Eskimo confided, “If you want to know the truth, I like global warming. We’ve had it cold long enough.”

Everyday Americans at the pump were ecstatic about the prospects of a domestic oil glut. “Wow, just think,” an American SUV driver, who was at a gas station pumping out his wallet, said, “if the U. S. is part of OPEC or forms its own cartel, I might even be able to keep my gas guzzler.”

As if the Muslim religion didn’t have enough problems in the often less than mutually tolerant text of the Koran, now its radical exponents have run afoul of Kant’s ever-present Categorical Imperative.

How?

As Muslim murders Muslim, the warring Sunnis and Shiites each maintain that their religion lends support to their bloody sectarianism. To the extent that it does, it runs counter to K’s Categorical Imperative, which, as every schoolchild in America is taught by the age of five, states, “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law.” In other words, set a good example, in fact, one so laudable we can all join in.

Now, imagine if the Muslim manifesto for mayhem did become a universal standard of behavior. Instead of principles sanctified by religion, their flaming intolerance sounds more like improvised bylaws for Murder Incorporated.

So what do we have, particularly among extremists who advocate a worldwide caliphate through decapitating everyone who disagrees with their beliefs, but definitive proof via Immanuel Kant that such an idea necessarily disqualifies itself.

If everyone believed as they do, it would be just fine for everyone to kill off anyone who doesn’t agree with exactly, in their murderous judgment, makes a true believer in Mohammed or in anything else.

Certainly, if Mohammed were interested in the multiplication of his followers to the max, the internecine wars among the Muslims in Iraq via Al-Qaeda or not would be enough to make him tear at his tent.

And just as assuredly IK would spin as he viewed the starry night at the contradictory nature of the wish to make a religion universal when, given the activities of its most flamingly irrational advocates, it cannot possibly become a universal standard of behavior.

What we see, instead of religion’s true intent, is self-defeating stupidity.

To mollify their convinced fury, extremists might contemplate a conversation between Mohammed and Kant, in which Mohammed expresses his hopes for the future of his religion and Kant cautions him that any beliefs that encourage murder would disqualify the religion from spreading any wider than it recklessly might.

So the sides have been arrayed: the warriors of Muslim fanaticism, brandishing all the irreligious vituperation they can wangle from it and the eternal verity of Kant’s considerable ethic.

May the Categorical Imperative vanquish hate unto the last grain of sand into which blood, innocent or guilty, may soak.

Vice President Cheney, upon his return from a visit to former Soviet Bloc nations, during which he criticized Russian President Putin in unusually direct, if correct, terms, found himself suffering from shortness of breath. Hesitant about consulting a doctor immediately, he performed a self-diagnosis and realized that his condition was due primarily to putting his foot in his mouth with alarming frequency.

Knowing the tenuous disposition of his cardiovascular system, he determined to remedy his verbal dereliction and signed up for a course at Dale Carnegie, where he expected to learn How To Win Friends And Influence People.

At his first class, however, he found himself unable to listen calmly to his lecturer and began to dispute with him. Taken aback, the professor explained that his statements were not based on his own beliefs but consisted entirely of the time-honored teachings of Dale Carnegie.

The Vice President was not assuaged, and announced, “You’re just not living in the real world. Let me show you how it really is.”

With that, he ambled to the blackboard and began to revise the statements the teacher had written there. Fortunately, a member of our staff, who always accompanies the Vice President when he thinks a story may be in the making, had accompanied him.

Here are selections from his notes on Mr. Cheney’s revisions of Carnegie’s teachings. For ease of comparison, we present the original Carnegie categories and principles, immediately followed by the Cheney update.

1. Fundamental Techniques in Handling People

Carnegie: Don’t criticize, condemn, or complain.

Cheney: Easy fix. Just erase the word “Don’t.”

Carnegie: Give honest and sincere appreciation.

Cheney: Another easy fix. Let’s add back the word “Don’t.”

2. Ways To Make People Like You

Carnegie: Smile.

Cheney: Honest people hardly ever smile; hypocrites do.

Carnegie: Make the other person feel important &ndash and do it sincerely.

Cheney: What other person? I’m the most important person in the room, even when I’m talking to the President.

3. Win People To Your Way Of Thinking

Carnegie: Show respect for the other person’s opinions. Never say, “You’re wrong.”

Cheney: Why? Since I’m the Vice President, the other person is always wrong.

Carnegie: Begin in a friendly way.

Cheney: Again, why &ndash when you’re about to tell the person something that’s not friendly?

Carnegie: Get the other person saying “yes, yes,” immediately.

Cheney: Here we agree.

Carnegie: Try honestly to see things from the other person’s point of view.

Cheney: What for, if he’s wrong to begin with?

Carnegie: Throw down a challenge.

Cheney: Now we’re talking.

4. Be a Leader: How to Change People Without Giving Offense or Arousing Resentment

Carnegie: Call attention to people’s mistakes indirectly.

Cheney: Mind if I just erase the first syllable of the last word?

Carnegie: Talk about your own mistakes before criticizing the other person.

Cheney: If I made mistakes, I wouldn’t be the Vice President.

Carnegie: Make the other person happy about doing the thing you suggest.

Cheney: OK, that’s why I’m here. Tell me how. Then maybe I can relax.

The teacher, gasping from his own shortness of breath, uttered, “I have no idea.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself. As a Vice Presidential courtesy, I won’t charge for the updates.”

Dolphins, which we already know are unusually bright, especially for mammals without arms or legs, are apparently even smarter than we suspected. In a recent study of dolphin behavior, it was determined that the clever mammals can make a series of squeals and squawks that another dolphin will recognize as his or her name.

What has not been widely reported is, the dolphins, once their ability to talk was discovered, were willing to engage in a far more detailed description of their plans. It seems they have determined, in their affable way, that the oceans, as presently polluted, are incapable of providing a hospitable home for the long-term. So they’ve concluded they must eventually move out onto the land.

Their first efforts to excape the thrall of the ocean, which were mistaken by us as their sonar gone awry, left a number of them washed up on beaches where they, unfortunately, expired. As a result of these unfortunate experiences, they’ve learned that the adaptation will take some time.

In an effort to give evolution a boost, they’ve begun to imitate some of the more simple-minded activities we landlocked humans indulge in, among them, Saturday night poker.

So now, on any given Saturday evening, the leaping over-achievers can be seen gathered round a reef, gaming away.

As they continue to prod their genes, they expect to imitate increasingly complex human activities and eventually move onto the land as our equals, if not something even grander.

As one unusually forthcoming dolphin confided to a researcher, “Hey, if the finny ancestors of human beings could learn to live on land, what’s to stop a bunch of intelligent mammals like us from figuring it out?”