Would I ever like to shake the hand of the man who told me macaws make good pets. I'd pull his hand right off at the wrist. That damn bird is the second incarnation of Stalin.

You feed it, you teach it to speak, and what thanks do you get? Cockeyed stares and the occasional: "Hello?" -always asked, never spoken, and always with a sarcastic lilt. And when it rains the feathered fiend goes into a screaming fit like a dot matrix printer with a terminal paper jam.

But it's smart, I'll give it that. It's smart enough to know how to screw with my head, and enjoy it. I've shouted "No!" at it enough times that now it shouts it right back.

"Wanna cracker?"

"No!"

"Wanna shut up?"

"No!"

"Want I should wring your neck?"

Beady-eyed stare.

That's not all. Get this. At work, when I get phone calls, I'm required to answer by stating my first name. I've been at that office for fifteen years, so the custom has followed me into my home life.

The bird knows my name and mimics me perfectly. Worse, it knows the sound it imitates is my name.

You don't know the meaning of disconcerting until you hear yourself speak your name - except it's not you saying it.

Since we're on a roll here with our Snark Attacks, take a look here at our treatment of the perennial fairy tale classic, Hansel and Gretel. Any witches in the audience are kindly requested to hurl stones at us only after we've been given a running head start.

Once there was an old hermit lady who, having been a hermit all her life, decided to retire from the profession. She liquidated her 401K  and pooled the funds with what little money remained from her hermiting days to retire in her prefabricated candy house in the woods.

That same day, two teenage degenerates with a penchant for littering traipsed into the woods. They were blithely unaware that they were trespassing on the hermit lady's land, and had they known, they would have cared not one whit.

These two degenerates littered the hermit's property with stale stale bread, which, apart ruining the aesthetic beauty of the woods, also habituated all the animals in the forest to being fed. This eventually led to the animals' inability to fend for themselves, and ultimately, their death by starvation.

Upon arriving at the hermit's doorstep, the degenerate siblings set upon the hermit's home and begin to devour it. The witch was furious that everything she had worked so hard for was quickly getting gobbled up by these two teens with entitlement issues. Despite that the odds were pitched against her, she heroically fended the children off and detained them in her home as she waited for the police to arrive. Her forest home being what it was, it was drafty, and so she started a fire. Unbeknownst to her, the wicked children freed themselves and shoved her, remorselessly, into the furnace. She died horribly, and no one cared.

Knowing it would not be long before the police arrived, the wicked children ate the address sign off the house before fleeing the scene. The police never came -- without an address sign, how was anyone to tell one candy house in the woods from any other candy house in the woods?

The years rolled on, and the hermit's home slowly collapsed on itself. The candy melted away to nothing with the seasonal rains, leaving only a patch of bare earth where once the hermit's house had stood. Adding insult to injury, a dentist is believed to have opened a practice on the site where the candy house once stood.

There has to be a set of rules,
A formula that equals
An amount of clout displaced
When dropping one name or another.

Your name floats when you’re a nobody.
It turns no gears.
It moves no wheels.
It's worthless for the work it does.

When you’re a “Mister So-and-so”
You must be really important.
You need a prefix and a suffix
One in front and some behind
So your name doesn't capsize
But sinks evenly and fast.

And when you’re hot stuff,
You're “Sir”.
Dense little word.
Sinks to the bottom
And moves the fluid that gets those gears turning.

What does “Sir” mean, anyway?
I’m no linguist,
But isn't it Latin for
Stupid stuck up self-important bigoted jackass?

Remember Donovan, that two-faced industrial magnate from "Indiana Jones And The Last Crusade"? At the end of the film, he's in a chamber filled with chalices, each of which purports to be the true holy grail. Drinking from the true chalice brings life, but a sip from the false grail takes it away horrifically, as he comes to learn much too late.

If Twitter were around during his day, this is what we think his last status update would look like. And as an aside, notice how his final line of spoken dialogue: "What is happening to me?" so closely resembles what Twitter always seems to want to know (i.e., "What's happening?"). Coincidence? Maybe.

Indiana Jones & etc., and Twitter & etc., are property of their respective owners.

Sneak attack: (n). A sudden, unexpected application of force on a person or locale.

Shark attack: (n). A sudden, unexpected application of force on a person by a shark. Also, one of the most unsafe times to go swimming.

Snark attack: (n). A sudden, unexpected application of snarkiness. Usually results in laughter. Typically harmless. Sharks are incapable of this.

Let's face it: there are so many good (and not so good) books to read these days. Some readers prefer the classics while others gush over the latest paranormal romance between an Egyptian mummy and a preteen aardvark-shapeshifter. Whatever your pleasure, our mission today is to give you a bite-sized synopsis of a book we've read. In case you didn't know, we're professional nerds so we read a lot. Most of the books we've read are venerable enough to be considered classics in their own right, but that's only two of the three criteria for making this list. The third, and most important criterion: these were books we suffered through.

So now, without further ado, we bring you our snark attack of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit. Please refrain from hurling stones and other objects at us until the end, thank you.

There once was a short hairy lazy guy who lived in his family's basement. An old hairy smart guy showed up at his door with twenty short hairy smelly guys. The hairy smelly guys were called: Fodder and Dodder; Casualty, Basualty, and Rasualty; and Only Guy We Care About.

Then, just as soon as he had foisted the smelly guys onto the lazy guy, the old guy disappeared, warning them all that they were in grave danger and that he (the old guy) would do nothing to help them. Notwithstanding that, the old guy occasionally popped up out of nowhere to destroy hordes of bad guy fodder, only to  disappear again.

The group traveled for weeks. All the while, the smelly hairy guys carried on a call-and-response chant where some talked about mutton and the rest yelled back, "At your service!"

Along the way, several of the smelly hairy guys died (guess which), but not Only Guy We Care About or the titular character, because that would be silly. Eventually, everyone blundered onto a raging battlefield. More armies joined the melee. A bizarre bird migration joined the melee. Then it all became a freakish sort of medieval multi-car freeway pile-up that hardly no one lived through. Thankfully, titular short guy survived by turning invisible and falling asleep even as the bodies piled up around him.

Only Guy We Care About was mortally wounded in battle and died on his bed, but not before being declared the king of the smelly hairy guys (those that survived, at least). The titular short hairy lazy guy goes back home with a piece of jewelry that would prompt a curious obsession and a book trilogy.

I've thought on it some, and I've found that I spend a lot of time in sandwich shops. (See: Fifty Dollar Cheese Sandwich Standoff). No matter how well stocked your local deli is, they can offer only so many combinations of bread, meat, cheese, and condiments before it gets boring. It's moments like these when you need to get subversive.

The deli I frequent makes the best egg salad sandwiches -- thick-sliced bread toasted until it achieves  the load-bearing strength for a half-pound of golden egg salad goodness inside. Add in a slice of yellow cheese and a dash of paprika, and you've got the best sandwich this side of New York State. Great as the sandwich is, man cannot live on egg salad alone, which is also why they offer foot-long hoagies. Having frequented this deli so often, it was only a matter of time before I ordered a foot-long egg salad sandwich.

The deli man's cocked eyebrow said it all: "Are you sure?" Without waiting for an answer, he got to work, piling into the hoagie bread three times as much egg salad as a normal sandwich -- and presumably a normal human -- should require. The sandwich was glorious, but I'm fairly certain that pain in my chest after eating it was not regret.

At lunch the next day the deli man shook his head as I stepped inside. He reached under the counter for the egg salad and started to made another foot-long, but I stopped him. Rarely have I seen more relief on another man's face. His expression was short-lived, however. It cut short abruptly when I told him I wanted a foot-long peanut butter and jelly.

With America being the land of the free where the customer is always right, it was a foregone conclusion that I would get my sandwich. Freedom to do such dumb things as this was practically written into our constitution.

Compressed into that one sandwich experience were all the summer vacation days of every year of grade school --  endless summers of days in the park, and always with peanut butter and jelly as a packed lunch. I might have lost a few summers -- you know, taken off the tail end -- by eating the whole thing in one sitting, but it was completely worth it if only to revel in the horribly perplexed look of the deli man.

Speaking strictly in the interest of free markets everywhere, I have to denounce the artificial restrictions imposed by online auction businesses. Take for example a perfectly salable abstract commodity such as love. Undeniably, love is something that the world needs more of, and yet most online auctioneers forbid its sale in its venues. Why, we ask, when love is so freely exchanged for jewelry or chocolate or – dare I mention – even cash under city streetlights?

Honesty is another great example of something we need more of yet they won't let us exchange. Don’t we all wish that everyone had a bit more honesty, from our neighbor down the street with the shifty eyes to that congressman with shifty eyes?

Nevertheless, online auction businesses have made a practice of rejecting for sale those items one cannot grasp in the hand. Company policy appears to be that such things as honesty and love cannot be sold because it is impossible to set a price on such things. Such policies are as sensible as the flat Earth theory. Honesty has been bought and sold since antiquity, and contrary to what the Beatles may say, money really can buy you love in some contexts.

You may be asking yourself, “What’s the big deal if there’s still joy, happiness, and a multitude of other good, salable abstract commodities?” Well, the big deal is that these online auction houses won’t let you sell or buy any of those either. In fact, whoever said money can’t buy you happiness probably works for them.

Shock however, seems to be on the rise, but not because it commands higher prices than ever. No, actually, the
auction companies practically hand this one out to all takers. Shock comes free with every purchase when your account status shows up in your e-mail. That’s when you realize the auctioneers are taking a cut of your sale coming and going. It’s like setting up a booth and offering free samples of ice cream (or anything else for that matter – I like ice cream) just beyond the threshold of a revolving door. Of course, the consummate businessperson that you are, you offer only one sample per person. But, consummate scammers (with shifty eyes no less) know that they are “new” customers each time they walk into those revolving doors, take the spin and walk back out again, right into the path of your booth. Here’s where they look surprised and say, “Ice cream! My, what a pleasant surprise!” for the third or fourth time in fifteen minutes.

Bring the gavel down on those chintzy auctioneers. Insist upon love, joy, honesty, happiness. Tell them you want your abstract commodities, and you want them now. Stand up to them, and for all the money they exact from their fees, those auctioneers will wish they could buy yet another abstract good – time, because it won't be long when they'll be forced to change their game.

Ever read your auto insurance policy? You'll likely find a section heading that reads something along the lines of "comprehensive collision coverage," all in bold letters to make you feel at ease if ever your car might be wrecked. Don't be lulled into a false sense of security -- the "risks insured against" section under that heading is almost always shorter than the "risks excluded", and you're getting a lot less than you think.

For instance, your insurer might replace your windshield -- no questions asked --  if you strike a passing bird in mid-flight. But then, when you get to the "nuclear hazard exclusion", you realize that if your local power plant melts down and reduces your car to a pile of molten slag, they'll disclaim all responsibility.

The solution: in the event your car becomes a steaming heap of scrap, find a dead bird and toss it onto the hood. Your insurer will have a hard time denying responsibility after you tell them that one bird did all that damage. 

Robert fidgeted in his seat as he waited for corporate loss control to arrive. He hadn't been on the job three weeks and already he had wrecked a company car. All at once, his dreams of one day becoming a senior vice president had evaporated, and he'd be lucky if Mundano Corp. let him stay on to scrub the office toilets for the next twenty years.

The doorknob clattered, snagging his attention. Two men stepped into the office. One rounded the desk and sat down. The other shut the office blinds and stood beside the door, arms crossed.

The man at the desk paged through the binder on his lap. "Guernsey?"

"Yes," said Robert. "Robert Guernsey."

The man didn't look up. "What happened?"

Robert's mouth went dry. The man at the door shifted and his suit gave the tiniest rustle.

"A deer jumped into the roadway," Robert said. "It jumped right in front of me -- there was nowhere I could go." His shoulders slumped. "It was awful."

The man at the desk nodded at appropriate intervals but gave nothing but the occasional "M-hm" in response.

The office was silent.

"I, uh," Robert ventured, figuring he needed to justify himself further. "I called loss control from the scene. I've already filled out the police paperwork and..."

"What could you have done differently?" the man interrupted.

Robert stammered. "I... I beg your pardon?"

The man sighed at having to explain the obvious. "All accidents are avoidable. How could you have avoided this loss event?"

Robert thought on that some. He'd never been in a car accident involving wildlife, and it hadn't occurred to him that something like this could have been avoided. Besides, it had all happened so fast.

"I don't know," Robert said at last.

The man standing by the doorway leaned into Robert's ear. "What do you mean you don't know?" he accused.

"I don't know!"

"Guernsey," the man at the desk said, "please address your responses to me. Now, answer my question: what could you have done differently to prevent this loss?"

"I already told you, I don't know."

The man at the desk and the one by the door exchanged glances. "M-hm."

Robert shifted to rise out of his chair. "Look, I really need to be getting back to work, so..."

"We're not done yet," said the man at the door, putting out a hand to shove Robert back into his seat.

"But I..."

"Address me only, Guernsey," said the man at the desk.

Robert glanced at the man at the desk, then the man at the door and back again. A fine sweat broke on his brow.

The man at the desk shuffled through papers in his binder. "Could you have taken a different route that day?"

"I've been taking the same route to work since I started working here."

"Answer the question!" the man at the door shouted in Robert's ear.

"I... maybe, I guess," Robert said. "But the state turnpike is fifty miles west. It'll double my commute time."

"M-hm."

Silence.

"And did you know that deer lived in the woods along your route to work?" asked the man at the desk.

"Well, yeah, sure, but..."

"Then why didn't you affix an avoidance whistle to your company vehicle?"

"A... a what?"

"An avoidance whistle." The man reached into the desk drawer and removed a plastic tube. "You attach this to your car and as you travel at speed, and it produces a high-pitched thrumming sound to warn animals of your approach."

"I didn't know such things existed."

Again the corporate men exchanged glances. "M-hm. You are aware that irresponsible use of corporate assets is conduct for which you may be terminated."

"I don't understand," said Robert. "There was nothing I could do..."

The man at the door wheeled around Robert and got in his face. "You drove in an area you knew was populated by deer. You failed to use a safer route. You failed to use an avoidance whistle."

"It was an accident!" Robert shouted over him.

"Guernsey." It was the man at the desk who spoke. With the other man standing between them, Robert could not see him, nor could he see Robert. "This is your final warning. Address me only."

The man went back to his post by the door. The other man, the one at the desk, leveled a cold stare on Robert. "I will prepare a company loss report. A copy will be placed in your employee file, along with the list of preventative measures you have agreed to undertake so this doesn't happen in the future."

Robert felt it was safest to nod in response, despite that he was fairly sure he hadn't agreed to anything.

That evening, Robert's replacement vehicle was waiting for him in the company garage, fitted with a brand-new pair of avoidance whistles, one to each fender. They stood out in garish red against the unassuming gray paint of his corporate sedan. The constant drone the whistles made permeated the passenger cabin, and no genre or loudness of music could blot it out. By a week's time, no one wanted to carpool with him, and he had to take on the whole of the fuel expense himself. The gas bill mushroomed with all the extra driving he did, taking the long way to work via the state turnpike and idling in bumper-to-bumper traffic for hours. His commute stretched to three hours daily. All that lost time forced him to stay late each evening and come in on weekends to meet deadlines. Lack of sleep made it hard to focus at work, saying nothing of the persistent migraines his pair of avoidance whistles triggered in him. His job performance took a tumble, as was evidenced on his quarterly reports.

When finally they found him sprawled on his couch, a handle of whiskey by his head and sleeping pills strewn across the floor, it came as a shock to his co-workers. Still more puzzling was what the police had found in his kitchen sink -- a hacksaw and a pair of avoidance whistles cut into tiny bits. 

It should come as no surprise that insurance companies don't get rich by writing their customers checks. Like any enterprise, they're in the business of making money. Sometimes that means raising premiums, other times it means cutting costs. To an insurance company, you are a cost -- that's why people in the industry lovingly refer to their customers not as clients but as "risks", as in, "Well Mr. Stevenson, we normally wouldn't insure rabble like you, but since you're such a good risk..."

This entry is the first in a series of insurance horror stories, stories which -- although they have been massaged a bit to protect the innocent (and fend off insurance companies' attorneys) -- are still too true for comfort.

Consider yourself warned, these stories are not for the faint of heart.

Ira sat with an expectant smile on his face, his wife's hand in his. Today was his first visit to the obstetrician. Judith was pregnant after several weeks of trying. It was still too early for her to be showing but they both knew, and just knowing was enough to bring proud smiles to their faces.

It sure hadn't been easy. While Judith had children from her prior marriage, Ira had none. It meant a lot to him that he'd be a father soon, and as much to her that she could finally give him what he'd sought after.

He eased back in his seat. The faux wood chair in which he sat did little in terms of comfort or looks for the doctor's office. His tailbone hurt from sitting. They'd been fifteen minutes early to their appointment. A glance at Ira's watch revealed that the doctor was already twenty minutes late.

As if summoned by Ira's thoughts, Dr. Mossberg bustled in through the door of his practice, the slat blinds in the door slapping against the glass as he stepped in. The doctor hadn't time for so much as a hello as he left the reception area for the office in back. The reception window slid open a minute later, revealing the face of the all-too-bored-with-her-job teenage girl who staffed the desk.

"Burnside?" she said.

Ira nearly sprang out of his chair. "Yes, that's us."

"Enter, please."

Ira held open the door for Judith as the receptionist buzzed them in. They rounded the corner and met Dr. Mossberg at his  desk. "Come, sit," said the doctor, holding out his arms to indicate the two chairs across from him.

"I understand you're coming to me because your wife is having a baby," the doctor went on.

"Yes," said Ira. "My first."

Dr. Mossberg's eyes flitted over to Judith. An uncomfortable silence set in.

"My third," Judith volunteered.

Mossberg nodded, and it was an exaggerated gesture, as though he knew something they didn't and was on the verge of telling them. "I thought as much," he said, snapping shut the folder on his desk. "I just got off the phone with your insurance company. They're declining coverage."

"What!" Ira leapt out of his chair. "That's not possible. My company's health plan covers my wife and I for all maternity expenses."

"Well, yes and no," Mossberg was hesitant to say. "You," he said, looking at Ira,"are covered for all maternity expenses." He shifted over to Judith. "You are not."

Ira was flabbergasted. "That's ridiculous. I'm not the one carrying this child, she is!"

"I'm sorry," Mossberg cut in.

"No! That's inexcusable! What am I paying their premiums for, if not this?"

"Insurance is about risk, Mister Burnside. You pay them to take a gamble on you not getting sick, or in your case..." He trailed off, jabbed his pen in Judith's direction. "Much like you took a risk that your wife wouldn't be covered under your insurance policy when you married her. I'm sorry, but like any game, there are winners and losers."

Ira brought a cold look to bear on Dr. Mossberg.

"Don't be angry with me," said the doctor. "I don't write insurance policies, but they are how I get paid. Unless you want to go out of pocket."

Judith was on the verge of tears. "We... we can't afford that."

Mossberg gave such a thoughtful nod that it couldn't have been more insincere.

"On what grounds is our coverage denied?" Ira asked.

Mossberg paused. "Pre-existing condition."

Ira stared at Judith. She looked back at him with panicked eyes.

"What condition, doctor?" Ira asked.

Mossberg shrugged with his palms up. "Well, she did say she'd been pregnant before, and that settles it in their book. Your health plan explicitly excludes pre-existing conditions from coverage."

Ira was beside himself. "So you're saying working people like us can't have more than two children?"

"Well, no," Mossberg stammered. "No one's preventing you from having a big family." He paused and his tone darkened. "As long as you don't mind paying for them yourself." Mossberg rocked back in his chair, knit his fingers at his chest. "So, what to do, folks?"

Didn't think we'd need to "spell" that out (bad pun, we know), but if you ever thought proper spelling wasn't important, have a look at the image below.