like

transitive verb
1 – to be suitable or agreeable to
2 – to feel attraction toward or take pleasure in
3 – every other word out of my daughter’s mouth

I love my kids. I truly do. I encourage communication with them. But despite the fact that they are my world and I heap affection on them at every moment, I hesitate to say that I “like” them. For, if I hear that word one more time, I’m like going to scream.

I am a stand-up comedian by trade. My profession relies on audience approval. Every time I walk on stage, I hope the audience will like me. But I don’t want them to “like, like me.”

Seriously, when did the word “like,” which has multiple meanings as evidenced by the above definitions taken directly from Merriam-Webster’s on-line dictionary, become the most overused and grating word in the English language?

Does anybody know? Perhaps I should ask country music superstar Carrie Underwood who, during a recent Today Show appearance, talked about like her marriage and like her upcoming tour and like her charity work and like the changes on American Idol. I have always liked Carrie Underwood, believing her music and her personality suitable for my kids. My oldest, now thirteen, even met her backstage before a concert and Carrie was exceptionally gracious and accommodating. But she also seemed in a bit of a hurry. Note to Carrie: If you eliminate “like” from your vocabulary, think of the extra time you’ll have!     

At some point in history, “like” burst onto the scene and refused to leave, much like karaoke. The difference is that karaoke eventually ENDS. A rendition of "Summer Nights" from Grease, sung by two fully-intoxicated women at a bar, is mercifully over after three minutes. Stories peppered with “like” seem to go on forever. If you don’t believe me, come to one of my daughter’s sleepovers, where you will be treated to dialogue like this:

“So I’m like sitting there and then she comes over and she’s like, ‘Emily, like are you going to ask him?’ And I’m like, ‘No way.’ So she’s like, ‘Oh, just do it. Like, maybe he’ll say yes.’ And I’m like, ‘You are so weird. Why would I like do that?’ And she’s like, ‘Because you’re like so that person.’ And I’m like, ‘I am not.’ And she’s like, ‘Okay, maybe you’re not like that person. But you’re definitely like THAT person.’”

The story resulted in gales of laughter and squeals from the girls. Moments after typing it on my PC, my spelling and punctuation tool exploded in frustration.

Being a history buff, I looked at some famous quotes and speeches over the years, hoping to see when "like" began popping up. I immediately eliminated the Revolutionary War era because nowhere did I ever read Patrick Henry boldly stating, “Like give me liberty or give me like death.”

Even during the Civil War, when our country split in two and couldn’t agree on ANYTHING, both sides were apparently united in their belief that “like” was not “liked” when it came to speech. Abraham Lincoln used the word exactly ZERO times in his Gettysburg Address, a fact quickly verified by the “find and replace” tool on my web browser. Frankly, I was surprised. After all, wasn’t the message of that speech about creating a unified nation? In other words, get along and LIKE each other! But Lincoln chose to use more eloquent prose and that’s probably a good thing. Somehow, the phrase, “Like four score and seven years ago, like our fathers brought forth on this continent, like a new nation, conceived in like Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are like created equal” doesn’t move me.   

Fast forward nearly 100 years and still no sign of the word in our culture. When the Japanese rained bombs down on Pearl Harbor, President Franklin Roosevelt did not deliver the news by stating, “December 7, 1941. A day that will, like, live in infamy.”

I would have thought that "like" would have made its appearance in the late 1960s. After all, most of the country was high and unaware of what was coming out of their mouths, never mind what was going into same mouths. Yet I listened over and over to the audio feed of Neil Armstrong’s historic moon landing. Not once did I hear him say, “That’s like one small step for man, one like giant leap for mankind.”

Eventually I gave up, unable to find any historical quotes of significance peppered with “like.” Now I can’t even open a magazine without seeing the hated word in print numerous times. Journalists, in their attempts to quote subjects accurately and avoid being sued for libel, have apparently decided it’s best to include the word. A recent Rolling Stone interview with Leonardo DiCaprio netted the following quote:

“My mom always says I’m exaggerating and I’m like, ‘Mom, you are sorely mistaken.”

During a recent movie outing with my girls, we were treated to a trailer from Disney’s upcoming Tangled. Suddenly the following text flashed across the screen:

She’s been grounded like…forever.”

When I log onto Facebook, I'm immediately asked if I want to "like" everything from Chipotle’s restaurant to a sketch comedy revue called Pop Vulture. I LIKED it better when Facebook wanted to know if I was a “fan” of a particular page. Of course my daugher’s friends would have announced that they were “like fans of Justin Bieber.”

Is it possible to get away from "like?" Do the deaf use it in sign language? If so, I hope the sign is very simple – and painful. If there is indeed no sign for "like," might I suggest sticking an index finger into one’s eyeball? Perhaps that would keep deaf teenagers from using the word ad nauseum.

How can we stop the "like" epidemic? Whom do we ask? Certainly not our children, who would most likely reply, “Like huh?”

Desperate times call for desperate measures. In college I used to watch old Bob Newhart episodes with fraternity brothers and play a drinking game called “Hi Bob.” The rules were simple: Watch the show with a full beer in hand. Every time a character said, “Hi Bob,” or some form thereof, take a drink. It’s amazing how looped one can get during a 30-minute sitcom.

Maybe utterances of the word “like” should have similar consequences. Note I said similar since the prime offenders of “like overload” are not of legal drinking age, Carrie Underwood notwithstanding. But they could still face penalties. For every utterance of "like" that did not pertain to agreement or attraction, no iPod or iTunes for a week.

Somebody like alert Steve Jobs.

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                                                About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian, speaker and author of "Text Me If You're Breathing:  Observations, Frustrations and Life Lessons From a Low-Tech Dad.  To visit Greg's website, click here.  For more information on Greg's book, click here.

I am sitting in an American Airlines Admirals Club running numbers in my head.  Normally my airport layovers do not include math problems but I need to anticipate what may soon be reality.

Let’s see, a  30-something, slightly pregnant woman dressed entirely in black is carrying a duffel bag, also black, and packed so tightly that the zippers are straining.  I can even see a neon green workout top peeking through the top.

A gentleman who was asleep when I took the chair opposite him just awoke, slung a navy backpack over his shoulder and  headed for the exit.

A little girl with her parents has her head buried in a Game Boy.  The Game Boy and assorted other “plane diversions” are housed in a pink Dora the Explorer rollerboard suitcase that lies at her feet.  Her parents sit on opposite sides of her, each tapping on laptops and simultaneously checking their watches.

My stocking feet (yes, I take my shoes off in airport lounges.  At least I don’t clip my nails, a habit that is surprisingly common among today’s traveling set) rest on my Samsonite rollerboard.  I packed it myself so I know it contains clothes that should get me through the next three days.  My computer bag, loaded with magazines, my Kindle, my laptop and assorted travel itineraries, rests on top. 

Good thing we are all flying American Airlines.  If we were leaving to catch Spirit Airlines flights, by my calculations we would collectively be out $315.

It was easy to arrive at that figure; just multiply $45, the amount Spirit plans to charge for carry-on bags, by seven.  Actually Spirit officials have yet to put this “new math” plan into effect but admit that they are experimenting with the idea.  In other words, it’s gonna happen.

Numerous bloggers have speculated that this is just the tip of the iceberg; that airlines will soon begin installing credit card machines over the air blowers, coin slots on the lavatory doors and ATMs on the in-flight entertainment systems.  While amusing, I find this to be a defeatist attitude.  Let’s not give the airlines any more ideas.

Instead, I feel it is time for passengers to take a stand and fight fire with fire.  You know how credit card companies entice you to whip out the plastic for everything including a stick of gum by offering you “cash back” incentives? Hey, spend $30,000 with your new Tungsten Wehaveyettogounder bank card and we'll give you two percent back! I’m willing to pay for a carry-on bag providing Spirit Airlines, and any other airline that dares to play “follow the leader,”  ponies up for the following infractions:

If a beverage cart hits a single elbow, everybody onboard gets $10.

Twenty bucks every time a pilot says, “okey dokey” over the loudspeaker.

Twenty-five dollars if that same pilot starts a sentence with, "Folks, I wish I had better news..."

Thirty dollars for turbulence.

Fifty dollars for announcing that somebody is having a birthday.  It’s an airplane, not TGI Friday’s for Pete’s sake.

And finally, $100 for every hour that a plane sits on the ground due to a cloud of volcanic ash.

I’m flying back to Chicago tomorrow.  I just might come out ahead.

                                                    About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian and humorous speaker who has performed for companies such as Microsoft, Cisco, IBM, McDonald's and United Airlines.  His first book, My Life Needs Recharging But I Can't Find the Adaptor...Observations, Frustrations and Life Lessons from a Low-Tech Dad will be released this summer.  Visit his website by clicking here.

     The boxes stood side by side on my computer screen as I sipped my morning coffee. My mouse hovered between them.

     Confirm Ignore

     Clicking the first box would mean my Facebook friend count would rise to 240, a paltry number by Facebook standards considering that others in my Facebook network had thousands of “friends” in their accounts. Still, it was far more than I had acquired in my real life.

     I had seven friends in common with Linda, the requestee. All were comedians like myself. Linda was a part time comedian, according to her profile. Still, I had no idea who she was.

     I continued staring at the boxes, pondering Linda’s fate. I asked myself, "what would be the harm in friending her?" I still don’t know what happens when a friend request gets denied on Facebook. For all I know, the lonely jilted person gets an email or text message stating, “Greg doesn’t want to be your friend. Here’s his cell phone number and home address in case you want to discuss it further. Oh, and here’s the name of an attorney in case you want to sue Greg for pain, suffering and mental anguish.”

     I was willing to take that chance. I clicked “ignore.” Linda would not become part of my Facebook contingent and my friend count thus remains at 239.

     I hope her feelings aren’t hurt. Maybe Linda was somebody I actually knew yet just couldn’t place. Her profile photo didn’t exactly help matters as it featured a very grainy image of a woman kissing a man. At least I think it was a man. The photo was really grainy.

     Yet I am sensing a mood shift in the Facebook community. I keep reading that, if Facebook were a country, it would be the world’s fourth largest. I’m not sure how residents of Indonesia, currently the world’s fourth largest country, feel about this but chances are they are discussing it on their Facebook walls.

     But the Facebook population explosion appears to have slowed. Like me, people are no longer randomly clicking “confirm” to every Facebook friend request that appears onscreen. Those that do are starting to regret it, as evidenced by some of the recent wall posts I’ve read:

     Is it just me or does everyone get too many event invites? Time to delete some names.

     To all my FB friends: I friended you because I care about you and your thoughts, NOT Farmville or Mafia or other third party apps

     The previous post was written by a friend who is a member of the following Facebook “groups”:

     50,000 Against Healthcare Bill in the next 72 Hours

     I Bet We Can Find 1,000,000+ people who Disapprove of the Health Care Bill

     304,059,724 Against Obama’s Healthcare Takeover

     Repeal Obamacare

     My friend is nothing if not optimistic.

     When I entered Northwestern University in 1980, I attended fraterntity Rush Week, a five day drinking binge where seemingly EVERYBODY in EVERY HOUSE I entered wanted to be my friend. Thirty seconds after opening a door adorned with Greek letters, members wearing shirts with those same letters approached me from all sides and offered me red plastic cups filled to the rim with keg beer or a sweet-tasting punch, made with a combination of grain alcohol and moonshine whiskey, and bearing the name of the frat somewhere in the title.

     Here Greg, try some Fiji Fire.
     Careful. This is Delta Devil
     Want a Sigma Slam?

     With drink in hand, they let me steer the conversation any direction I pleased. Even if I chose to talk about the chemical composition of cement, they appeared interested.

     Eventually I chose Phi Kappa Sigma, known around campus as “The Skull House” and creators of “Skull Juice,” a drink so toxic, it could have passed as paint thinner. Becoming a Phi Kap was a decision I never regretted even though I soon realized that not all the Phi Kap upperclassmen found me as interesting as they did during Rush Week. Factions formed, members occasionally allied over pertinent fraternity issues, (like whether the women of Delta Gamma would be more impressed if we served Strawberry Daiquiris or Pina Coladas at the mixer. Turns out the answer was, “neither”) and every member, myself included, had at least one “what did I see in these guys and what did they see in me?” moment.

     Facebook, I’m realizing, is nothing more than the world’s largest fraternity. The only difference is that you can remove people at any time, something we couldn’t do at Phi Kappa Sigma unless their dues checks continually bounced.

     I have yet to defriend any Facebook friends although I am starting to profile them, much the same way that federal agencies profile suspected terrorists. So far I have identified several:

The Meteorologist -  This person apparently joined Facebook solely so he could provide weather updates to the entire Facebook community. My meteorological friend has posted the following in the last week alone:

     The sun is out and the snow is melting
     Yesterday temps in the 60s. Today, 2 inches of snow on the ground
     Loving this brief warm spell we are having
     Loving the warm weather. Melt snow…MELT

The Godfather - Someone who spends waaaaay too much time playing the aforementioned Mafia Wars, an exceptionally popular Facebook game that I refuse to become part of because I don’t want the following posts to clutter up other friends’ walls:

     ___ is working hard to finish the Loot the Police Impound Lot job and is in need of a whole lot of Armored Trucks from their Mafia!

     _____ needs help to take on local motorcycle thugs in Mafia Wars.

The Crop Duster – The same person except that their life revolves around Farmville, another third party app that has something to do with cute little animals and, unlike Mafia Wars is void of violence. I have yet to receive a post stating that 500 cows were slaughtered in Farmville.

The Joiner - That friend who encourages you to hug your son (even if you are childless or, like me, produced only daughters), applaud the accomplishments of someone with Down Syndrome, forward a political message about global warming or change your profile picture to your favorite Mad Men character - just for a day. These people apparently never heard the “If-your-friend-jumped-off-a-bridge-would-you-do-it too?” speech.

Top Chef – The friend who shares about-to-be-consumed meals with everybody – usually with photos. Two of my friends have, in the past week, prepared and/or eaten buttermilk marinated chicken, salmon ber blanc with capers and blackened fish over coastal salsa and Belgian endive. While these recipes all sound delicious, reading about and viewing the finished product simply wants to make me get up and head to the refrigerator.

The Exercise Freak – This friend wouldn’t be caught dead eating buttermilk marinated chicken because he or she is too busy posting exercise updates. To all those people who tell me about their recently completed 20-mile run through the hills of some town with an Indian name, remember that running enthusiast Jim Fixx bragged about his hobby in a best selling book - and died after jogging.

If you’re reading this and find yourself in one of these categories, don’t worry. I don’t plan to defriend anybody as I truly enjoy Facebook’s ability to help me reconnect with old friends and meet new ones. Heck, I’ve probably been guilty of many “who cares” posts myself. So, Farmville and Mafia Wars participants aside, keep sending me weather updates, menu schedules, exercise regimens and political rants.

Just not every hour.

                                               About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian and humorous speaker.  His clients include Microsoft, Cisco Systems, McDonald's, Motorola and United Airlines.  View his corporate comedy demo by clicking here.   His YouTube playlist can be found here 

Several months ago, I blogged about the Kindle, the digital book reader and brainchild of Amazon.com. At the time I was melancholy that yet another electronic gadget was replacing an age-old institution, in this case, “the book.”

Suddenly, however, I am feeling sorry for this device because with the recent announcement of the Apple iPad and its impending release this month, the Kindle is being derided by bloggers and technology experts alike because of its singular function – it only holds books.

My wife bought me a Kindle for Christmas and, I have to admit, I flip-flopped over its benefits. The idea that a book had to be recharged bothered me. Leave it to Amazon to give teenagers one more excuse for failing to complete their homework.

"My book died. What was I SUPPOSED to do?"

The Kindle came with a 30-day money back guarantee and, as the 29th day approached, I was still wavering. Meanwhile I had already downloaded and completed two books and four Sunday New York Times, while taking advantage of countless free sample chapters. The “sample chapter” feature is kind of cool as it eliminates the need to stand in bookstores for hours, reading portions of every title on the shelves while impatient staff members wonder if you are ever going to actually buy something. That's why there is no "movie preview" section in Blockbuster.

I decided to keep the Kindle. I’m a voracious reader by nature, preferring books over movies and music while traveling so it seemed like a viable purchase. I was satisfied with my decision for exactly 72 hours. That’s when Apple CEO Steve Jobs strode onto a San Francisco stage in his trademark black turtleneck and jeans (seriously, why do these tech billionaires feel compelled to wear a single ensemble each time they appear in public? I have yet to see Bill Gates in anything other than a blue button down shirt and navy sweater. He must own close to 1,000 of each), and unveiled the iPad. As far as I could tell, it was perfect for users who wanted either a bigger iPhone or a smaller Macbook but couldn’t decide.                                                              

The iPad, Jobs giddily explained, could read books and newspapers but could do so much more! It could play music, surf the Web, send email, schedule appointments and store contacts. The invited guests (how does one get an iPad invitation incidentally?) oohed and aahed as Jobs himself played with the device onstage while silently praying that nothing malfunctioned. (Anyone remember Gates’ Windows 98 demonstration?) Suddenly Kindle users like me were being viewed alongside the segment of our society that still adjusts television reception with rabbit ears.

The iPad’s accolades continued until the launch ended, at which time those lucky enough to get their hands on a working iPad really had a chance to digest the device’s features. Naturally, the criticisms started seconds later.  Foremost among the complaints?  The iPad has no camera.

Horrors!

When did it become a requirement for everybody to have photographic capability at all times? Americans spend an average of nine hours a day working and seven hours a day sleeping. We’re not exactly walking photo opps.

The iPad also was unable to play Flash video. How could Apple have neglected such an obvious feature, the critics wondered? Suddenly Jobs’ innovation was headed to the scrap heap before it was even available for purchase.

I always thought it would be cool to invent something. Now, I feel all fledgling Ben Franklins who are spending countless hours in basements, labs or garages creating the next great whatever, are simply setting themselves up for criticism from our never satisfied society. If Thomas Edison invented the lightbulb today, a blogger would write, “What? No dimmer? How does "TE" expect to set the proper mood without this obvious feature?”

I’m going to keep my Kindle and marvel at the fact that it can download War and Peace in under a minute. I’m going to read it on the plane and not bemoan its inability to take a photo of another passenger mid-flight. In short I’m going to be satisfied.

Of course, I don’t own a Toyota, which we now know was most likely manufactured without brakes. That would be something to complain about.

                                                                   About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian, humorous motivational speaker and author.  In 2010 he will release his first book, "My Life Needs Recharging But I Can't Find the Adaptor...Complications, Tribulations and Life Lessons from a High-Tech Dad."  Visit Greg's website by clicking here  View his YouTube playlist by clicking here

     Like most Americans, my TV viewing habits this week have shifted away from the glut of reality shows and CSI spinoffs to the spectacle that is the Winter Olympics. In spite of the criticism heaped on the organizers, I think Canada is doing a superb job. My only complaint is that the Olympic torches carried into the stadium during the opening ceremonies looked like huge joints. But perhaps this was the intent; it is Vancouver after all.

     I have been hooked on the cold weather games since 1972, when they were held in Sapporo, Japan. I vaguely remember the game’s marquee star, a cute-as-a-button US skater named Janet Lynn, who earned a bronze medal even though she (GASP) fell during the free skate.

     Of course now, falling during a skating performance seems to be a required element, right up there with the Triple Salchow. If nobody fell, we wouldn’t have to endure Scott Hamilton saying, “It’s over,” a mere millisecond after the skater has picked him or herself off the ice.

     Insipid expert commentary aside, I’ve always preferred the Winter Olympics to the Summer games because there always seems to be something new to watch. The Summer Olympics’ idea of stirring the pot is to add an old sport, played by the same athletes we watch every week.

     NEWS FLASH! Serena Williams will play tennis at the Summer Games!

     Wow!! Remind me to set my DVR.

     The Winter games conversely resemble a sporting laboratory of sorts. New events like the Halfpipe, moguls skiing and Short Track Speed Skating have popped up just so we don’t have to spend two weeks watching foreigners in body suits skate around a block of ice for 10,000 meters. Given our country’s insatiable desire to experience something new and different 24 hours a day, inventing new sports seems like a good decision.

     Last night I watched red-haired snowboard dude Shaun White shred the Halfpipe field, performing tricks with names like “Double Cork,” “1260” and some weird invention called the “Double Mac,” which may as well been called the “Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun,” so insane was its look.
                                                                                                                           
     The next day White’s heroics were the talk of my Facebook friends. Now that’s a success!

     The night before I indulged in Snowboard Cross, which features four riders maneuvering down an icy, steep-banked course while jostling, bumping and surely trash-talking each other in their native languages. Bizarre? Yes. Cool? Most definitely.

     In short, I’m all for new sports. It boosts ratings and prompts the average viewer to stay tuned in for curiosity's sake. That's why I think NBC could really score a ratings bonanza if they encourage the Olympic committee to revamp the tried and true winter sports that have been around since ancient Greeks slalomed down the Acropolis. Here are a few I propose to be initiated before the 2014 games:

     Pairs figure skating: All the contestants must be married, wear microphones and be allowed to fight during their routines. Even Scott Hamilton would shut up, lest he talked over a few candid exchanges:

     HUSBAND: Ready to do the Double Axel?
     WIFE: If that’s what YOU want to do.

     How about this one?

     WIFE: The least you could do is help me up off the ice
     HUSBAND: I’m sorry. Did you say something?

     Or this one, picked up by a live microphone as the pair sat on the bench awaiting their scores:

     WIFE: Every time you threw me, I didn’t complain. I was perfect for the entire routine. All you had to do was land one lousy Triple Lutz and you couldn’t even do that!
     HUSBAND: Oh excuse me. Let’s not forget who has to lift who over his head. Incidentally, I’m lifting a little more weight than I did at the last Olympics, if you catch my drift.
     WIFE: That does it! I’m calling my mother.

     Cross Country skiing: Seriously, how gripping is it to watch competitors jog on skis for 45 minutes over an open field? Let’s add a danger element. Beginning in 2014, all cross country courses will veer off into woods from time to time – woods populated with unfriendly wild animals. I would be on the edge of my seat hearing the announcer breathlessly yell, “The American will win the gold if he can just outlast the Finn, the Russian and the grizzly bear.”

     Ice Dancing: In my opinion, it's the most boring sport in the Olympics. Nobody ever falls so that eliminates the element of suspense. All they do is…dance. So let’s shake it up. All contestants must dance to at least one song from Eminem, Lil Wayne or Jay Z. Oh, and NBC is not allowed to use the seven second audio delay.

     Product endorsements: All athletes must be required to use any products they endorse while competing. If a downhill skier stumps for Verizon, he or she must talk on the cell phone while hurtling down the course. Get paid six figures to hawk a sports drink? Great. Take a big swig in the middle of your bobsled run. How about a lip balm? Be prepared to reapply while taking the final turn on the speed skating oval.

     I’m sure I’ll have more ideas but I need to end this blog. Curling is about to start.

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian, humorous motivational speaker and author.  In 2010 he will release his first book, "My Life Needs Recharging But I Can't Find the Adaptor...Complications, Tribulations and Life Lessons from a High-Tech Dad."  Visit Greg's website by clicking here  View his YouTube playlist by clicking here

It’s no secret that we, as a nation, enjoy complaining.

We whine about the slow moving line at Starbucks, moan over the fact that a date at the movies now costs upwards of 50 dollars and bitch because our child was passed over for an athletic scholarship even though we are convinced he or she is EXCEPTIONALLY talented.

            Most of the time, however, we complain because we don’t think anybody is listening to us.

            For example, we continue to call tech support because our cable keeps going out even though we have done EXACTLY what the CSR ordered us to do (turn off the modem, turn it on and wait for the flashing green light).  We hang up and then complain that this solution didn't work the last time we called; the entire cable industry is a scam; and why can’t we just go back to the days where television consisted of three channels that only appeared clearly if you held the rabbit ears on your television just so while standing on one foot?

            We send our restaurant steak back to the kitchen because we ordered it medium and it arrived on our plate looking as if the cow were blushing with embarrassment.  When it returns the second time, the meat is only slightly less bloody because, the waiter informs us, “That is the chef’s definition of ‘medium.’”

            Actually, I once went to a “steak house” in Phoenix that averted this problem by requiring the patrons to cook their own steaks, as if this were a privilege and part of the restaurant's ambience.  It worked like this:  You ordered a particular cut of meat, a member of the most under utilized wait staff in history served it raw on a plate and you walked over to a flaming hot grill where you actually cooked it yourself.  Then you received a bill.

            After looking at the bill and realizing I was paying to prepare my own dinner, it became clear that I had already eaten at this restaurant.  It was called “My House.”

            Suffice it to say that I am always on the lookout for an organization that not only caters to its customers but also makes a noble attempt to avert problems before they arise, thus eliminating complaints.  I recently found such a business in Pierre, South Dakota – specifically the Best Western Ramkota Hotel.

            On October 29, 2009, The South Dakota Housing and Development Authority invited me to speak to its members.  The event, according to my contact, would take place at the Ramkota and a nice room had been reserved for me.

            Of course, first I had to actually get to Pierre, South Dakota.  For a city that serves as the state capitol, flying to Pierre is about as easy as booking a flight on the space shuttle.  I chose to fly American Airlines from Chicago to Denver and then board Great Lakes Airlines for a 90-minute flight to Pierre aboard a plane that did not include a bathroom.

            Note that I did not say “non stop” flight to Pierre.  Yes, the plane eventually wound up there but first we had to land in Alliance, Nebraska, a town that even Google Earth cannot locate. The “layover” time in Alliance is however long it takes to open the plane’s door, remove all the Nebraska passengers, and close the door.  Unless of course somebody like me has to use the bathroom in the Alliance terminal.  When I requested a pit stop, the pilot looked at me as if I were going to screw up the entire Great Lakes Aviation on time record. But he begrudgingly obliged.

            Upon arrival in Pierre, I wondered how this town had earned the distinction of state capitol?  During the 20-minute drive to the Ramkota, I noticed nary a government-looking building.  Instead we passed gas stations, feed stores, and gas stations that sold feed.

            As a professional corporate speaker who logs over 100,000 airline miles a year, I can spot the good hotels from the dregs. When we pulled in, I realized The Best Western Ramkota was clearly the class of Pierre and probably hosted any out of town government dignitaries that needed to appear before the state legislature to discuss important business (like whether to extend feed store hours).  I heard Dick Cheney was fond of spending taxpayer money by chartering Air Force Two to Pierre so he could go pheasant hunting.  Of course Cheney probably did not have to stop in Alliance, Nebraska to relieve himself.

            Once inside, I quickly learned that hunting was a popular pastime in Pierre, as evidenced by the stuffed deer, bear, and aforementioned pheasant that peered down on me as I received my room key.  There’s something about stuffed animal heads that freaks me out.  Maybe it’s because their eyes are always open, as if they are searching for whomever put them in this predicament. Yet I never relay my fears to hunters, who would probably dismiss me as some lightweight city pansy and continue to make snide comments after I had left the room.

            The front desk attendant was cordial, professional and everything one would expect from an employee at a name hotel.  He provided good, but not exceptional customer service.

            No, the basis for this article occurred upon entering my room – actually a suite according to the attendant.  As a frequent hotel guest, I have come to realize that “suite” is a broadly used term. A suite at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas means a marble Jacuzzi tub, a bed featuring four Roman columns and possibly an on-call hooker named “Cleopatra.”

            A suite at the Best Western Ramkota Pierre means a bigger closet and a few extra coffee packets. Still, it’s always nice to be treated like a big shot.

            Upon entering my suite, my eyes immediately fell to a coffee table near the bed, specifically the contents on the coffee table.  Two small plastic bags held what appeared to be individually wrapped washcloths identical to those hanging in the bathroom.  A sign between the bags read:  “WELCOME HUNTERS.  This year all reports indicate you should have a wonderful hunting season.”

 (In other words, Dick Cheney would not be visiting)

The sign continued:  “For your convenience we have rags available for your use.  We ask that you please do NOT use our good towels, hand towels or washcloths to clean your guns, boots or dogs. For additional rags, please dial 0 and we will deliver them.”

I read the sign at least three times before realizing they were serious.  My amazement was soon replaced by fear upon deducing that I could be shot, kicked or mauled if I dared to complain about a noisy guest.

But then it slowly occurred to me that this was customer service at its finest.  The Best Western Ramkota knew hunters needed accommodations and did everything it could to appease them, including allowing dogs into the hotel, providing their masters with cleaning supplies and offering to bring more.  Who could complain about that?

Plus, the staff has solved its own problem – namely guests using good towels for disgusting purposes – by offering an alternative.  Too often, customer service means “our way or the highway.”  Cable television not working? Sorry, you still have to pay for the service while you wait all day for a technician to possibly show up.  Internet connection down?  Get on line and search for a solution.  (That’s always been my favorite. How can I get on line without an Internet connection?)

It would be very easy for the Ramkota to hang a sign stating, “Please do not use our good towels for hunting purposes” and leave it at that.  (Read:  We don’t feel like spending extra money on laundry.)  But what would that solve? A dirty hunter would most likely reach for the towels anyway because he has no choice.

I decided right then and there the Best Western Ramkota was true class in terms of customer service.  If the “towels for hunters” solution wasn’t proof enough, the point was further driven home when I ordered room service and noticed this message at the menu’s end:

 “Our chef will be happy to prepare your kill for you.”

And I thought I was going to have to cook it myself.

                                                   About Greg Schwem

 Greg Schwem is a professional corporate stand-up comedian and humorous motivational speaker.  Please visit his website by clicking here. 

     I recently returned from New York City with my 12-year-old daughter.  The highlight of the trip, for her anyway, was a visit to the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue.
      Actually, calling it a “store” is like calling Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner a “bank teller.”  Visitors to this store walk through a massive glass cube bearing the ubiquitous Apple logo and descend an escalator into a single room containing iPhones, iPods, iTouches and thousands of iGeeks.  The store is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year.  That’s correct, it’s even open Christmas Eve and Christmas morning just in case Santa’s elves miscounted and their boss is one MacBook short.
      After spending two hours in the store touching every iButton on every iShelf, my daughter has already added an iTouch and a Macbook to her Christmas list, even though it is October as I write this.  While those may wind up under the tree, I am forbidding her to get an iPhone.  Why?  Because my daughter has already lost her phone. Losing an iPhone today is worse than losing the keys to your rich and newly deceased Aunt Gladys’ safety deposit box, after years of listening to her at holiday meals tell the entire family that, when she expired, “there’d be a little something for everybody.” But more about that later.
      Saying that my daughter lost her phone doesn’t do the story justice.  Nine months after receiving a Sprint Rant for Christmas, and using it daily to send approximately 1.3 billion text messages and 400,000 self portraits of her teeth and nostrils to her friends, (thankfully her plan includes unlimited text, otherwise her parents would be living in a cardboard box under a viaduct) the phone failed to appear one morning as she was getting ready for school.  This in itself was no cause for alarm as the Schwem household begins each morning with a frantic search for shoes, backpacks, hairbrushes or homework.  The phantom item is always located approximately three seconds after the bus pulls away.
       The phone, however, had never obtained “milk carton status” until now.
Sue and I began our detective work by asking the question burned into every parent’s vernacular: “Where was the last place you left it?”
      The answer was just as common:  “I dunno.”
      Every time I hear that response, I wonder, “What’s the fuss over waterboarding?”
      Eventually we gleaned a little more information from her. She couldn’t remember bringing it in last night. No wait, she remembered having it when she got out of the car.  Okay, it’s getting clearer. She remembered putting it down while she retrieved her backup from our SUV’s hatch.
      And here’s where she had a “CSI moment;” the case suddenly becoming crystal clear. She remembered placing it on the bumper of the SUV while she retrieved her backpack.
      This would have been perfectly okay if the car had remained in the garage between 4 p.m. and 7 the next morning. But our family car is never idle for that long unless the battery is dead.  No, our car had made at least three trips since 4 p.m., meaning the purple Sprint Rant had made at least one of them, without a seat belt if you catch my drift.
      Natalie ran to the bus, minus her phone. Sue and I began walking the streets; searching for the phone the same way a heartbroken boy searches for a lost dog.  It had all the makings of a scene from Marley and Me except we weren’t combing the neighborhood calling, “Here Rant. Come home Rant!”
      Two days later, Sue found the phone.  Check that, she found pieces of the phone along West 123rd Street.  There were just enough parts and accompanying tire tracks to ensure the phone wouldn’t be covered under the “drop” section of the warranty.
      Natalie took the news hard, knowing that a new phone would come from her bank account.  But, as she began to save, she began looking at newer phones and cooler phones. Cell phone manufacturers have a season for introducing cooler phones; it begins mere seconds after a 12 year old has purchased a phone.
     Truth be known, Natalie always wanted an iPhone. But the price tag stymied her.  Besides Sprint, her parent’s provider, was not compatible with iPhone.  Since her phone was being added to our plan, she opted for the Rant.
      The iPhone wouldn’t be so cool if its owners used it as simply a phone. My Blackberry contains my address book, calendar and that’s about it.  Oh sure, I occasionally use the camera to snap grainy photos of objects that I will delete within 24 hours and yes, occasionally I find myself playing Brickbreaker while waiting for planes. Otherwise, I use it as a phone, meaning I talk on it.
      I rarely see iPhone users speaking into their phones.  That’s because they are too busy diddling with iPhone applications.  At last count the number of “apps” was approaching 100,000, including several that seem to do nothing more than make – ahem – gaseous noises on the iPhone.  The user pays for that, by the way.
      If I lose my Blackberry, I know that everything is backed up on my PC.  Somehow I doubt that the fart app, or any other cool iPhone app, exists anywhere except within the iPhone.  So let’s see what would happen when one gets lost.
     I’ll take a blank iPhone and download ten random applications from the Apple Store.  (Hint:  It’s much easier to search the iPhone app store if you actually OWN an iPhone.  I don’t so I have to resort to more primitive methods, such as Google searches and recommendations from the online Apple staff or “Genuises,” as they prefer to be called).
     I’ll start with iOwn, a $4.99 app that allows the inventorying of everything one has acquired over the years.  Think one of those metal self storage sheds on your phone.
      Okay, now that I have EVERYTHING I OWN on my iPhone, there is still room for nine more apps.  So I’ll add Pennies, a finance app that lets me keep track of my expenses; Grocery iQ for control of my shopping list, and Barista, so I can make my favorite espresso beverages with the skill of a tenured Starbucks employee.
      I may be tempted to sweeten that frothy drink so my iPhone better contain BloodSugar, an app that allows me to test my sugar intake.  I’ll add FlightTrack to get real time flight updates and Gas Cubby to record my gas mileage in the event that I miss my flight altogether.  RedLaser lets me scan UPC codes while DIRECTV allows me to program my DVR from faraway places.
      Finally, I’ll add Things which, according to the Apple website, allows one to “manage tasks and get things done.”  I assume nobody in Congress has ever downloaded it.
      Now I will drive around the neighborhood with my newly loaded iPhone on my car bumper until it falls off and becomes a pothole filler.  In one instant, I have suffered amnesia of every sort.  I no longer have any idea what to buy at the grocery store and without a UPC scanner, wouldn’t know how to buy it anyway.  Of course, lacking Pennies, I’m not sure I can afford groceries.  Or gas for that matter.
      Since purchasing coffee from a store is out of the question, I’ll just go home and make some.  Wait, no I won’t because I lost all the recipes.  And I probably couldn’t find the coffee maker anyway since I downloaded its location on iOwn. My next flight came and went (I think) and my DVR is suddenly useless. So I will sit in my house, unsure what to do since Things is not around to guide me. 
      Wait, I’m feeling light-headed!  Could my blood sugar be plunging?  How should I know? Quick, dial 911!
      Damn, I can’t do that either.  Cause of death? Missing iPhone.  Bag him and tag him.
      Now you see why my daughter will never get an iPhone.  There is, however, a nice rotary model on Craigslist.

                                                                About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a nationally known corporate stand-up comedian and business speaker.  Please visit his website by clicking here.  View his full corporate demo by clicking here

     I am virtually getting sick of all things virtual.

     Sure, 2009 was the year we cut back on doing “real” stuff and explored the benefits of using our computers to do everything. Virtual meetings became hot in the corporate world; my kids began feeding virtual pets via Webkinz; an agent I deal with even hired a virtual assistant who is not only less helpful than a real assistant but twice as annoying.

     But I am officially ready to snap now that I have received my first virtual traffic ticket.

     I returned home from a business trip last Friday, weary yet anxious about the upcoming weekend. There would be kids’ soccer and volleyball games as well as my 47th birthday celebration. On my desk lay a stack of mail, many items bearing the shape of birthday cards. In the midst of the pile was a legal-sized envelope with a return address that caught my eye: Village of Willowbrook Red Light Photo Enforcement, Norcross, Georgia.

     I tore open the envelope and the words leaped off the paper: CITATION. TRAFFIC SIGNAL VIOLATION.

     A series of grainy photos accompanied the text. The first showed a line of cars approaching a traffic light in darkness; the second was an even more blurred image of my license plate and the final image seemed to assemble both photos, showing my BMW x5 allegedly entering the intersection and making a left turn. A red blob that could have either been a traffic signal or a UFO hovered just slightly above and to the right of my vehicle.

     The Willowbrook Police Department, which incidentally is located in Willowbrook, Illinois, nearly 1000 miles from Norcross, Georgia, clearly believed I ran a red light. This was stated emphatically next to the photos:

     Please take notice that the vehicle described and pictured herein did not stop for the red traffic signal at the place, date and time specified. Therefore, under Title 8-11-13 of the Village of Willowbrook Code of Ordinances, as the registered owner of the vehicle, you are liable for the violation. Unless you elect to request an Administrative Hearing, a civil penalty in the amount of $100.00 must be paid by the due date shown on this notice.

     I stared at the photos again with the concentration of a paparazzi who has just spied Jennifer Anniston sunbathing. Yes, I recognized the intersection in the first photo – Route 83 and 63rd Avenue, a quarter mile from my health club. Yes, that was my license plate in the second photo. And yes it appeared my car was in the midst of the intersection in the third photo.

     Or was it?

     Was the light REALLY red? Or was it yellow when I made my move? Did it turn red only when I had nearly finished the turning maneuver? There appeared to be another car ahead of me in the left turn lane. Was this vehicle in violation as well?

     What did Norcross Georgia have to do with this incident?

     Was there indeed another gunman on the grassy knoll?

     Unfortunately I received answers to exactly ZERO of these questions because I was dealing in the virtual world. A camera had snapped the photos and determined that I was in the wrong. As further proof there were numbers and indecipherable codes at the top of each picture that read something like this:

     SPc Time Date Code Amb Red Photo Limit Ln
     29.0 05:55:29:57 09/17/2009 300 2:90 0:29 818A 45:00 1

     In case I needed MORE proof, the citation was actually signed by an actual, or in this case a virtual, police officer:

     I am a duly authorized officer by the Village of Willowbrook Police Department. Based on inspection of the recorded images shown above, the motor vehicle was operated in violation of Title 8-11-13 of the Willowbrook Code of the Ordinances, as evidenced by the above images. Sworn to and affirmed by:

     I couldn’t read the hen scratching that passed for an electronic signature at the bottom. All I knew was that “Mark” was the officer’s first name.

     It appeared Office Mark had busted me. Using all the skills learned at the police academy, he had examined three grainy photos and determined that the Willowbrook Police Department desperately needed $100.

     I had two choices according to the citation. I could pay the one hundred bucks or request a hearing date. Anybody who has ever opted for the “request a hearing” choice knows that really isn’t a choice. Ever tried to contest a ticket? You will have better luck arranging a date between Taylor Swift and Kanye West.

     While arguing in court may not be effective, sometimes it works when the ticket is actually issued, something that is impossible when getting a virtual ticket. My wife has talked her way out of four speeding tickets. I’ve never been with her when this happens so I don’t know exactly what she says to the officer, although she assures me she doesn’t bare any skin. The point is, she whips the car pool around at 85 miles per hour yet still has an impeccable driving record thanks to her gift of gab.

     My persuasive skills are not nearly as impressive when it comes to moving violations. But admit it, at least when you get pulled over without the aid of cameras, there is always a chance that you will drive away with a warning.

     Such is not the case with a ticket garnered through the use of red-light cameras mounted on traffic signals. I could only imagine what that argument would be like.

     Willowbrook Police Department. Do you have an emergency?

     Uh, no but I would like to speak to Officer Mark.

     He can’t come to the phone now. He’s busy Photoshopping. (CLICK)

     The manner in which you receive a virtual ticket is equally humiliating. It comes in the mail, for crying out loud. There is no sense of impending doom, no lights and siren in your rearview mirror, no frantic search for insurance papers as you hear the click of boots on pavement and know the officer is about to stick his head, his flashlight and possibly a loaded .38-caliber revolver inside your open window.

     There also is no chance to think, “Maybe, just maybe, I can outrun this guy.”

     Admit it, when a police officer is on your tail in full police officer mode, a really stupid thought flashes through your mind. It begins and ends in about a nanosecond but it existed nonetheless. You actually contemplate a high-speed pursuit, with your car in the lead.

     I attribute this thought to the fact that we watch so many movies where the lead character manages to outrun not just one police officer but an entire force. This is made infinitely easier due to the fact that there is always a dirt road up ahead on the left.

     We’ve witnessed the scene thousands of times. “TURN LEFT AT THAT DIRT ROAD.”

     Amidst a screech of brakes and a cloud of dust, our hero does just that while the unwitting officers continue heading straight. Crisis averted, the driver is now free to unwind by making out with the female in the passenger seat.

     Had I been pursued by an actual officer at Route 83 and 63rd Street in Willowbrook, Illinois, I would have immediately pulled over since there was no dirt road on the left. My only choice of escape was a Whole Foods parking lot, which offered limited cover.

     I’d still be out 100 bucks but at least I would have driven away knowing that I was in the wrong and determined to be a better driver in the future.

     Being flagged by technology only gets my blood boiling. Like everything else these days, it’s just so darn impersonal.

     Yet judging from the growing number of municipalities who see red-light cameras as revenue producers, I know that this technology is here to stay. So I will send Norcross, Georgia a check.

     Along with a few other items.

     As long as photos are being used to determine guilt, I have dug up a few more snapshots from my life that clearly show legal infractions. Might as well come clean, right?

     There’s the photo of me playing Little League baseball and rounding the bases during a home run. To this day, I believe I may not have touched second base. With today’s technology, the photo should prove it.

     Here are several photos of me drinking at a college frat party. Drinking while underage, I admit.

     Here I am in seventh grade. Note that I am wearing a leisure suit. That has to be illegal.

     Tell me what I owe. May God have mercy on my soul.

          Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian and humorous motivational speaker whose clients include Microsoft, Cisco Systems, IBM, McDonald's, United Airlines and Motorola.  Please visit his website by clicking here.  Contact him via Twitter by clicking here.

I recently spent eight days in Europe where I spent some free time doing the tourist thing. I investigated castles, poked around museums, and sought out the trendiest cafes that I had read about on blogs.

Often I had to wait in line. Others were doing the same thing. Nobody complained, tried to "cut" in front of another patron or formed their own line just outside the actual line.

Obviously, I was not in the United States.

In this cyber age, where we have grown accustomed to booking airline tickets, making restaurant reservations and shopping for everything from ink cartridges to automobiles on line, the idea of forming a line - a single straight line - has eluded us.

I thought we had solved this problem after 9/11. Remember the scenes of people from all walks of life waiting patiently to donate blood? They stood in lines that snaked around city blocks, chatting with complete strangers about where they were that horrible day and what brought them to this line.

Sadly, that behavior has been quickly forgotten, as I noticed this week while waiting to pick up a pre-ordered fruit tray at my local grocery store. I strode to the deli at 8 a.m., happy to find a single patron in front of me. "This won't take long," I thought.

As the worker sliced meat for the other customer, an elderly woman appeared from another aisle and walked straight to the carousel of paper numbers that one is supposed to grab during crowded deli moments, thereby ensuring a rightful place in line.

The key word here is "crowded." Because I didn't feel one other customer constituted a crowd, I neglected to take a number. A simple deduction would lead to the conclusion that I was next and the elderly woman would follow me.

Not so. The worker, whose back was turned to his three customers, finished filling the order and then, for some inexplicable reason, glanced at the LCD screen displaying the numbers and called the next one.

"Forty-seven?"

Grandma Haggard immediately stepped forward. "Right here," she said.

"Can I help you?" said the worker, having not a clue that I had been waiting.

Too stunned to say anything, and not having the energy to argue with a senior citizen, I opted to let her get her pastrami order while I waited. However, it was the first time I ever looked at a kielbasa and considered using it as a weapon.

Scenes like this play out endlessly as Americans search for a way - any way - to avoid the simple task of waiting. I stay in a ton of hotels and still marvel at the jockeying for position that occurs at check-in desks. Las Vegas is the only city where the hotel employees appear to have gotten together and found a solution. Velvet ropes are usually found in the lobbies, FORCING guests to form a single file line and wait for the next available receptionist.

Hotels in other cities either can't spring for velvet or relish the idea of a fight breaking out in front of them. Often I approach a desk to see three employees helping guests. My strategy is to wait in front of the center clerk; not DIRECTLY in front but leaving myself about 10 feet of space. It's my way of saying, "I'm in line for whomever is available next."

But invariably another guest saunters up, assumes I have a special affection for the center attendant and parks him or herself directly in front of another clerk. Ninety-nine percent of the time, that clerk is available within seconds, while I wait as the guest in front of me reviews his bill with the concentation of a brain surgeon.

Finally, there is the airport, truly the Mecca of unorganized lines. Despite repeated warnings by airline personnel of "board only when your row is called," "do not congregate in the boarding area," and "I will personally ram a shoe down the throat of anyone who seems to think the plane will leave without them if they don't get on this instant," the mess continues.

And that's if the plane is on time!

Ever waited in a line full of people who are being rebooked (the airline industry's word for "we screwed up big time"? You start in a "line." Four minutes later that line has become a "clump" as irate passengers scream into their cell phones trying to get a faster response from the airline's help desk. Upon hanging up they resume their place in what has now turned from a "clump" into an "angry mob."

Is there a solution to this madness? Personally I think everyone in this country should be forced to watch images of starving Third World residents, waiting patiently in broiling sun for hours just to receive food, something far more relevant than an airline seat. Lets hope those scenes never play out here.

Hey, it's my turn. The fruit looks delicious.

            About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian and humorous motivational speaker whose clients include Microsoft, Cisco Systems, IBM, McDonald's, United Airlines and Motorola.  Please visit his website by clicking here.  Contact him via Twitter by clicking here.

     It’s been just over two weeks since we last heard about Alexa Longuiera and, unless you had fallen down a manhole during that time, you probably know about her. 

     Actually, if you had fallen down a manhole, chances are you are Alexa Longuiera.

     The 15 year old from Staten Island was behaving like a typical teenager on July 11, meaning she was walking down the sidewalk and preparing to send a text message because that's all teenagers do these days. The text was not coming from her phone but from a phone that a friend had just handed her.

      That’s right, she was with a friend, making the ensuing incident even more unbelievable (and hilarious if you are a comedian who has devoted the last 15 years to writing jokes about technology)

     As Ms. Longuiera continued to tap away at her phone, and her friend exhibited all the awareness of a hibernating bear, neither noticed an open manhole on the sidewalk. Suddenly Ms. Longuiera was gone, albeit temporarily. After plunging into the hole, she climbed out via a ladder that, up until July 11, had only been used by sewer workers.

     Thankfully she suffered only minor injuries yet that didn’t stop her parents from announcing to all media outlets that they planned to sue the city for not properly marking the manhole with a sign that, in all likelihood, should have said, "STOP TEXTING AND LOOK DOWN!" I have been unable to find any information on whether a lawsuit has actually been filed but I believe it would take Judge Judy about 13 minutes to end the dispute, provided both parties bring photos and receipts.

     We all know that text messaging is a distraction. Texting while someone is speaking with you is downright rude. Texting while driving can lead to accidents. Too much texting can lead to carpal tunnel syndrome. In short, texting is a disease. 

     But as far as I’m concerned, texting is just one of the litany of afflictions that has been created as a result of our infatuation with technology. Behold, let me introduce many other illnesses that are sweeping the world, much like swine flu. The only difference is that wearing a mask can prevent swine flu. These “cyber-diseases” can only be avoided by eliminating technology in your life. In other words, they are here to stay.                                                                                 

     Friend overloadus – Sudden memory loss that comes from having too many Facebook friends and being unable to remember who they are, what connection they have to you and why you even befriended them in the first place.

     Twitosterone – A chemical that oozes through your body, causing you to actually feel as if you are tweeting something of interest, even though your last three Twitter posts were, “Just ordered large latte” immediately followed by “latte arrived” and “drinking latte now. Mmmm good.”

     Skype-i-sode – The horrible feeling that occurs when the Internet connection you are using to make a free international call using Skype goes down. Symptoms include loudly repeating profanities, smashing of keyboard with fist and the horrible realization that your “free” call is about to get VERY expensive.

     Over-endorse – Similar to a drug overdose except the “user” has succumbed to the temptations of asking too many LinkedIn contacts to endorse his or her work. Treatable via an intervention program in which all the contacts confront the user in a locked room and confess they cannot remember him.

     Accountus Interruptus – Being notified that an email account has been cancelled due to lack of use. Primarily occurs when the victim has set up accounts via Yahoo, Google, AOL, MSN and Hotmail yet has suddenly neglected all of them in favor of Facebook.

     EBay Dysfunction – When an item the victim posted on eBay expires with no bids, no questions and no “watchers.” Also known as “shooting blanks.”

     Match.con – Posting an on-line dating service photo that bears absolutely no resemblance to your real life appearance.

     ISomnia – Suffered by anyone who stays up late downloading needless applications for their iPhone

     YouTubeaphobia – The fear that the boss will enter while you and your fellow employees are watching YouTube videos

     World Wide Webisode – A hallucinatory incident where the victim is convinced he is being watched by the team that created Google Earth.

     And finally…

     Longuiera-itis – Running, crashing or falling into anything while text messaging.

            About Greg Schwem

Greg Schwem is a corporate stand-up comedian and humorous motivational speaker whose clients include Microsoft, Cisco Systems, IBM, McDonald's, United Airlines and Motorola.  Please visit his website by clicking here.  Contact him via Twitter by clicking here.