Cantankerously Yours
Belated Third Annual Scroogie Awards
By Wendell Abern
Dear New Year’s Revelers,
I usually write my Scroogie column for December issues. This year, however, personal problems prevented it.
And rather than just write my traditional New Year’s column, I have decided to publish my Scroogie awards a month late – in the hopes it will put a permanent end to the vicious rumor someone started that I have turned into a nice guy.
I’m not sure who started this rumor, or why, but no one calls me a nice guy and gets away with it.
I inaugurated my Scroogie awards in 2007, as an homage to my idol and favorite role model, Ebeneezer Scrooge. And I award Scroogies only to those who have proved worthy — through acts of inconsiderateness, boorishness, stupidity, arrogance, or any other trait that just plain rankles me and deserves my curmudgeonly wrath.
Each year, I encounter the same major problem: hundreds of candidates, too little space to mention them all. However, those listed below clearly outdistanced all others.
1 – “Means-well” Scroogie: Dr. Smiles.
That is not really her name, of course. I just don’t want to embarrass her because I know she really does mean well.
I love Dr. Smiles. Far as I’m concerned, she is the best internist in South Florida.
However, she recently prescribed a Neti Pot for me to help clear my sinuses.
“A Neti Pot? What the hell is that? It sounds like a bedside commode
for sick people.”
“It’s great for sinuses. Everybody loves it. You’ll love it, too.”
The Neti Pot resembles a mini-teapot, except the end of the spout is fitted with a knob that will fit into a nostril. You fill the pot with luke warm water, add a packet of saline powder, stir until dissolved, then tip your head back and fit the Neti Pot over one nostril. The solution shoots up your nose, circles around your sinus cavity, then drips out the other nostril.
I saw Dr. Smiles a week later. She asked how I liked the Neti Pot.
“That is not a medical treatment!” I shouted. “It’s waterboarding.”
“It is a very common and popular treatment for sinuses.”
“Oh yeah? Then how come when I finished I confessed to four burglaries and two house break-ins?”
“Oh, stop complaining. I can tell it helped by the way you sound.”
“Helped? I’m reporting you to the Joint Chiefs of Staff for torture under the guise of medical treatment.”
She rummaged in a drawer for a gigantic hypodermic.
“It’s time for your flu shot,” she said.
Dr. Smiles knows I don’t mess with anyone who brandishes needles.
2 – “Patients Last” Scroogie: The Benny Hill Clinic.
Even though I am filled with contempt for much of the medical world in South Florida, Benny Hill was a flat-out, hands-down winner.
Rarely does anyone answer a phone at this world-renowned clinic. When someone does, the caller is immediately put on hold and must listen to an endless recorded infomercial.
This clinic houses most of my own personal doctors, all of whom I rank as superlative. Every once in a while, I try to call one of them. I now know everything I ever wanted to know about early pregnancies and nagging PMS problems.
Still, the doctors are outstanding. I once wrote a commendatory letter to the CEO of this clinic, lauding the medical staff.
He never answered.
Three years ago, I underwent two major operations in the hospital associated with this clinic. Two separate eight-day stays. As anyone who has ever spent time in a hospital knows, nurses run everything.
I was so impressed with the nurses and the care I received, I wrote another laudatory letter to the same CEO.
He never answered that one either.
Instead, I recently received a letter from him. He actually had the chudspah to ask me to send money to add new programs and services.
I wrote back, saying I would like to contribute a sizable sum, asking him to phone me personally because I wouldn’t put the figure in writing.
He actually did call. I put him on hold.
3 – “Instruction Writing” Scroogie: a tie!
I maintain that a special Obfuscation School exists that teaches
This year’s Scroogie for such obfuscation goes to two brilliant practitioners who no doubt passed the course with high marks.
A. Cordless phone instructions.
Radio Shack had run out of single phones; I had to buy a two-pack. Instructions seemed very clear: open the battery pack cover, plug in
the battery pack, close the cover and place the handset in the base of one of the charging cradles. Let it charge for 24 hours. When fully charged, place it in the other cradle and the light on the base will begin to flash. Wait five seconds, then remove. Repeat for the second phone.
To some people, that might seem very simple. However, I now have one phone that rings when someone calls, then hangs up as soon as I answer; a flashing light on the other phone, which doesn’t ring at all, and a Caller ID that indicates I’m receiving a call from someone in Calcutta, India.
B. Zenith Corner Caddy for showers.
I love Zenith products. Always have. Very reliable. Last for years.
However, I just bought a corner caddy for my shower. Neat little thing with two little shelves to hold shampoo and conditioner bottles, and a little rack for washcloths.
Very simple to put together. All plastic pieces, with double-backed tape to adhere to the shower wall. Five easy steps: assemble and hang.
They left out step number three.
Okay, it’s a simple little contraption, and I should be able to figure out how the parts go together, right?
I hung it upside-down.
In anger, I ripped it off and placed it on the shower floor. I still have two pieces of double-backed tape sticking to the shower wall, which I cannot remove.
Someone at the Obfuscation School probably got an “A” and a big laugh when he came up with the idea of omitting an instruction step.
While there are many others deserving of a Scroogie, I don’t have room in this column to mention them. However, I can assure you they will all show up in the February issue of this magazine.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].