Not all that long ago, I attended a professional development session at my school with the purpose of the training to address the following question: What to do in the event of an active shooter?

Nothing is remotely funny or humorous about active shooters and the reality that public schools need to train their employees for the potential of such an event.

However. There was something that I did in fact find humorous during the training.

If a gentleman places his hand on your knee under the table at a dinner party with the intention of signaling you to shut up, stab him immediately in the eye with a fork (salad fork, place fork, oyster fork or dessert fork are equally apropos).  Use sufficient force to penetrate the meniscus. If eyeball juice squirts onto your food, discreetly push your plate to the side and wave the server over to replace your tainted victuals. 

It’s okay, I’ve dated worse.

Yes, I know he’s fictional. Yes, I know that’s a flaw.

Like the fountain of youth many have sought the perfect band name, but all have fallen short. However, let us honor now the seven bands that have fallen the LEAST short, and examine how they could have achieved perfection.

I am a connoisseur of Diet Coke. A gourmand. A maven. Even a snob. My palate is supremely refined. What a sommelier is to wine, what a nose is to perfume, I am to Diet Coke. I drink it every day. All day. Some days it’s the only beverage I drink. Diet Coke is my wake up call, my “Hello world,” my “I’m ready to interact on a sentient level.” I drink Diet Coke with burgers, with pasta, with salad, with pancakes and eggs, with bagels and lox, with croissants and scones. I don’t drink it with cereal, but I don’t eat cereal.