I also didn’t like whipped cream. When I ordered a hot chocolate as a kid, I always had to tell the barista to leave it off. (Actually, it was my mother who made the request for me. I was too busy being scared of people.) Now I’m sure my legions of Gen Z readers are confused right now. “Why did you have to ask for no whipped cream? Did the barista not dutifully inquire as to your dietary preferences?” Nope. In those days, all hot chocolates were created equal. Regular milk, regular chocolate, a clump of whipped cream, and a temperature that was certain to burn over-eager toddler tongues.

Now when you order hot chocolate, most baristas will ask if you want whipped cream. I can’t help but feel that I’m responsible for this. And if this is the case, I would like to apologize because I had no idea what I had unleashed. It has become standard for restaurants to allow people to custom-design every item they order. And having worked myself as a barista for several years, I can tell you that most people have a very high opinion of their recipe-enhancement skills. They always seem to know something that the professionals don’t.

How did we get to this point where everyone wants to modify every element of every experience? How perfect do you think you can make your meal? If you tell a Thai waiter that your food should be a 3.5/10 level of spicy, I suggest that you cook for yourself. Or if you find yourself requesting that your salad is to be dressed “not too much but not too little,” it’s time to finally reckon with your personal unhappiness.

At the risk of sounding hypocritical, I should mention that I still do occasionally request modifications myself. My pickiness has gotten much better, but there remains work to be done. I do have a system, however. When I get a menu, I first scan for any options I can order without requesting changes. If that proves unsuccessful, I try to keep my modifications to one or two non-essential ingredients. “I’ll have the tofu scramble, but hold the mushrooms please” seems like a reasonable request. “I’ll have the tofu scramble, but no tofu and don’t scramble it,” not so much.

Some restaurants have taken a stand. When I see “no substitutions” on a menu, I sort of admire that defiance. “No substitutions, no exceptions” is even more ballsy. All-or-nothing statements may not be ideal, but perhaps they’re necessary. “No unreasonable substitutions” would not work because I guarantee you that in someone’s mind, requesting a caprese sandwich with “swiss instead of mozzarella, hold the tomatoes, add banana peppers, onions, and pastrami, and switch the ciabatta roll to a sesame bagel” is perfectly reasonable. Humans are batshit crazy, in case you hadn’t noticed. Although an imperfect antidote, society must institute rules to contain the madness.

Then again, if “no substitutions, no exceptions” were the law of restaurant-land, I probably would not have eaten out until I was 22 years old. In fact, a lot of children would not be able to go to restaurants, which obviously would be a wonderful thing, but what about the adult children? What would we do with them?

I propose that we have special clearly-marked restaurants that allow patrons to customize to their heart’s content. These places will be a haven for picky kids and grown-ups who feel entitled to choose the quantity of chickpeas in their curry. It will be a lovely five-hour dining experience. For all other food establishments, the menu shall be immutable and any modifications will have to be made by the customer, not the chef. If that means I have to scoop off the whipped cream into the trash, that is a sacrifice I am willing to make.

As I see it, a pencil has two jobs: writing and erasing. (If you have other uses for a pencil, please keep them private.) In terms of writing, the Ticonderoga® cannot be beat. It sharpens perfectly every time. None of that bullcrap where the wood sharpens faster than the graphite. You know what I’m talking about.

Ticonderogas® also erase at a very high level. No smearing! (Take note, Office Depot® brand.) If you have an issue with a Ticonderoga® eraser, it’s definitely your fault. You must have dropped it in the dirt or something. Take some personal responsibility,

I’m actually not sure why I’m so passionate about Ticonderogas®. If I’m being honest, which I always am with you, my loyal readers, I hardly ever use pencils. Pencils are for sketching and math, two activities I abandoned years ago when it became apparent that I had a very low ceiling of potential in both, and I had already reached it. Essentially, pencils are a child’s domain. That’s why I use pens, like a real man. But I guess I just really respect a good product. In fact, when a product is so well-designed, it makes me wonder why alternatives even exist. This is a point I made years ago with my controversial Milky Way®/Twix® joke.

When I become a parent, my kids will get only the best, which means Twix® bars on Halloween and Ticonderogas® for their school work. This is assuming that someday I will have children, pencils will still be in use, and learning will be happening in schools…a forecast that, quite frankly, is not grounded in reality. Oh well.

Then there’s Garfield. This morbidly obese, misanthrophic cat has been raging against Mondays for nearly five decades now. Much like Mark Zuckerberg, he recognized an underlying human tendency toward negativity and capitalized on it. To this day, Garfield is still out there peddling his anti-Monday narrative and making a handsome profit in mug and mousepad sales.

Monday is actually a good day though. It’s a day of renewal and possibility. The world is your oyster, as they say, whatever that means. Monday is empowering for the same reason that January is empowering. A new beginning. Tuesday, on the other hand, is the February of days. On Tuesday, all of Monday’s potential seems lost and time stands still. You’re knee-deep into the problems of the week, yet you’re not even halfway to the weekend. Nothing exciting has ever happened on a Tuesday. (The Challenger did explode on a Tuesday, but that’s not really the “excitement” that I’m talking about here.)

I propose that we remove Tuesdays entirely from the week. And while we’re at it, I find the hours of 3-5pm depressing. Let’s cut those out, too, and go straight from 2:59pm to 5:01pm. If that seems too extreme, we can just do it for a couple days each week. I can deal with afternoons on occasion, but not every day.

I’m realizing too late that this topic did not warrant a full essay. It’s a bit “meh.” I feel that I’ve wasted our time. Then again, if you’re reading this on a Tuesday (and you should be), I doubt you had anything better to do.

Let’s all embrace the “meh” of Tuesday. After all, tomorrow is a different day!

Me (pointing): I would like that t-shirt, please.

Cashier (handing it to me): Here you go.

Tip screen: Select your tip amount. 20%. 25%. 30%. No tip.

I had to think. Should I tip 30% for my t-shirt? After all, the employee did do her job. She handed me the shirt without incident. No violence occurred. As Seinfeld himself would say, perhaps I should give her “a little something extra for not taking my head and smashing my face through the glass countertop.”

It may not shock you to learn that I did not choose to voluntarily increase my t-shirt price to $65. Nor $60, nor $55. Instead, I clicked that all-terrifying “No tip” button. People are scared of that button!

I was recently sitting at my local coffee shop, sipping my un-tipped coffee, and I overheard a young woman at the register apologizing profusely for hitting the “No tip” button.

“I am so, sooo sorry!” she emphasized. “It was an accident!”

It concerns me that we’ve reached a point in society where not tipping for a coffee is treated as a social faux pas on par with backing over your neighbor’s dog.

Everyone seems to assume that the servers hate you if you don’t tip. I’m sure that’s true sometimes, but I was a barista for two years, and I did not hate the non-tippers. In fact, one of my favorite customers came in every day for a drip coffee and sat down for several hours in the shop. He rarely tipped, but he was always polite. Honestly, I much preferred serving him over the tipping customers who ordered bullshit like this:

People will argue that food service workers don’t make enough money. That’s true, but is it the customer’s job to supplement their wages? If so, why don’t we just make it simpler? Maybe companies should start a monthly wage-improvement donation program where customers are kindly asked to contribute extra money directly to the company. The call-to-action in the email subject line could be something like this:

“Help us help our employees perform labor that benefits us. Do (y)our part.”

I should say that I always tip for table service. But let’s by clear: table service means that I sit down at a table and food is brought to me. It doesn’t mean that I have to seat myself, order at the counter, retrieve my food when it’s ready, and bus my own dishes. That happened at an Italian restaurant in Chicago. They had a host stand, so I assumed they would also have waiters. Wrong. I ended up having to do so many chores while I was there, I was surprised there wasn’t a customer dishwashing station. When I got the check (which I had to pay at the counter), there was the standard tip line. I left it blank and decided to keep the tip for myself since, after all, I had waited on myself. Although I didn’t care for my attitude, so I reduced my tip to 15%.

That reminds me…some places are now declaring the official meaning of various tip amounts. For example, on the tip screen next to the 20% option, it will say “Fine.” Who doesn’t love the guilt card? They think that you will tip more because how could you tip the “fine” amount? Are you an ungrateful selfish cheapskate? Wasn’t the service you received a little better than “fine?” No. Probably not. The truth is, most service is just fine, which is not a bad thing. We should all be grateful when things in our lives are fine. When my waiter is pleasant and my food arrives in a reasonable timeframe and it tastes close to what I expected, that is a fine experience. I will tip accordingly.

If my stance on any of these issues risks prematurely accelerating my transition into curmudgeonhood, then so be it. Who are we if we don’t stick to our principles! This is my position, damn it, and I will not waver! (Unless I’m with someone I want to impress. Then, I will eagerly tip $5 for a $4 coffee.)

There are two types of people in this world: Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t.

While the polarizing nature of “Cracklin’ Rosie” is undeniable, I would like to posit that the world can more accurately be broken down into two other groups of people: those who are usually on time and those who are usually late.

The on-timers spend a lot of time waiting, while the chronically late spend a lot of time making excuses. I’ve heard enough excuses to fill the Dead Sea Scrolls, so I’ll just dissect my least favorite: parking.

“It took forever to find parking!”

As someone who uses public transportation, I admittedly don’t have to deal with parking. But I do plan my time according to the bus schedule, so I can’t say I’m thrilled when I have to wait 20 minutes outside a restaurant while the person I’m meeting continuously circles the block. No open spaces within five feet of a Los Angeles diner at noon on a Sunday? Who would’ve expected such a shocking twist of events in the densest urban area in the nation? Let me put it another way: Unless we’re meeting for brunch in a Wyoming cow pasture, you should add a few extra minutes to find parking.

Now I understand that many of the tardy-afflicted are not consciously trying to be inconsiderate. In fact, I’ve known plenty of people who want to change, but they just haven’t figured out how.

“I’ve tried everything!” they bemoan. “I plan ahead, but I’m still always late!”

If you’re one of these people, bemoan no more, for I am about to blow your mind with my lateness solution. This concept is so simple, yet so brilliant, that frankly, I shouldn’t be giving it away for free. But that’s just the kind of guy I am: punctual and generous.

Here is the secret:

If you have to ask yourself if you have time to do something before you go to your next appointment, the answer is always no.

That’s it. Follow this rule religiously and you’ll never be late again.

Let’s try it out together with a common scenario: You have an 11:30am appointment on Thursday at a short-staffed veterinary clinic. It took weeks to get the appointment, and your ferret’s face rash has now spread to its groin. In other words, you can’t afford to miss this. It’s now 10:52 on Thursday morning and you’re ready to go. Google Maps says it’s a 17-min drive. You’re probably going to be early. As you put Montgomery into his ferret carrier, you realize he’s a bit smellier than usual. You don’t want to get scolded by the vet again for not practicing proper rodent hygiene. Maybe you can give the little bugger a quick bath before you go…but is there time?

Say it with me: No.

President Taft.

I feel bad for President Taft.

Now before you get all insecure about your deficit of knowledge regarding our nation’s 27th leader, let me assure you that I don’t know anything about him either. Actually, thats not true. I know one thing.

He was the one who got stuck in the bathtub.

I suspect some of you are now nodding in recognition. “Oh, that guy.” And herein lies the problem. Taft may have been an outstanding president, but most of us will never bother to find out. He ascended to our nation’s highest office, and his entire legacy has been relegated to a giggle-inducing mental image of a naked man tragically underestimating his own girth. Poor guy.

There could almost be two layers of sympathy for Taft. Aside from the permanent stain on his reputation, one might also be tempted to feel compassion for the shame he must have felt upon realizing he would need assistance in being extricated from one of life’s most vulnerable situations. Feeling sorry for him in this regard is unnecessary, however, because it turns out that the story is not true. Never happened. Historians have studied it (which is incredible in and of itself) and it turns out, it was simply a baseless rumor started by an attention-seeking White House usher. Yet, the legend persists.

I recall being taught this “fact” in first grade. It seems to have been an unfortunate byproduct of the well-intentioned yet always ill-fated attempts to make education “fun.” And apparently children are still being misinformed because in my research for this article, I discovered a 2016 picture book titled, “President Taft is Stuck in the Bath.” (Note that this is not an Amazon link. If you’re in the market for children’s books about apocryphal presidential bathroom incidents, please always support your local independent bookstore.)

Honestly, I can’t say I’m surprised that Americans have latched on to this myth at the expense of any useful knowledge of Taft’s administration. We’re a lot more interested in scandal than we are in government. If Abraham Lincoln had had an humiliating incident during the Gettysburg Address, we probably wouldn’t even know about the Civil War.

“Oh yeah, Lincoln, wasn’t he the guy who was giving that Gettytown Address thing and then his pants split open? That’s funny…What was that speech about anyway? What did he need to address? Was something going on?”

Politics is polarizing, but immaturity will always be bipartisan.

I met Ellen DeGeneres two years ago. I managed to snag tickets to one of her “secret” stand-up shows at a small 280-capacity theater in LA called Largo. I arrived early to the show and after being assigned a seat, I had some time to kill. So I decided to head to the back alley, in search of the stage door. I had brought along a copy of Ellen’s famous TIME magazine cover (“Yep, I’m Gay”) just in case there was a chance for an autograph. I’ve met many celebrities this way, but I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure what to expect considering how famous Ellen is. As I rounded the alley corner, I spotted a small group of people waiting with various memorabilia. I joined the crowd and it wasn’t long before a black SUV pulled up and the collective temperature of the area rose.

“Stand back!”

A security guard firmly put out his hand as people started to close in on the car. Ellen and Portia emerged while their handlers ushered them toward the stage door. Several people politely requested autographs.

“Get away from me, you human refuse!” Ellen snarled.

“Ms. DeGeneres, my quadriplegic daughter has stage 4 cancer and I was wondering if you would sign — ”

“Good! Let me know when she dies! Actually don’t, because that would mean I have to spend more time talking to a non-celebrity.”

As her fan started crying, Ellen sadistically cackled. Then she took out a gun and shot the woman dead.

All right, back to the TRUE story.

After she got out of the car, Ellen stopped and signed everything that was put in front of her. Then she took selfies with each person who asked.

“Okay, last one.”

“Ellen, could I get one too?

“Okay, one more.”

“Ellen, what about me? Please?”

“Okay, one more.”

This cycle continued until all of the requests were fulfilled. Then in a flash, she was inside. At this point, I was thrilled to have such cool mementos from one of my comedy idols. But that would not be my last interaction with her that night. Later, after Ellen delivered the final line of a hilarious stand-up set, the audience erupted in cheers. Once the applause finally subsided, she thanked us again and announced that she wanted to take audience questions. Hands shot up throughout the theater. I wasn’t initially planning on asking a question myself, but the Q&A kept going on and on. I finally mustered the courage to raise my hand and sure enough, Ellen called on me. This is what I asked her:

Was it hard for you to feel connected to your peers in the stand-up world of the ’80s, when most comics had a much more aggressive, often mean-spirited style of comedy than you?

I may not have been quite so eloquent in my phrasing, but that was the gist. In addition to being curious about her experience, I was also seeking reassurance that I wasn’t alone in feeling alienated by the hostility of the comedy world.

Ellen answered that it was indeed very hard to fit in amongst her peers. She was almost always following men, some of whom would be angrily screaming “FUCK!” into the microphone. Others would use lesbian slurs in their routines. What she described sounded like a very unwelcoming environment, which makes her achievements that much more impressive. Talking to her directly and hearing such a vulnerable answer to my question was not only more meaningful than our brief encounter before the show; it was a highlight of my whole year and remains a cherished memory.

I suppose that some might view my story as yet another example of Ellen’s astounding hypocrisy, which if you believe certain internet spectators, borders on multiple personality disorder. These people probably assume that I was lucky enough to witness Dr. Jekyll but if I were an employee at The Ellen DeGeneres Show, I would be working under Mr. Hyde. But I don’t work for Ellen, so I cannot definitively say whether she is kind to her employees. Neither can you. (Unless this essay has somehow reached Ellen’s staff…in which case, maybe you can recommend me for a job so I can find out the truth!)

What we do know is that numerous people who worked on her show did not have positive experiences. The official conclusions of the internal investigation, along with Ellen’s publicly circulated staff memo, put this far beyond a reasonable doubt. I have experienced toxic work situations in my own life, and I know how demoralizing they can be. If going public with these allegations was the necessary impetus to improve the show’s internal environment, then I support that. What I don’t support is character assassination.

These staff complaints have been overwhelmingly directed at the show’s producers, not Ellen herself. Yes, there are some who insist that Ellen must have been complicit in the mistreatment. Well, of course! If I had to co-write, rehearse, and host my own talk show every day, I would also be heavily involved in supervising the junior lighting intern. Let me be clear: I’m not saying that Ellen shouldn’t take responsibility for problems at her show. She should. (She did.) But it’s also unrealistic to expect that she always know everything that is going on. Perhaps her biggest mistake was to put too much trust in her management team and not personally check in more often with lower-level employees. According to Warner Bros, staffing and operational changes are already in motion, so maybe I’m alone in this, but I remain optimistic that things can improve.

People have been hating on Ellen for quite some time, though. Since encountering many of the insightful and nuanced tweets on the matter (see: one of the meanest people alive), I’ve been racking my brain to come up with what she has done prior to this controversy to engender such vitriol. Was it coming out at the height of her career and subsequently normalizing openly gay performers on television? Raising awareness and money to help endangered elephants and gorillas? Building a successful comedy career while never compromising in her conviction that one can be funny without being mean? What could it be that has so antagonized the social media arbiters of good taste?

Oh, wait.

There was that time last fall when she was caught sitting next to an aging redneck at a football game. I’m not sure what she was showing him on her phone, but I think it was how to renew his Plavix prescription at CVS. Is hanging out with George W. Bush an endorsement of illegal wars and torture? If that’s the case, I guess Michelle Obama owes the world an apology, too. And let’s not forget when Ellen had the audacity to accept the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President Obama, a man also responsible for many civilian deaths in the Middle East, not to mention his failure to publicly support same-sex marriage until 2012. Moving forward, Ellen ought to exclusively associate with Malala Yousafzai and Greta Thunberg. Somebody start a petition.

Sorry, I just don’t feel like that should ever have been a controversy. As a matter of fact, I was happy to see Ellen socializing with Bush. We need more compassion in the world, even for people who have done horrific things. If Dubya is still as homophobic as people think he is, then maybe Ellen’s willingness to accept him might teach him to accept her. I happen to believe that Bush should be prosecuted for war crimes. But even if that happened and he ended up in prison, Ellen could visit him there, and I would be fine with that, too.

There are several other media-concocted “scandals” that I could dissect, but I like the idea of keeping this essay shorter than Ulysses. The bottom line is this: Ellen DeGeneres changed history and made life better for a hell of a lot of people. Aside from her inestimable contributions to the LGBTQ+ movement, she has also inspired me and countless others with her unique comic voice and what I still believe to be her generous spirit. All of her employees deserve fair treatment, but I reject the notion that publicly vilifying anyone is necessary to achieve that end.

Correction: An earlier version of this article inaccurately listed tapeworms as one of the animals that Ellen has advocated for. As of this printing, Ellen has not raised any money for tapeworms.