By Tim Sanders

Like most Americans, I try my best to ignore televised political ads. I try to ignore them because they often deal with unpleasant subject matter – politicians. One ad that I have been unable to ignore because it is the most nails-on-the-blackboard annoying political ad I’ve seen in all my 58 years, promotes the candidacy of Drayton Nabers for Alabama’s Supreme Court. Among other endorsements, this ad includes glowing approbation from a gentleman who has, without a doubt, the most cloying, sanctimonious timbre to his voice this side of Plains, Georgia. In a syrupy sweet whine, he says of his candidate: "He has a servant's heart." Then he adds, in tones which could send most diabetics into an irreversible coma, "He’s always seeking to lift other people up."

I don’t know exactly what that fellow means by "seeking to lift other people up," but you will notice that when Nabers appears, he has set whoever it was he’d recently lifted up back down again. Aside from hoisting the occasional baby, I would think that shaking hands would be sufficient for any politician. [NOTE: Drayton Nabers may be a fine, upstanding gentleman, but if he were opposed in the upcoming election by an orangutan, I’d vote for the monkey as long as it didn’t seek to lift me up.]

Now that I’m on a roll, here are some other things that really annoy me:

MIZ-RUZ - I may have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating. The term for a married lady is pronounced "MISSUS," an unmarried lady is a "MISS," and a lady who has just left her fiancé at the altar is one of those "NEAR MISSUS!" If you work with the public, and if you, for example, leave information on an obituary hotline, PLEEEASE don’t refer to the dearly departed as "Mizruz!" I wish there were a tactful way of putting this, guys, but–and I mean this in the kindest, most empathic, understanding way–that sounds really dorky! Even if you were to pronounce the abbreviation "Mrs." phonetically, the best you could come up with would be "MURZ!" Did you ever hear of Mizruz Robinson, or of Mizruz Brown’s lovely daughter, or of Mizruz Paul’s fish sticks, for Pete’s sake? Of course not! A rational loved one would be afraid that a mortician who’d refer to his beloved grandmother as "Mizruz Needlebaum" on that obituary hotline might well lay Meemaw to rest wearing an old Minnie Pearl hat with the price tag still attached and a red clown’s nose. If you’ve practiced and practiced, but still can’t pronounce "Mrs." correctly, hire a third-grader to leave the message on your machine for you. I think it might just help your business.

THE GUM DROP GANG - If you have ever parked at the local Wal-Mart and stepped out of your vehicle directly onto a sticky glob of chewing gum, I’m sure you will agree with me when I say that folks who spit gum onto parking lots should be locked into a dark elevator and forced to listen to that maddening old Morris Albert song, "Feelings" ("fe-e-elings, wo wo wo fe-e-elings, wo wo wo fe-e-elings, wo wo wo ..." etc.) over and over again until the gum in their mouths turns to dust. If that seems like cruel and unusual punishment, then perhaps you’d support a Municipal Gum Squad. That squad would be empowered to catch gum droppers, wrestle them to the pavement, scoop up that huge wad of nasty gum they’d just spat, stick it to their hindquarters with a putty knife and plant them and their precious butt gum back into their car seats. If there was any left over, the squad could apply it to the middle of the violators’ windshields.

VOLATILE VOLUME - I have trouble hearing certain things, mainly because the average American wife mumbles much more than she used to, and also because there is something wrong with our television set. I know this because my wife is always mumbling at me to turn the TV volume down. I try to explain to her that it is horribly loud only because there just happens to be a commercial on at the time. Sure enough, after I turn that volume down, when the regular program comes back on I have to crank up the volume again. That is because for decades now there has been collusion between TV network executives and advertisers aimed at making sure even the recently deceased can hear those stinking commercials. They do this by turning up the commercials’ volume several hundred thousand decibels at the studio. I believe these are the same guys who decide that although the dialogue in TV shows is often very muted and hard to understand, what used to be called "background music" has now insinuated itself into the foreground and can blow you out of your recliner and through the window in a heartbeat. I am sick and tired of all of this turning volume up and down with that stupid remote. It wastes a lot of non-renewable thumb energy. I think Congress should finally do something constructive and check into these promiscuous FCC volume violations. Somebody should be indicted.

HIP-HOP MUSIC - The very term "hip-hop music" is an oxymoron, like "head butt," "jumbo shrimp," and "Aunt Jemima Light." Regardless, it has permeated popular culture (which, come to think of it, may also be an oxymoron).

MUSICAL CELL PHONES - My wife and I have a cell phone, but only because we want to appear more important than we really are. We have not, however, programmed our cell phone to play annoying tunes when it rings. That is because a) we don’t know how, and b) we both feel that there is nothing more irritating than hearing the Merry Widow Waltz blaring from somebody’s pants. If you just cannot live without music in your pants, go home and eat a plate full of pinto beans ... oh yeah, and stay there.

E-MAILED PHOTOS - When friends e-mail a couple of photos to us, my wife and I usually appreciate it. Unfortunately, we have certain friends who become mentally unhinged and send us entire digital photo albums by the same route. We once actually got a hundred and eighty-six photographs in one e-mail! It took our computer three hours to download them, smoke came out of our modem, and by the time we got around to viewing the eighteenth photo of little Gwendolyn playing in her mashed potatoes from yet another fascinating angle, we were ready to hunt the child down and delete her. Not long ago my wife sent an entire folder of photos to her sister. She thought it would be easier than selecting individual photos. That folder included photos of–seriously– my sister Dorothy’s rear end as she bent over to retrieve something from the kitchen floor, a close-up of somebody’s huge eyeball, and a K-Mart ad for laundry detergent. Marilyn is hoping that in a few months her sister will speak to her again.

There, I’ve vented my spleen, and I feel very ... ventilated. If in the process I’ve helped readers vent their own spleens, or vent any other musty old organ that might need airing out, I can rest easy. If I’ve offended anyone, don’t bother to thank me. That’s my job.