Some things are better left unsaid, but this isn’t one of those things, so I am going to say it: summer is your opportunity to make some big changes. If nothing comes to mind, just ask a couple of classmates what they’d like to see different in you. (Be sure to take several large sheets of paper along, and wear a wrist support.)

Through the years my one-of-a-kind advice in this column has undoubtedly helped many readers get ahead in life. Now let’s top everything off by speaking about hair.

By now, if you’re like most Guide readers, you can write your own name, maybe even in cursive. Sure, you might misspell it occasionally, but usually it’s pretty close.

Buck became my neighbor when we bought our first house. Our first house is still the only house we’ve ever bought, but Buck doesn’t live next door anymore. I’m pretty sure he would, though, if he weren’t dead.

Throughout history the apple has been associated with a wide range of items and experiences. Eve comes immediately to mind, though it turns out that thinking the forbidden fruit was an apple is pure urban legend. (Well, maybe it was more rural legend, but you get my point.)

You would not believe the number of people who seek me out for fashion advice. The number is zero, which is pretty hard for me to believe too. I mean, through the years I’ve turned quite a few heads with some of my fashion statements. Based on their reactions, many people simply could not believe what they were seeing.

A few weeks ago my former eighth-grade English teacher, Ms. Wills, stopped by Guide headquarters here in Maryland. “It’s grate to see you,” I said, just to annoy her.

News flash: Many countries around the world are broke. This comes as a total surprise to some of you, because your attention has been fixed on things of much greater importance, such as how many truckloads of Clearasil it’s going to take to pave over that colossal zit on your cheek.

At first glance you might think the term cryogenics is the study of why people shed tears. Wrong! It’s the branch of physics that deals with very low temperatures. Strangely enough, sometimes cryogenics involves freezing people right after they die. Really! These folks stay frozen in the hope that medical science will one day discover a way to bring them back to life. Really? 

Some people get kind of scared when they see or hear the words “The end is near.” But this phrase can actually be good news, especially if you’re working on a book report or listening to a really boring sermon.

I bought a new bicycle not too long ago. It’s a semi-recumbent. This isn’t one of those horizontal jobs whose riders look like a dog chasing something in a dream as they pedal along. No, my bike belongs to a new class of bikes known as “comfort bikes.” That designation is mostly true, except when it comes to the part of my body I shall refer to as the gluteus maximus area. What you are about to read is a very painful tail, er, tale.

Why did the chicken cross the road? He was fetching the soccer ball the donkey had kicked over the goal.*

Graduates, parents, faculty and staff, distinguished guests: It’s a rare privilege to be invited to deliver the commencement address for eighth-grade graduation. And since you didn’t invite me, I am going to commence to deliver my speech right here in this column, whether you like it or not.

I wasn’t quite sure to what species my new pet belonged. Was it really a dog, or was the striped beast actually a Bengal tiger cleverly disguised as a Great Dane? Since Bengal tigers were considered an endangered species, I reasoned that I did indeed have a genuine canine on my hands.

Some readers say I have a talent for writing; others admire my cartooning ability. But most have yet to recognize my real gift: complaining. Indeed, I am so good at grumbling that I’ve toyed with starting my own complaint vineyard and nonalcoholic whinery.

Today is a special day, for you are about to receive an answer to the most-often-asked question by Guide-age readers: “How do I let [fill in the blank] know that I like him/her?” Responding to the second-most-often-asked question, “How do I recover from the humiliation of rejection?” will be covered in a future issue.

I know how to burn things. Trash, marshmallows—I can burn both with equal skill. Indeed, my proficiency is such that I occasionally burn water when I heat it up to make spaghetti.

Graduation time is here for some of you.

Try as I might, I cannot remember the last time I met a 900-year-old person. Oh, that’s right—people stopped living to be 900 quite a while ago; it may have even been before all the trouble with pesticides came to light.

I’m not much of a gambling man, though I once ate boiled peanuts at a Sabbath potluck dinner. The boiled peanuts weren’t as bad as I’d expected—they were much worse.

Have you ever looked at something amazing, say, the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France, and cried out, “Wow, that couldn’t have ‘just happened’—somebody must’ve planned it all!” I sure haven’t said that, because I don’t want someone to overhear me and call the pickup service at Wacky Walt’s Discount Insane Asylum to come and fetch me. It’s more than obvious that somebody planned the construction of the Eiffel Tower!

Halloween can really bring out the weirdness in some teens. For example, do hopeful guys think wax fangs, dangling eyeballs, and fake blood serve as female attractants or something? No, this is weirdness.

Forget Paris in the springtime and Honolulu’s balmy breezes. Who needs those second-rate vacation destinations when you’ve got Oshkosh? Let’s face it: Wisconsin is the place to be when it's time for camporee, even if you don’t eat cheese or follow the Green Bay Packers.

Some parenting experts say kids shouldn’t get an allowance. Perhaps they were never actual teenagers and went directly from watching Sesame Street to being wealthy child psychologists.

I am about to do you all an incredible favor. If you’re like I used to be, you probably don’t know exactly what to say in certain situations. This includes those times when you wish to utter something terribly romantic to a certain someone. Well, if anyone can turn romance into something terrible, it is me, so pay close attention.

Every once in a while I come up with a brilliant self-improvement technique. OK, maybe it was just once, and this is it. But let me tell you, this idea is going to make up for all the others I didn’t think of.

What is that stupid noise? I wondered, heading inside my house from a morning of yardwork. The noise sounded a little bit like a dead branch rubbing against the roof of my house, and the annoying sound just wouldn’t go away. 

A few weeks ago I went to Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Museum in Grand Prairie, Texas. The first thing I could not believe was the price of an admission ticket. The second thing I could not believe was that I bought one.

The voice on the radio sounded a little weird. Still, it seemed so familiar. I know I’ve heard that guy’s voice before, I thought. But where? It was six o’clock in the morning. The news report had just finished, and my local Christian radio station was playing a little clip from someone who’d called in to thank them for their ministry. But just who was the person?

It’s not often someone tells me to open my mouth, but that’s exactly what happened the other day.

I don’t like to boast, but I believe I may just be the holder of a world record. It all has to do with broken windows. 

From all appearances, most teens believe that text messaging is second in importance only to breathing. 

By now you probably know that I am not in favor of Guide-age persons “dating.” Still, the time will eventually arrive when you wish to begin sleuthing out a special person with whom to spend the rest of your life, someone whom we shall call a “prime mate,” which should not be confused with a “primate,” unless you happen to be a rhesus monkey.

Twas the night before Christmas when all through our place, An ear-splitting quietness filled every space.

Most teachers mean well. Other teachers are just, well, mean. 

Snakes and I never got along very well. But I suppose if I were slippery, armless, legless, and had an affection for biting people on the ankle, folks probably wouldn’t put me on their instant messaging buddy list either.

There are probably worse summer jobs than picking strawberries. Oh, I guess I could think of something, but it would take several decades.

A name is a good thing to have. It’s even better to have a good name. Too bad certain parents during Bible times didn’t understand that. How they landed on some of those names is beyond me. 

Saying goodbye is never easy, unless you’re talking to that nasty prison guard who’s made your life miserable for the past five years.
But saying so long to thousands of Guide readers is a different story.
Yes, your humor columnist and editor is leaving Guide and the Review and Herald Publishing Association.

Being a Pathfinder furnishes many rewards, especially when you lose a path that needs finding. It could happen on a casual Sabbath afternoon stroll up Mount Everest. That’s when I will wish I’d been a Pathfinder at some time in my life. But alas, I can share in the experience only by hearing tales of horror, er, I mean, honors and camporees from actual card-carying, flag-bearing club members.

I want to apologize for allowing these people to perform their music in our church.” That’s what the Adventist pastor told his congregation after the Christian group my friend played in finished their concert. The pastor made sure that the musicians heard his remarks, just to ensure that the group would not sense any thread of appreciation for their ministry.  

You know what adults are saying about some of you, don’t you? They’re saying that you Adventist kids don’t know much about Adventism. So in an attempt to make them eat their words at Sabbath potluck today, I am providing a crash course on a basic Adventist belief known as the three angels’ messages. Turn with me now to Revelation 14. If you are too lazy to do that, ask the person sitting next to you to slap you in the face and shout, “Open your Bible, you adolescent backslider!”  

First came the magazine, then the Web site. But what Guide really needs is a TV show, don’t you think?   Recently I learned about a British reality show called George in Pakistan. The cameras follow George around as he tries his hand at being a Pakistani. I know that sounds like hard-to-beat entertainment, but I think we can do even better. 

So, will you do it?” I pleaded with my buddy, Tom “Tomahawk” Stiles. We were between classes, and time was short.   “Why don’t you just do it yourself?”   “Just . . . because,” I responded.

Each year without fail my birthday falls on April 27. This is way too predictable for my taste, but it doesn’t seem likely to change anytime soon.   So this year I’m going to bust up the monotony by asking for an extraspecial birthday present. No more neckties or gift certificates to the Hard Rockabye Cafe—no way, baby! This year I’m asking for a helicopter.

At the urging of my personal political advisor, who was out on bail at the time, I have decided to run for the position of chief justice of the United States Supreme Court. Since I have vast experience in judging others, I am a natural for this job.

Awhile back I got lured into going fishing. “It’ll be fun,” chirped my wife’s brother, Ted, late one afternoon. My wife comes from a long line of Swedish hunters and fishers. A remote cabin in northern Minnesota stands as testament to their affection for taking the lives of Bambi’s, Yogi’s, and Nemo’s extended families. This summer vacation found me at the Swedes’ base camp, otherwise known as “the cabin.”

O how the months had zipped by! Already it was time to update my wardrobe to last year’s most popular styles. I pulled into the Valley Mall.   Normally I don’t shop at the mall. The Goodwill and Union Gospel Thrift Stores pocket most of my $20-per-year clothing budget. But sometimes a person just has to splurge. I headed for the clearance rack.

Thanksgiving celebrates all the good things God bestows upon us. This is accomplished mainly by trying to see how much food can be placed on the average dining room table without it collapsing under the weight.   Your typical turkey isn’t all that wild about the holiday. But vegetarians can do much to help curb the fowl play that surrounds this time of year. Contrast the day before Thanksgiving at a meat eater’s home with that of a family in pursuit of the soybean-driven life:   Farmer Brown: Well, son, it’s time to take ol’ Featherduster here out behind the woodshed.   Johnny: Why do you have that hatchet in your hand?   Farmer Brown: Son, let’s just say that after today your beloved pet will never be the same.   You can see why turkeys don’t like Johnny’s dad very much, although not one of them has lived to tell Johnny in person.   Meanwhile, over at El Rancho Suburbia . . .   “Farmer” Smith: Well, son, it’s time to take this can of soy-based Turkeybuster over to the electric can opener.   Ronnie: We can take the recyclable can to Guilt-Free Metal Grinders tomorrow.   “Farmer” Smith: Yes, that can will never be the same . . .   Sadly, both meat eaters and vegetarians often include gastrically incorrect items on the Thanksgiving menu. That yams-and-melted-marshmallow thing is a good example. Better a cook save such fare for their own funeral potluck. That way they don’t have to eat any of it.   Now, don’t think I’m not thankful to God for all the blessings He brings my way. I agree wholeheartedly with the psalmist who wrote, “Let us come before him with thanksgiving” (Psalm 95:2).   Hey, if yams and marshmallows taste good to you, give thanks to God! Personally, I’ll be praising God for a heapin’ helpin’ of “Turkeybuster” and mashed potatoes. I might even go back for seconds . . . and thirds . . . 

So you’re into a new school year. Not too happy with your schedule? Here’s a lineup you may wish to suggest to your principal:

“I really like the Good Humor Guy,” a kid told me recently. “Your corny jokes are funny.”   Corny jokes? I thought. He doesn’t know the meaning of the term!

A new school year has begun. Your classes are much harder. Now, more than ever before, you need a special place where you can retreat after a hard day of dissecting frogs and struggling to stay awake in World History class. You call such a place your room; your parents call it a mess.

You teens have it pretty soft. I say you should be forced at squirt-gunpoint to wear hard contact lenses for a minimum of one week or until both eyeballs fall out, whichever comes first.

“Let me get this straight,” said the man with the bushy beard. ”You’re saying that even though you’ve been blind since birth, suddenly you can see? Do you really expect me to believe that whopper? Look me in the eye when I’m talking to you!”  

Summer is almost here, so it seemed like a good idea to share tips about how to succeed at the next pool party you get invited to. With any luck, that will happen sometime before you have kids of your own, so pay attention.

Rumor has it that some of you don’t like Sabbath. One reason cited is the lack of Sabbath-appropriate PC games, not that some of you haven’t tried to pass off Soldier of Fortune as somehow preparing you for service in God’s army.

Today’s topic is rather sensitive, so I will ease into it gently.   One of you out there stinks. Maybe it was your midnight snack of leftover garlic bread and Uncle Pete’s Power Pickles, I don’t know. But the point is, your breath would stop a mortar round in midair.

Enough of this Valentine’s Day mush already. You’d think that life on planet Earth depended on attraction to the opposite sex or something.   The whole Valentine’s Day thing is ripe for disaster. Take those little heart-shaped candies, for instance, the ones that have stupid romantic messages on them.

Psychologists say that, due to hormonal imbalances in the brain, teens morph from lovable youngsters into full-fledged weirdos. This is evidenced by the tendency to burst into tears when Mom brings home regular style instead of Double-Stuft Oreos.

To help you express yourself during this traumatic life passage, my alter ego, the beloved poet Artie Fishell, suggests the following journaling methods:

The annual meeting of the Society of Folks With 150-Pound Feet appeared to have just broken up. Attendees clomped and wobbled along as if the keynote speaker had just informed them that recent research had found their condition hopeless. But I soon learned that anybody wearing ski boots walks this way.
It gets worse once you actually strap on skis. I once cut 17 people off at the ankles by turning around to get back in the bunny slope line. You should see those people try to walk now.

Until recently you could’ve driven a Lamborghini through the space between my two front teeth. The braces are off now, though, and the gap is gone.
By design, the whole process left two cavernous openings elsewhere along my top row of choppers. The plan was to plug those gaps too. Let’s sing it together: “All I want for Christmas is my two fake teeth . . .”
Last week the reconstruction effort began. With an evil grin my dentist, Dr. Pain, as I shall call him, wielded a syringe bearing an uncanny resemblance to your average weapon of mass destruction, or at least what I envision one of those elusive entities to look like.

Body piercing is nothing new to me. I once stepped on a board with a nail sticking through it. The pain surged through my right foot, and I quickly turned to hobble off in search of comfort and Band-Aids. Then I felt a sharp pain in my left foot. I knew I should’ve tossed that board farther away, I thought. Now I had a matching pair of pierced soles.
I dragged myself to the local emergency room, which someone had cleverly named Express Care. I sat in Express Care for something like half a century.

“Let’s keep it single file!” commanded Mr. LaMonde, our seventh-grade home room teacher. We marched outside toward the adjacent gymnasium where pain and excruciation class awaited us. Mr. LaMonde mistakenly thought PE stood for phys ed.
 
The sidewalk leading to the gym was being widened. As we strolled past, cement workers put their finishing touches on the new section of sidewalk.
 
“Hey, look at that zebra on the gym roof!” my buddy Tom “Tomahawk” Stiles cried out, pointing to our right. Stupidly, I gazed at the roof.
“Ha-ha—made you look!” Tomahawk chided.
 
I poked my buddy in retaliation. The next few details are hazy. It may have been that Tomahawk, whose biceps were four times the size of mine, used one of them to propel me sideways. More likely, my eyes were fixed on lovely Lisa Hockenberry instead of where I was walking.
 
A moment later my right foot was ankle-deep in wet cement. Quickly I extracted it, leaving a magnificent impression of my sneaker in the “mud.”
 
The nearest cement worker’s eyes grew narrow and then crossed. The trowel in his hand took on the qualities of a murder weapon.
 
Mr. LaMonde appeared magically on the scene, a hot vapor escaping from each ear. The man’s comments are best not repeated in a character-building magazine such as this. He ended his tirade with simple instructions: “You will stand here and watch these cement workers repair the damage you have done. You will continue to stand here until I come and get you. Do you understand me?”
 
I understood him, and standing there taught me quite a bit about cement work. How could I not absorb something?
 
That’s pretty much true about whatever we spend time watching, whether it’s cement workers, nature, or TV.
 
Best option? “Let us fix our eyes on Jesus” (Hebrews 12:2). Watch Him, and you’ll make a good and lasting impression on others.

“A million tons of slop on the wall, a million tons of slop . . .”
 My buddy Dennis and I sang our way down the highway. We were en route from Michigan to Maryland to play music at a friend’s wedding. But first things first: the sights and sounds of our nation’s capital—Washington, D.C.!
“This looks convenient,” I said to Dennis, pulling my Ford Mustang into a parking spot. The back seat brimmed with guitar cases and clothes, but I knew the door locks worked fine, so not to worry. Besides, we were only a couple of blocks from the White House. Who would break into a car in this neighborhood?

Baseball season has arrived. Sports-loving teens pray that an opposing player will blast the ball in their direction. The fame that accompanies a game-saving diving catch can sometimes last more than 15 minutes, or until someone points out that you have a blade of grass protruding from your right nostril, whichever comes first.
But what if you happen to be a teen whose greatest athletic achievement consists of surviving PE class with several of your limbs still attached to your body?

Muscles have never been a big part of my life. If I had a dollar bill for every time I’ve been called skinny, my wallet would be fat.
As a teen I’d heard that girls were attracted to physically fit guys. Even King Solomon wrote, “The glory of young men is their strength“ (Proverbs 20:29).

The purpose of this lyrical work is to help your parents and other caregivers gain insight into your deepest needs. (You may wish to have a friend play a violin in the background as you read aloud.)
LAMENT OF THE TEENAGER
My heart cries out loudIn anguish I speaks, So listen, I beg you,
’Cuz I’m up some creeks.