National Corndog Day In The Key Of So

So it is once again that time of year: Aircraft Insurance Premium Renewal Time.

So I get the envelope with the form to fill out, letting the company know HOW many hours in type, HOW many hours in this make and model, HOW many hours as Pilot In Command (to date, 473.8), WHEN my last Medical was (if you are over 40---ahem---you have to have an FAA approved physician poke and prod you every two years. Prior to 40 it is every three years. Discrimination!!!), WHEN my last Biennial Flight Review was (in order to maintain a pilot's license you have to fly with a Certified Flight Instructor at least once within a two year period to demonstrate proficiency in whatever ratings you may hold), and a bunch of other impertinent, totally unrelated busybody stuff like have you had any DUIs or had any aircraft crashes, etc.

So I open the envelope and pull out the cover letter. It is signed by my lovely and helpful insurance policy broker person, Kristin. Kristin. Right. You just did it too, didn't you? You parsed the name and then went and looked up the periodic table of elements symbol for tin. Didn't you? You didn't? Well, I did.

So I call Kristin and she is busy with another customer right now and would I like to leave my number and yes I would and so I do and what was your first name, and it's Gawpo, and what is your last name, and I'm like: Puh-shaw, lady---how many Gawpos can there possibly be, so I give it to her. And then I tell her my last name. (rimshot)

So Kristin calls me back and when the area code from THE BIG WILLAMETTE VALLEY flashes on my phone's amber display, I launch out in a sing-songy candence similar to Carey Grant but without the accent from 'Ull: KRIS-tin, KRIS-tin, KRIS-tin, KRISTIN! with a double crescendo on the first syllable of the last Kristin.

So in the course of our conversation I tell Kristin that she could from now on just sign all her correspondence, KrisSn, explaining that Sn is indeed the symbol for tin in the P.T.O.E. She is delighted to have this information, as you can well imagine.

So we chitchat and I ask her what she's planning for her weekend, this being Friday and all. And she goes on to inform me that what she is going to be doing for the weekend is a little thing called "The Triple Double." "The triple double?" "Yeah," she says, "You eat 10 corndogs, drink 10 beers and consume 100 Tater Tots." She went on to explain that tomorrow is not only St. Patrick's Day, but National Corndog Day. I did not know that. I was not aware of that. On a fluke I ask KrisSn what she is going to be doing on her weekend, and she tells me about something that could change my life. The Universe is like that, I have come to learn. You have to ask. Or just look. Or just pay attention. It's all there, people. And in plain view. That, right there, constitutes not only reasonable suspicion, but probable cause.

So this concept is no longer just something that legally permits the cops to kick your door in after seeing the plant in the window. No. It's OUR permission to take hold the horns of the bull that is the Universe.

So all this over the pretext of finding out how much I'm going to have to pay to insure my airplane? Yep. KrisSn makes sure I know that there is NO WAY she can put down a hundred Tater Tots. The beers and the dogs, no problem, but that many Tots? Not gonna do it. Not prudent at this juncture.

So when KrisSn mentions that you have 10 hours in which to accomplish the three feats included in "The Triple Double," I get excited. I rarely get excited. I am normally very mellow and sloth like. You can even ask Cindra. But here I get excited and blurt out: Oh My God! That means that if you consume the 10 beers at a rate of one per hour, you could legally drive home because alcohol metabolizes, on average, and in a healthy liver, at a rate of about .015% BAC per hour. (Tell 'em Brookie!) And I'm really excited here because this is a field of expertise and training and experience and stuff, so I continue: "UNLESS!," I go on to caveat and, just for good measure double up on that last word, "UNLESS! you are a woman. And it gets even worse if you are a premenstrual woman." (Watch it, Rusty Nails! Don't be shouting any 'Ah-Ha's 'I told you so's.) Did I punctuate that correctly?

So she goes, "Really? Unless you're a woman? And premenstrual?" And I'm like "Yeah," and she's all "whoa" and I'm like "totally" and she's all "get out!" and I'm all "true story." And we stopped there because this was a serious business call about insurance.

So I explain to KrisSn that there is an experiment that you can actually perform in the comfort and privacy of your own home. All you need is one average sized man and one average sized, hopefully premenstrual, woman. Then what you do is you hang them up by their wrists, probably over the tub in the bathroom or over plastic in the garage, and you cut a hole (same diameter) in each of their big toes. Doesn't matter which one, you just want to be sure that you make it both left toe or right toe for consistency. Then you drain out all the blood. NOW, and this is important, you pour precisely measured ounces of beer or denatured spirits into the buckets of drained blood. It does NOT matter which beer or denatured spirts you choose, but please people, just be sure you use the same kind for the experiment. Say you pour ten ounces of Grey Goose into the bucket with the man's blood. Okay, well you just pour the same carefully measured amount into the bucket with the woman's blood.

KrisSn quickly sees the logic. She too becomes excited and screams out the answer: "The bucket with the most blood will dissipate the alcohol, thus rendering a lower Blood Alcohol Concentration! Right?" Yes, KrisSn, you are right.

So after giving her the experiment, KrisSn says, "But ew. That was sorta gross because I had the visual." I commiserate, telling her that this one always makes me feel rather sick, too. But people, knowledge does come with a price, now doesn't it?

So does airplane insurance. This year's premium: $1,061. But that is for a full year. Not bad, I think. Not bad at all.

So after we hung up, I addressed the envelope with my information form inside:



















Courtesy of Diesel, here is a rotated version of the envelope. Thank you, Diesel!