In a late-blooming effort to take slightly more care with my appearance, I bought contact lenses last June.

That, in and of itself, was an interesting experience. If the US is the country of “contact lenses in an hour,” then Spain apparently is the country of “contact lenses in three and a half weeks.”

But I’m not here to complain about that. I’m here to talk about mathematics.

I bought a six month supply of monthly-wear contact lenses. They’re called “monthly-wear” because you’re supposed to wear them for thirty days, toss them into the trash and then break-open a fresh pair.

It’s now nearly November. And as I was drinking my coffee this morning, I realized something startling.

I’m still wearing the *same* pair of contact lenses that I was wearing when I first left the optometrist’s office.

That’s right…my thirty day lenses have completed 150 days of service. And you know what? They’re still as comfortable today as they were on Day 1. I can’t feel them in my eyes as I type these words.

So, the mathematics problem for today is the following.

Is 30>150, as the marketers claim? Or—as my experience has shown—is 30=150? If the latter, then it seems to me that this monthly-wear thing is a bit of a scam.

I mean…Bausch & Lomb would have you believe that the damn things turn into locusts on Day 31.

And before I forget, let me make the most important point of all: COCONUT!

The International Handbook of Bloggers’ Etiquette is clear on the matter.

If one blogger publishes a post of astounding cleverness, then another blogger shall direct his readers’ attention to the original post by means of a link. He shall NOT steal the clever post and re-publish it for his own selfish purposes.

This rule is especially true when the original blogger has, in fact, dedicated her astoundingly clever post to the other.

[Pause]

Ohhhhhhhhh, screw it!

Over the weekend, our friend Kath published an astoundingly clever video on her Blah, Blah, Blah Blog and dedicated it to me.

Indeed, it is precisely the video that I would’ve/could’ve/should’ve unearthed myself…were I not curled under the bedsheets wallowing in depression thanks to seven miserable days of non-stop rain here in Spain.

I am therefore pleased to re-publish it above for my own selfish purposes. Why? Because it features two of my four favorite things: Michael Palin…and COCONUT!

Lovely plummage, that COCONUT. Norwegian Blue.

The doorbell rang yesterday and there, again, was the smiling face of my DHL guy. He was holding two large boxes.

“Anders?” was my first thought.

But that seemed unlikely, since my 2006 Oktoberfest care-package had already been received, devoured and the bottles recycled.

I signed for the delivery, brought the boxes upstairs and tore them open. They were, in fact, from my Irish friend, Kathleen (a.k.a., Lisa Marie).

And when I saw the contents, my head spun. My hands trembled. And my tongue? Well…let’s just say that “The Salivator” no longer applies just to my smoker.

And what, you may be wondering, were in these two boxes?

Well…one contained a plastic bag with six hundred (600!) Irish tea bags. That’s enough tea for three months!

The other box contained…COCONUT!!!

The most mind-blowing array of highly-processed, intensely-sugared vehicles for COCONUT that I had ever laid eyes on! It was absolutely stunning. This crazy Irish chick must’ve cleaned-out the entire COCONUT aisle at Tesco’s!

Here’s a precise inventory of my blessed booty:

Wow! Talk about the stuff of teenaged dreams. And do you know what’s the best part?

It’s Friday. I have an inventory of COCONUT cookies that resembles that government warehouse in the last scene of “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” And I have *six hundred* tea bags.

Yes, yes, yes…I have big plans for this weekend—and those plans don’t involve sleep.

My unwavering love for COCONUT may be the strongest in the land; but it’s not exclusive.

COCONUT-fever is, in fact, sweeping through Europe—and signs of the epidemic have now appeared in the south of France.

The photo above is provided courtesy of our new friend and vampiress, Calamity Tat.

You can tell that she (and not I) is responsible, because this COCONUT is (a) female, and (b) flanked by a 150€/ounce bottle of Coco Chanel perfume…rather than a 10€/quart jug of Old Spice.

Impressive, indeed…and a most welcome addition to our ever-expanding COCONUT Hall of Fame. But, you may be wondering, what makes Tat a vampiress?

To the best of my knowledge and belief, she doesn’t drink human blood—although I remain suspicious as to what she uses as a thickener for Coq au Vin.

No…“vampire/vampiress” is my now-official term for any blogger who is too chicken to post a Profile photo.

And in this respect, my sidebar is full of vampires [cough, cough, cough…Trac]—although The Big Finn certainly isn’t one of them. 😉

So…c’mon vampires! Don’t be a Coq! Grab a glass of Vin, loosen-up…and then go grab that digital camera.

You’re all amongst friends. And believe me…none of us are getting any younger, thinner or better-looking.

Except for The Big Finn, of course.

Proving that I’m not the only nut hanging from the family tree, I received the following email from my mother a few days ago:

Ohhhhh boy! I can just imagine the stories that Grandma has been telling the other ladies during her weekly hairdresser’s appointment.

I don’t who is naughtier. Me for writing them, or my mother for sending them.

Late last night (which, coincidentally, was Friday the thirteenth), our good friend Lisa left a Comment in the VTB Chat Lounge that had all the earmarks of a true-life horror movie.

She claimed that she once had a COCONUT in her kitchen, and…and…and…it exploded!

Well…my initial reaction was that this fantastic tale had nothing to do with the COCONUT next to Lisa’s kitchen stove…and everything to do with the mushrooms next to her Pink Floyd CD Box Set.

But being the investigative journalist that I am, I launched a quick Google search on the term “exploding COCONUT.”

And I’ll be damned! It has happened to others as well.

This changed the equation for me. I mean…having an exploding COCONUT do grievous harm to my body is one thing. But having one do grievous harm to my Italian-made Arrital kitchen cabinets is quite another.

So I broke-out the heavy machinery tonight and performed triple lobotomies on all four of my tasty little ticking time bombs. Three of them are roasting in the oven as I type these words.

The King, however, has NOT left the building. I’ve simply grown too fond of his sneer and mutton chops to even consider turning him into a chutney.

And besides, Trac would have my ass if I did.

So…does all this mean that my passion for COCONUT has ended?

Hell no! It’s just means that we’ll have to take [ahem!] prophylactic measures during future encounters.

Besides, nothing stimulates the passion quite like a little danger.

Duck, and cover!

My hormones have reached the four COCONUT level!

This is uncharted territory.

So potentially volatile, in fact, that I thought it prudent to have a guest artist decorate the fourth COCONUT. As such, I let my daughter do the honors.

Her COCONUT de jour is sort of a cross between Picasso during his Cubist period and Sally Field’s “The Flying Nun.”

You may or may not be relieved to learn that the four pictured above represent my entire inventory of COCONUTS. So…where does the adventure go from here? I have no idea. But I do know one thing.

If I don’t start doing some *real* writing soon, you guys will drop me quicker than a $20 bill at a Las Vegas blackjack table.

In tonight’s installment of “Celebrity COCONUT Impersonators,” I give you…Groucho!

Although…I suppose it could also be that nerdy little guy from the movie, “Bachelor Party.”

And just for the helluvit, I tossed in the Pooh gang. They aren’t made from COCONUT, but they do hold an esteemed place in our hearts.

Construction paper and Winnie the Pooh action figures. That’s life with a four year old, for ya. A four year old who—I should mention—brought a COCONUT to school last week for “Show & Tell.”

Daddy’s little girl!