Team Spirit?

There’s a clear message staring terrorists in the face these days, and it’s prominently displayed on the chests of TSA agents nationwide. Or at least in Charlotte and Pittsburgh. It’s a list of three values that stand as a promise to terrorists that they can’t possibly succeed in their nefarious plans.

Those values, stitched in bright lettering, are Integrity, Innovation and … um… Team Spirit?

Yes, Team Spirit.

 

I did a double take after reading the patch, because I felt for sure that no adult charged with thwarting terrorism would be wearing the words “Team Spirit” on their official uniform. Actually, the only place I’d expect to see “Team Spirit” on a grown-up’s outerwear at all would be at a drug counselor’s group picnic. But there it was, written in bold, beautiful thread.

Somewhere in Washington, DC, there’s a committee that is insufferably proud of itself for having come up with that. That committee is a greater threat to the future of civilization than all of our enemies combined. And I have definitive proof of that. Know what it is? They put the words “Team Spirit” on the uniforms of security forces charged with thwarting terrorism.

Honestly, if I’m a TSA agent, and someone hands me a uniform with a patch that says “Team Spirit” on it, that person is tasered on the spot and wakes up asking the question, “What the hell am I doing in Gitmo?”

What must the terrorists be thinking when they read those words?

Integrity: “Crap. We can’t bribe them.”
Innovation: “Crap. That could be problematical.”
Team Spirit: “OMG!!! Zac Efron’s here?!?”

The only time you see “Team Spirit” on a patch is when the 7th place cheerleading squad goes to the podium to get their award. You never see it again because they all throw their patches out once they get home. Yet here are the men and women on the front line of domestic anti-terrorism, being forced to flash this Disney-esque platitude. “Team Spirit” doesn’t covey dedication and determination to stop our potential murderers. It suggests that there’s an elaborate plan in the works that will bring together the cool kids and the geeky kids to trap Al Qaeda in a dumpster using a Bunsen burner, shoulder pads and a banana.

Maybe the world’s most dangerous committee was going for the element of surprise. “Team Spirit” is something you’d expect at Chuck E. Cheese.  Its presence at the metal detectors of major airports is so astonishing that it could throw terrorists off their game.

“OK brothers, our holy act of vengeance is a go. We will be martyrs for the… whoa. Wait a sec. Team Spirit?!? What the… what’s… ABORT! ABORT!”

There are myriad other words or terms that would be more impressive than “Team Spirit.”

Vigilance.

Resolve.

Gang Tackling.

Brass Knuckles.

A Stick With A Nail In It.

I could even see “Teamwork.” It’s a little flaccid, but at least it suggests working together to thwart danger. “Team Spirit” suggests a group hug by the bonfire.

Come to think of it, that’s probably how the world’s most dangerous committee came up with it.

Ask Your Doctor About BUH-buh-buh.

From ED drugs to blood thinners, a clear trend has emerged in the global pharmaceutical industry: the rise of the three-syllable brand-name prescription. Turn on your TV and you’re bombarded with advertising for Viagra, Ambien, Uloric, Lipitor, Celebrex, Nexium and a thousand other BUH-buh-buh (or buh-BUH-buh in the case of Uloric) drugs designed to fix whatever ails you.

Clearly, a three-syllable name indicates cutting-edge, can’t miss medicine. You know your doctor is giving you the very best when he prescribes BUH-buh-buh. It tells you that the doctor thinks, 1) you can survive this medical ordeal and, 2) your insurance will cover it.

A two syllable prescription, on the other hand, means that your doctor is basically writing you off as a lost cause and is pretty much trying to just keep you comfortable and out of his hair while he doles out BUH-buh-buh to his patients with a fighting chance. On the bright side, BUH-buh usually only costs $4 at Wal-Mart.

Recently, my eldest daughter was diagnosed with pneumonia. We were pretty worried until her doctor prescribed not one but two BUH-buh-buhs, Pulmicort and Zithromax.

“Look — they have three syllables! You’re gonna live, honey! You’re gonna live!”

Good thing, too. Because if that scrip had said Trimox and Flovent, things would have gotten ugly in the doctor’s office.

“Listen you son of a bitch, that’s my daughter in there. Now you write her a three-syllable prescription right now! YOU HEAR ME!!!”

The three-syllable prescription phenomenon is actually a godsend to the general public. Since most of us have no idea how a toaster works much less a complex chemical compound like a basal-thingy something inhibitor, it clearly lets us know which of competing pharmaceuticals we should demand.  

Blood thinners? Coumadin: good. Plavix: bad.

Cholesterol meds? Lipitor: good. Zocor: bad.

Antidepressants? Celexa: good. Prozac: bad.

Of course, the ads for these meds generally feature 90 minutes of disclaimer, ranging from loss of appetite to sudden detonation, but you can pretty much ignore those. Every clinical trial involves a handful of weaklings who have adverse reactions that must be reported. But let’s be honest. Those people would never be prescribed BUH-buh-buh in the real world. The doctor would take one look at them and hand them a free sample cask of BUH-buh.

Of course, every once in a while you’ll see an ad for a four-syllable prescription. Ignore those. A four-syllable prescription is likely a placebo. Either that or it’s so highly experimental, they can’t figure out how to keep it from killing half the monkeys in the lab. Never, ever take a four-syllable drug.

Always demand three.