I was in an electronics store recently and I bore witness to the clearest sign of the apocalypse I have seen yet. No, not "Maid in Manhattan" on DVD. I saw a refrigerator with a TV in it.

Someone did not open a fridge and place a TV inside. No, this was a TV embedded in the door of the refrigerator.

I can understand keeping a TV in the kitchen so you can watch something while you cook or do the dishes. But how dependant on TV do you have to be that you can't miss 30 seconds to get a sandwich? I know you wouldn't be getting a salad because people that fridge TVs appeal to don't generally eat those.

Let's say you would buy this as a space saving measure. That would make sense if flat screen TVs didn't already exist. You can get a flat screen TV and a fridge for less than it costs to get a fridge with a TV in it.

The only reason to spend a few hundred extra for a set embedded into the door of your fridge is if you feel you can't miss whatever it is you're watching long enough to open it. If you're hungry, take a break from the program and make some lunch. Preferably a light lunch. If your version of technology is combining your television and your refrigerator (and I'm just guessing here) you might have a weight problem.

Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the fridge TV is helping.

"Before my fridge TV, I used to sit on the couch watching television while eating whole sticks of butter and drinking bacon grease. But now I make smaller portions and walk the twelve feet into my kitchen to get more food without missing any programming. With this new system, I'm burning three or four calories a day. Thank you fridge TV! You're helping build a better me."

You know what the worst part is? Half of you reading this are thinking, "really, a fridge TV? That's kind of cool." And those same people are wondering why the TV is only on the outside of the fridge, since that means you can't open it AND watch at the same time.

There's a commercial where a guy is watching soccer on TV. And has so many TV sets throughout his house he doesn't have to miss a play. They're on the ceiling, in each dresser drawer, and in his medicine chest. You know what's the great part about that commercial? It's a joke. They're kidding. They don't think you'll really take it seriously.

What do you think the people with fridge TVs are watching? Do you think anyone's Kenmore is playing a jazzercise video? That the fridge TV people are sweating to the oldies? No way. Every last one of those sets is playing Dr. Phil telling the owner that it's okay to be fat and happy. And they'd say, "amen, Dr. Phil!" but their mouths are too full from that last stick of butter.

It is okay to be fat and happy, but only if you're healthy, too. Which is possible - but I don't think anyone with a TV set in their refrigerator is taking their vitamins or riding a bike or playing touch football in the park. People with fridge TVs (and I'm just guessing here) are eating and watching TV and teetering one happy meal away from that great Dr. Phil special in the sky.

Imagine that. Getting there and coming face to face with god or Yahweh or whatever you call the force that gets you through the day, and having to explain that you died because you led a lifestyle that required a television set embedded in your refrigerator.

And you know what will happen? As the great judge looks down from his throne, the guy in line behind you will say, "really, a fridge TV? That's kind of cool."

I have lived long enough to know what that hard to swallow feeling in the back of my throat means. It means that while I feel okay at the time, within hours I'm going to die.

Well, I know I won't die. But the sweet release of death might be better than the impending sickness that throaty feeling brings. Ahh - the throaty feeling. Harbinger of empty tissue boxes.

Three weeks ago, I got that very throaty feeling. But it was worse than normal. And it got even worse than that. Pretty soon I could feel a lump on the outside of my throat. That was not a good sign. I called my mother, since she has four kids and has thus heard of every possible ailment. My mother knows so much about medical symptoms, I expect to see an episode of House where she bursts in and corrects him.

My mother diagnosed me with swollen glands and said I should see a doctor. After spending no less than twenty minutes trying to figure out what emergency care center took my health plan, I drove over to the nearest one. The hospital closest to me does have emergency care, but it's for members only. Which was a nice reminder that I live in Los Angeles.

Luckily, the doctor I went to saw me right away. And not so luckily, the doctor diagnosed me with pharyngitis, an ancient Egyptian disease wherein kings couldn't speak.

Okay, so pharyngitis is really just a throat infection, typically picked up due to overwork and lack of sleep. I cancelled all my shows for a week, made a new rule to avoid morning radio, and started taking amoxicillin. Within a few days, I was okay again. And the throaty feeling was gone.

Imagine my surprise when less than a week later, I felt the same throaty feeling. This time it was right before I had to fly across country for a month of shows. So I went to a doctor in West Virginia and was diagnosed with a SECOND case of pharyngitis. Apparently, it's very easy to catch right after you've had it once, especially when you've watched The Mummy Returns.

The fun part about flying on anti-biotics is that the drug scanners see traces of them on your belongings. But the guy running the scanners hinted that it'd be okay if I were on other types of less legal drugs. Really. He said "whatever you're into" and winked at me. The guy protecting us from international terrorism reminded me of the pothead on my freshman floor.

At the doctor, I was prescribed a new drug called omnicef. Which, in addition to being a powerful anti-biotic, is also great charity that kids raise money for on Halloween. I was almost prescribed augmentin, but the pills were too big to swallow with the throaty feeling and I didn't want to risk suspension by Major League Baseball. Okay, I know augmentin is another anti-biotic, but it sounds like something that makes your forearms big or that comic book villains give to their army of super soldiers.

The fun part about omnicef is that my insurance covered part of the cost. That's right - what cold have been $95 was a mere $86. Whew. Glad I had insurance. The doctor told me I need to finish taking the medicine even after I felt better. I assured her there'd be no problem with that, since the medicine costs more than $4 per pill. That's almost as much as the guy at the airport is paying for his.

So now it's a few days later and I'm feeling better, and I've got half the pills left. I'm a bit worried that a few days after I finish the pills, I'll come down with a third throat infection. But if I do, maybe they could put me on something that could help me hit 73 home runs in a single season.

What's really important is that my throat is seemingly all better now and I can finally sleep through the night again. And that I've never actually seen The Mummy Returns.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com and bookstores everywhere. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

I had an imaginary friend growing up. Her name was Rachel, and I miss her terribly. When I was five, she moved to California, and I haven't seen her since.

That's how my story went, anyway. I mainly discussed Rachel to my mother while she drove me back and forth from pre-school. I never convinced myself I had a friend named Rachel - I knew she was imaginary. In fact, I always referred to her as "my imaginary friend Rachel." But that didn't stop her from moving to California.

I created Rachel to have something interesting to say. My references to Rachel never had her sitting in the car with me; I always described things we did earlier that day. How we played board games or watched TV, or took her dog to the park. Rachel was not someone I played with - she was someone I talked about playing with. In other words, I was just as bizarre then as I am now.

As the youngest of four with no actual friends to speak of, Rachel was a way I could compete with my siblings. Rachel's name even came from my brother and sisters. My siblings middle names are Benjamin, Rachel, Lorraine. My middle initial? I. Her name was going to be Rachel I. L'Benjamin, but I thought that sounded too French. I'm not kidding - as a four year old, I must have been very patriotic.

I didn't have friends at the pre-school I was in, I had acquaintances. I was a year younger than everybody, and I was only there because my mother was a teacher in the program. I'm not sure if you become the kind of kid who develops intricate stories of imaginary girls that move across the country because it's hard to make friends, or it's hard to make friends when you're the kind of kid who develops intricate stories of imaginary girls that move across the country. Chicken or the egg, really.

So Rachel was born. She was my age with black hair and had a dog. I'm sure there were other details, but that's all I remember. It was ironic that she had a dog, since I was scared of dogs as a kid. (And as a teenager, but I already wrote that column). Anyway, I wasn't scared of her dog. Maybe that was to look like less of a wuss in my stories.

"Sure, I'm scared of my neighbor's dog. But there's this one dog I love playing with. What does it look like? Well, I haven't made that part up yet."

I got tired of her dog, and eventually killed it off. Well, I didn't kill it, but I invented a station wagon that did. I wasn't a violent kid, I was just a little too creative with details.

Eventually, I started outgrowing Rachel. None of my siblings cared anymore, and I was no longer at that pre-school. I was enrolled in a real kindergarten where my mother didn't have a job, and with real students my own age. I say "students" as if we were studying anything.

"What'd you get for question 7?"

"Spot."

"Damn, I put Jane. I'll never pass this class."

I made actual friends there - like Billy Haug, who had a giant Ewok play set and shared my love of Voltron.

So, one day my mother asked me how Rachel was doing, since she hadn't heard about her in a while. I explained that Rachel's family had to move to California because her father got a new job. It was okay though - she said she'd write to me, and told me she was getting a new dog. My mother was equally happy that I had made some real friends and that I knew where California was.

Oddly enough, I now live in the Golden State. I wonder if Rachel still lives here; so much can change in twenty years. Maybe we'll get along just as well as we did when we were five. I've been out here for over a year now, and I had yet to look up Rachel until just now. I tried looking her up on the web, but all I could find was some column about her by this guy named Steve. Rachel, if you're out there, give me a call. You know the number, since you're in my head.

Maybe I should look up Billy Haug instead. I probably have a better chance of finding him, since he exists. And he might still have that Ewok play set.

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com and bookstores everywhere. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.

I am a good tipper. I always have been. I tip for food and cabs and help with my luggage, and anything else that seems appropriate. But I see no reason to tip someone that helps me wash my hands against my will.

I am very good at washing my hands; I've been doing it for years. I'm so good at washing my hands, I can even do it in a restaurant bathroom. I turn the water on, pump some soap when available, run my hands under the faucet while rubbing them together, and dry off with a paper towel. I could do it a million times in a row without making a mistake. But if a restroom attendant watches me to make sure, I'm supposed to give him a dollar.

By society standards, a restroom attendant is considered a classy element of a nice restaurant. By my standards, I consider him a complete nuisance.

Let's start with the aspect of the tip. Next to the captain of the S.S. Urinal is always a tip jar. Why? The reason I tip other people in the service industry is because I couldn't do the job myself. I can't get my own food at a restaurant, I can't drive my own cab, and I can't always get all my bags myself. But without a rest room attendant, my life would improve. I could wash my hands just the same, and I wouldn't have to worry about someone watching me pee.

It is awkward to pee in front of someone else. Especially when that someone is just standing there, waiting for me to finish. When guys go to the bathroom, they pretend there are no other guys anywhere near them. That gets a lot harder when a guy two feet away is wearing a blazer and calling you sir.

Guys are hung up about this, and we always will be. I don't think the fear stems from homophobia; it's a fear that we're doing it wrong. I've seen grown men approach urinals and not use any hands. I've even seen one MAN put his hands in back of his head like he was being robbed. And while my instinct said, "freak!" in the back of MY head I wondered if that was how I'm supposed to do it. Maybe I'll ask the bathroom attendant. He seems to have no other purpose beyond answering my riddles three.

Well, he does often have a basket of mints. And if there's one time I'd like a mint, it's when they're kept in the bathroom. I know the mints are individually wrapped, but there's still a chance some bathroom vapors crept inside. And I know my fear is irrational, but so is keeping mints in a bathroom.

There is the argument that I should tip the attendant because he has a crappy job and depends on us to make a living. Until there are no "help wanted" signs left in any Burger King, I don't buy that logic. That person, while applying for jobs, picked the one located directly on my path from the sink to the door. You know what? Homeless people also ask me for money in exchange for doing nothing. But I give it to them more often because they don't stand there watching me pee.

The one good thing about bathroom attendants is they keep crazy stuff from going on in the bathroom. Let's be realistic - bathrooms are places that get messy easily, and that are often home to much illegal activity due to the prevention of cameras. But let's stay realistic - the restaurants that need to watch their bathrooms carefully are rarely those that do. The worst five-star restaurant bathroom, even sans attendant, looks nicer than the nicest bathroom in Starbucks history. When the bathroom key is attached to an empty syrup bottle, you're much more likely to stumble in on a crime scene. Or something that looks like you just missed stumbling in on a crime scene. Or something that smells like someone exploded while stumbling in on a crime scene.

I'm not sure of the solution to my bathroom attendant predicament. For now, I just ignore the guy and leave. But occasionally I'll be in a place with an attendant for a few hours. And since my bladder is the size of a mint, I often visit the bathroom a few times during that stretch. Which gets increasingly awkward each time.

"Hey, I remember you. You're the guy that keeps leaving without a tip."

"I apologize. Here's a tip - stop watching me pee."

Mint?

Steve Hofstetter is the author of the Student Body Shots books, which are available at SteveHofstetter.com. He can be e-mailed at steve@stevehofstetter.com.