Hello and welcome to another edition of our special in-depth medical feature Health Yak, which has been recognized by the U.S. Surgeon General as “extremely topical,” meaning that you should not attempt to ingest any portion of this column without first consulting your doctor.

Today we will be discussing a study that suggests as many as 16 million Americans — or roughly the number of people who never receive their appetizers during an average season of Hell’s Kitchen — suffer from periodic outbursts of anger.

I know what you’re thinking:

What makes this different from a typical outburst of anger, like when I open the air vent in my car and release a cloud of spores the size of shiitake mushrooms?

The answer, of course, is that there IS no difference, at least not until someone funds a clinical study, at which point it becomes an official “disorder” treatable by a new drug with minor side effects, such having your liver grow to the size of Shaquille O’Neal’s seat cushion.

According to Dr. Emil Coccaro of the University of Chicago’s medical school, which, as you may recall, conducted the definitive study on the yawning habits of the Tibetan mountain yak (Conclusion: After 3,000 yawns, researchers become suicidal), what used to be known as “road rage” has now escalated into a nationwide problem called Intermittent Explosive Disorder. By definition, IED involves “outbursts that are out of proportion to the situation.”

For example: Let’s say you’re at a drive-thru trying to order a bacon cheeseburger and, for the seventh-straight time, the person taking your order insists there is no one named “Macon the Sheep Herder” working there, and to please place your order. And let’s say, in frustration, you exit your vehicle and rip the image of a cheeseburger directly from the menu board and begin gnawing on it, causing those in line behind you to drive off through the patio area.

Chances are, you could be an IED sufferer.

According to Dr. Coccaro, his conclusion was based on the results of a nationwide, face-to-face survey of 9,282 adults who were scored based on their response to highly formulated and complex diagnostic observations, such as “I’m guessing most dogs would probably introduce themselves by sniffing your face.”

Amazingly, all 9,282 participants in the study were identified as IED sufferers.

“Obviously, the disorder is more widespread than we thought,” stated Coccaro, who then added, “You got a problem with that?!”

To determine if you might be an IED sufferer, answer “Yes” or “No” to each of the following scenarios:

1) When my computer crashes, I try to remain calm by thinking about the solitude and freedom of skydiving, ascending through the clouds, and then letting my computer drop from 1,800 ft. into a lake.

2) On at least one occasion, I have attempted to affect change and contact someone in our nation’s capitol by yelling at the top of my lungs.

3) I find it difficult to remain calm when, after paying $40 for gas, I have to pay another 25 cents for AIR.

4) Because I have been told it is an important social issue facing our nation, I am frustrated by my inability to really care where the heck Katie Couric goes.

And lastly,

5) Recently, I have been performing yoga as a way to limber up before handing out a good butt-whoopin’.
OK, tally your score by giving yourself one point for “No” and two points for “Yes.”

Answer key: If you took the time to actually answer any of these questions you are an IED sufferer. According to the study, you should go ahead and join the millions of Americans already on some type of anti-depressant.
And if you have a problem with that, you KNOW where you can find me!

I’ll be waiting right here in the lotus position.

I wanna go HOME

Given the state of today’s economy, it’s hard to know who to trust when it comes to investing your money. You could trust ME of course, but that would mean giving your money to someone whose greatest return on an investment came when I accidentally got a 75-cent candy bar out of a vending machine using only two quarters.

The truth is, I know absolutely nothing about the financial marketplace. This is why I currently do not own any stocks, bonds, treasury bills, money market accounts or, for that matter, any actual money. However, it’s because of this — and what the White House calls my “unique financial perspective” — that I was asked to join the Presidential Advisory Board on Corporate Fraud, where our motto is:

For every dirty business we wipe out, someone takes a bath.

It’s our job to sift through literally thousands of highly complex financial reports sent in by America’s corporations, and then analyze each one for signs of fraudulent activity. You may be wondering how someone like myself — with the financial IQ of a Rhesus monkey — could possibly hope to find ANY sign of shenanigans somewhere in the complicated maze of bookkeeping ledgers, profit statements, and Hooters receipts.

It’s actually very easy. That’s because we’ve been painstakingly trained on how to study a document and quickly spot signs of fraudulent activity — such as finding a yellow sticky note with the words fraudulent activity written on it.

Using this technique (based on the Evalyn Wood speed-reading method) we’ve been able to scrutinize the financial dealings of over 600 hundred major corporations in just under 36 hours (including lunch breaks, naps and a tour of Washington D.C.)

And I’m proud to say I believe our efforts have had a major impact on ending corporate fraud because, so far, we haven’t found a single incident.

By itself, this may not be enough to restore your confidence in the financial marketplace. But remember this: Right now, the President’s latest economic stimulus package will soon be making its way through Congress on the “fast track” (a special system designed to speed up the review process by avoiding any contact with the president whatsoever.) This new plan is the result of high-level meetings with economic advisors, corporate analysts and CEOs from around the country. In fact, the President is so sure of his plan that he said, in a direct statement to Congress, that he would personally be handling his package as often as possible, and that he wouldn’t stop handling it until the bill was passed.

“For obvious reasons, we hope the bill passes quickly,” said a White House spokesman.

So what does all of this mean to the average American? Investment opportunity, of course. Many of you are probably asking yourselves:

So, what should I invest my money in?

Being that I am now a member of an important government board that investigates corporate fraud, providing you with that type of information could get me in really big trouble.

However, I CAN tell you about an investment opportunity that will guarantee a one-quarter yield. The only catch is, you really have to like candy bars.

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There are few things that can bring a newspaper to a halt when it is facing a deadline. In fact, aside from a natural catastrophe or a critically important breaking news story (Example: Anything related to “Dancing with the Stars”), nothing stands in the way of our commitment, as journalists, to ensure that the power of the press continues — unless, of course, the unthinkable happens, and we run out of toilet paper in both employee restrooms.

As professionals, this is a scenario we train for. We know how to recognize a potential “situation” that could leave us vulnerable and without back-up. Yet, as we learned today, all it takes is a momentary lapse in resoluteness for things to escalate into a full-blown crisis.

“Has anyone seen Bill?” (Note: The names in this dramatic re-enactment have been changed to protect the innocent, such as myself, from being physically assaulted by “Bill.”)

A cursory sweep of the newsroom lead to an exhaustive search of the front office, sales room, break area, composition department and, eventually, the restrooms.

Total elapsed time: 1 minutes, 30 seconds (We’re a small paper.)

Being that we are seasoned journalists capable of recognizing the most subtle signs of trouble, and given the fact that the news department is within six feet of the bathrooms, we quickly deduced that a toilet brush being jammed repeatedly under the doorframe meant a potential situation was brewing. And due to the respect I’ve gained from my peers in the news department, coupled with the fact that I was standing closest to the door, I was asked to investigate.

After talking with “Bill” and confirming that the adjacent restroom and storage area were, indeed, also without toilet paper, it became clear that our doomsday scenario had developed into the “perfect storm.”

I explained the situation to our publisher, who looked grim as he gathered us around his desk. “You’re positive a roll didn’t fall behind one of the commodes.”

I shook my head.

“What about the medicine cabinets?” he blurted. “Maybe somebody stuffed one in there. Or above one of the ceiling tiles?!”

Our editor put a steady hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t helping, and the clock is ticking.”

Everyone exchanged uneasy glances. We knew “Bill” had been sitting there for a good 20 minutes. Completely alone. Except for the scrub brush, and what must have been a difficult decision to use it as a signal for help.

“What about paper towels?” someone asked.

“We switched to those stupid hand driers, remember?”

The frustration was tangible.

“Maybe Bill could turn around and aim his…”

A unanimous look of disgust immediately squelched my idea.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I just feel so helpless.”

“What about asking if anyone has some tissue, or a handkerchief they don’t want anymore?” someone suggested.

Our publisher put his fist down. “I’m responsible for the safety of everyone in this building. I can’t risk starting a panic!”

And so it went.

Out of respect for “Bill,” I can’t divulge exactly how he was rescued. What I CAN tell you is he drew on his journalistic experience to get out of a tight spot.

In a completely unrelated matter, if anyone has an extra phone book, please bring it by the office. Ours seems to be missing the “Government” pages.

I wanna go HOME

Soon, in the wee hours of the morning, something magical will happen in back yards all across America as, one by one, each of them is visited by…

You guessed it!

A half-naked father hiding Easter eggs.

That’s right, the same fathers who were stomping on the roof with sleigh bells Christmas Eve will be out in the yard in their boxer shorts with an arm load of colorful eggs not long after sunrise. Their mission? Keep this tradition alive while, at the same time, trying not to step in anything that could elicit a response deemed inappropriate for Easter morning.

This generally follows a week of preparation, most of which is spent looking for the latest advancements in egg-dying technology. My parents didn’t have to worry about this. When I was a kid there was only one kit available for making Easter eggs. This kit included four colored pills that could be combined to make additional colors or, as I preferred swallowed whole and used to freak out kids in the rest room at school.

The green pill was particularly effective.

The red pill I tried only once because it gave me nightmares.

As I was growing up, there were a number of advancements in egg-dying technology. For example, the highly touted “wand” made out of thin copper, which could be used for dipping eggs without making a mess. I know this because the back of the box showed a cartoon family making lots of eggs under the watchful eye of the Easter Bunny who was saying, and I quote:

Look! No Mess!

There were a couple of things that bothered me about this. First, it always looked like the family in the picture was being forced into coloring eggs by a brooding, six-foot-tall rabbit blocking the only exit from the kitchen. Sure, everyone was smiling, but who’s to say they weren’t just buying time until help arrived? Mysteriously, this family appeared on the back of the box for several years, and then — poof.

Gone.

I was also bothered by the fact that, despite what I’m sure must have been a rigorous testing and design process, the “wand” usually collapsed on itself and dropped the egg directly into the dye the first time you used it.

After becoming a parent, I took it upon myself to find out who was responsible for this tradition. As it turns out, Germans introduced it to the Pennsylvania Dutch in the 1700s when, in an eager attempt to share their home land’s annual spring celebration, hundreds of German children began running around yelling: OSCHTER HAWS! OSCHTER HAWS!

Not knowing it was a call for the Easter Bunny, the Dutch children fled, taking their breakfast of boiled eggs with them and inspiring the first Easter egg hunt in the New World. Eventually, the Easter Bunny tradition was embraced by the Dutch, who — like the German parents — realized it could be used as leverage against their children.

Three hundred years later, little has changed. Good girls and boys still get a visit from the Easter Bunny, and fathers still stumble outside at first light to hide colored eggs. That said, I’ll take this opportunity to apologize to my neighbors in advance of Easter, just in case I step in anything left behind by something other than the Easter Bunny.

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Once you are officially engaged, the first person to know, outside of immediate family and friends, is the postal delivery person. That’s because, on a daily basis, this person must find a way to stuff 800 pounds of free wedding catalogues into your mailbox. This is accomplished with careful folding, efficient use of space, and a potato masher.

And sometimes duct tape.

(Helpful tip: If you come home to find your mailbox being held shut with duct tape, avoid potential tragedy by making an anonymous call to your local bomb squad and letting them detonate your mailbox for you; now that you have found that special someone to share your life with, don’t take a chance on having that life cut short by flying shrapnel from Modern Bride.)

Like many couples, we are planning our wedding with the help of a detailed checklist. This checklist is set up chronologically to help ensure you know, at any given time, that you are always six months behind. In fact, the only way to keep from falling behind schedule is to begin planning the wedding as soon as your date is set. Naturally, if your date doesn’t go well, then you probably shouldn’t be getting married anyway. I should point out that we recently obtained our helpful checklist while attending a wedding show…

…That sound you just heard was every male reader simultaneously flipping the page in search of something more interesting, such as “10 Easy Steps to Identifying Tofu Curd.” I say this because, according to a survey conducted at the wedding show we attended, only 1-in-3 men admitted they wanted to be there. I know this survey was accurate because I actually met the other two men while they were staring at the tulle display. They were clearly not happy.

“There’s nothing left,” said Chuck. “Not even a hammer.”

“Next year I’m getting here earlier,” said Bob.

Those of you with keen deductive reasoning skills have now realized I was the one man who actually wanted to be there. That’s because, in addition to loving my fiancé and enjoying time together no matter what we are doing, I also knew this was another important step in our relationship. I needed to show her she could count on me; that I wanted to be a part of each step; even if it meant sampling every frozen margarita machine at the wedding show — several times if necessary. To further demonstrate my commitment, I also ate cake samples, cookies, brownies, chocolates shaped like wedding bells and doves, and something I thought was a puff pastry but was actually birdseed wrapped in vellum.

(Helpful tip: In addition to being a beautiful material for veils, tulle is also extremely absorbent.)

As much as I’d like to talk more about the wedding show, I really need to go. Our mail person is here and I see she’s pulling out more duct tape.

I wanna go HOME

Each year, we gather as a family to have our pets blessed on St. Francis Day. We do this because we want to give our pets every advantage, particularly if there’s a chance — through divine intervention — that our Chocolate Labrador’s IQ could be raised above that of a standard carrot. I know this is supposed to be a general blessing situation, but I think God would agree there was a serious oversight during Stanley’s creation process.

I know He is very busy.

I know He sees all.

But maybe He was also trying to catch the season finale of “Survivor” when Stanley was created.
Whatever the reason, somewhere in the world there’s a dog with two brains.

Undoubtedly, its owners are very happy. They don’t care that their dog’s enormous cranium causes people and other dogs to stare. That’s because their dog is smart. Their dog has an instinctive understanding of things like gravity. These owners give thanks to St. Francis each day because their dog, in spite of its bulbous cranium, would never high-center itself on a coffee table in front of company.

Stanley’s problem is that he tries to move like a gazelle when, in fact, he has the dexterity of a bull moose. He may THINK he can leap over the back of the couch from a seated position, but repeated attempts have proven otherwise. I’ve given up trying to explain this to people; I simply tell them he must be choking on something and trying to give himself the Heimlich maneuver. I do have to admit Stanley does come in handy when trying to get rid of pushy sales people. All I have to do is open the door wide enough for them to glimpse a 60-pound dog repeatedly leaping chest-first onto the couch and then falling to the floor. On the rare occasion a sales person makes it through their entire spiel, I’ve yet to have one come inside even when invited.

I should mention that Stanley just turned four. The fact he is still doing things like this concerns me. So much so that I began looking for a treatment. After hours of research and a lengthy discussion with my vet, we reached a disturbing prognosis for Stanley: There is no treatment.

At least, not for him.

But I did find out that Stanley is not alone. According to a study conducted by Tesco Pet Insurance in England, Chocolate Labs are officially the clumsiest breed of dog on the planet. Tesco’s study showed that Labs are twice as likely to hurt themselves while attempting something that researchers agreed, “Requires a crash helmet.” In addition, 55 percent of Chocolate Lab owners filed a claim in the last year for damages to their home under the category “Act of Dog.”

Unfortunately, this behavior is present in Labradors here in the U.S. as well. One example is a three-month-old Lab puppy in Oklahoma who recently blew the roof off his owner’s house. As it turns out, “Jack” was fine and the family had left for the day. Firefighters speculate that the dog had chewed a hole in the gas line when a nearby water heater clicked on, causing a blast powerful enough to level the house.

This incident really put things into perspective for me. Come next year, when we gather our pets for St. Francis Day, I’ll just pray for Stanley’s continued good health and happiness.

That’s assuming we still have a roof over our heads.

I wanna go HOME

There are three things I know about “Larry.”
He is a contractor; he lives somewhere in Multnomah County; and he has the same cell phone number that I do.

The calls started about a month ago, presumably about the time “Larry” got his contractor’s license and began making bids. Since then, he has been a busy man, picking up jobs and making sure that his clients know they can call him any time. Day or night. For any reason at all.

Which they do — to my cell phone.

The Hansons, for example, call whenever they change their mind about what color tile to use around the bidet in their new bathroom. For the Gilmores, deciding between cedar shakes or aluminum siding requires at least one consultation a day. And the Reyboulds are still contemplating the ripple effect of kitchen cabinets without knobs. Mrs. Reybould thinks knobs would make their kitchen look more inviting; Mr. Reybould believes not having knobs would stymie their 2-year-old and keep him out of the cabinets for at least another year.

Over the course of the last month, I’ve gone from politely explaining that there is no “Larry” at this number, to a more direct approach, which is that “Larry” died — killed in a freak shop-vac accident that was a gruesome, yet impressive, testimonial to the workmanship of Black & Decker products.

I was certain that this tragic revelation would solve my problems. That was until the calls started up again, no doubt after “Larry’s” apparent resurrection from a 3-gallon-capacity shop-vac canister.

This left me only one choice.

When the Hansons called this afternoon asking for advice from “Larry” about their decision to use apricot-colored tile around the bidet in their new bathroom, I told them, as their contractor, they could save themselves a tidy sum of money by simply purchasing a better brand of toilet paper.

Click — dial tone.

One down.

For the Gilmores, who were still agonizing over the decision between cedar shakes or aluminum siding, I suggested ditching the house for a double-wide trailer covered in simulated wood paneling and accented with a fence made out of used shipping pallets.

Click — dial tone.

Two down.

The next time the phone rang, I snatched it up on the first ring.

“Larry speaking.”

It was the Reyboulds, looking for help on reaching a final decision about those kitchen cabinet knobs.

“It seems to me that the perfect combination would be something inviting and deceptively hard to open,” I said, and heard the Reyboulds agree. “Might I suggest installing some beautiful ceramic knobs on your cabinets, then nailing the doors completely shut.”
Mrs. Reybould hesitated before asking, “And where are we supposed to store our dishes?”
“Hey, I’m offering a solution! If you want to bicker over functionality, find another contractor!” I snapped.

There was an awkward silence before Mr. Reybould grabbed the phone. “What kind of nails would you suggest?”

Click — dial tone.

Though I hung up on them I do plan on calling them back at some point. In the meantime, if “Larry” happens to be reading this, please call me so we can straighten this whole mess out.

You know the number.

I wanna go HOME

I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve spent lying awake, staring up at the ceiling and thinking to myself:

Gee, if only they could make a super strong mouse.

Because only THEN would there be a chance of one actually chewing its way through the ceiling and falling to its death on the bedroom floor. I bring this up because of several readers who sent e-mails regarding science news, all of which have to do with mice, and all of which I have combined into an informative feature we’ll call:

Scientific breakthroughs that couldinspire a horror movie franchise.

We’ll begin with a story about the creation of the first “super” mouse, which was sent in by Bonnie Higgins of Bridgeton, NJ, whose good intentions, I must assume, included keeping me awake at night armed with pepper spray and a sledge hammer. According to the article, scientists in Boston have created a mouse with giant muscles, “capable of enduring rigorous exercise for extended periods of time.”

This is great news for people like me, who often worry that the traps they put out might actually kill a mouse. Now mice will not only have neck muscles thick enough to withstand the trap, but they’ll also be strong enough to re-set those traps and then throw them back at me.

If we’re going to experiment with making something super strong, why not start with something more sensible…
“Have you seen the cat?”
“Last time I saw her she was chasing a mouse.”
“Where?”
“Through that hole in the wall. I think she’s on her way to the second floor. You can probably still catch her. The studs are slowing her down.”

So who cares if mice become strong enough to open the refrigerator and get their own cheese? We can always use our superior intellect. Of course, this is the same intellect that we’re now using to make mice smarter. This was bought to my attention by Jim Bricker of Lewiston, Idaho, who sent me an article headlined:

Geneticists Develop Big-Brained Mouse

I should clarify that this was not from the National Inquirer, and did not include a photo of a mouse with an enormous cranium writing on a chalkboard and wearing a propeller cap. According to Reuters health and science correspondent Maggie Fox, researchers at Harvard Medical School (again in Boston) have found a way to make a mouse’s brain so large that it has to fold up—much like a human’s—in order to fit inside the skull.

After reading this, two things are clear:
1) I will not be visiting Boston anytime soon.
2) Anyone who does plan to visit Boston should do so NOW, before it succumbs to a new race of highly intelligent mice with giant muscles.

And let’s just hope none of these mice ever reaches the University of Hawaii because, if they do, they might also glow in the dark.

That’s right. According to an article sent in by Brandy Sherman of Cottage Grove, Ore., professor Anthony Perry has created an entire litter of green, glowing mice. This is very important because these mice can be utilized for things like…well…

Cats with night blindness?

The world’s most irritating night light?

How the heck should I know?

What I DO know is that I plan to buy whatever kind of cheese it tells me to.

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It was 78 years ago that Clarence Birdseye, inspired by ancient food preservation methods used by Arctic Eskimos, made history by introducing the very first frozen food option: “Savory Caribou on a Stick.”

Though his first selection was met with little enthusiasm, Birdseye persisted, and eventually created a line of frozen vegetables that many of us are still gagging on today. I, for one, am still unable to walk past lima beans in the frozen food section without getting the dry heaves. This reaction stems from my childhood, and a spoonful of lima beans I’ve been trying to swallow since 1973.

Which isn’t to say all frozen food experiences have to be terrible. When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait for Mom to pull my Libbyland “Sundown Supper” from the oven. That’s because the makers of Libbyland provided enough games, toys and other distractions that, for all I knew, I was eating breaded eel.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I remember seeing an actual eel on the cover of the Libbyland box. This should have sent my childhood gag reflex into high alert. And it probably would have if not for the fact that this particular eel was wearing a cowboy hat and spurs. It didn’t matter that a sea creature leading a wagon train through the high plains made no sense whatsoever. Or that the cowboy cook was a prairie dog who appeared to be stirring a pot of buzzard beaks. What mattered was that each dinner came with a packet of “Milk Magic” that turned my milk the color of gangrene and, even more importantly, grossed my mother out.

With those fond memories in mind, I went looking for the same kind of frozen dinner excitement for my own children. This led me to a collection of entrees that are either (a) the ultimate example of truth in advertising, or (b) menu items submitted by Hannibal Lecter.

The first thing I found was something called Jurassic Fried Chicken, which, for all I knew, meant really, really old fried chicken. I also grabbed Cheese Blaster Mac & Cheese, a Carnival Corn Dog meal, and, against my better judgement, Bug Hunt Fun Nuggets. The idea was to cook all four meals and let the kids have a frozen dinner buffet. This plan began to fade once I actually started reading through the meal descriptions, beginning with the Carnival Corn Dog: “A batter-dipped Frank made with chicken, pork and beef on a stick.”

In this case, it wasn’t the combination of meats that concerned me; it was the fact that “Frank” was capitalized.

This made the whole Bug Hunt Fun Nuggets concept of “finding” processed nuggets in the shape of insects a little hard to swallow. And to be honest, I had my concerns about how my eight-year-old son’s intestinal tract would react to a meal that included the term “Cheese Blaster.”

Of course, none of these concerns mattered to my kids; all that mattered to them was that Dad was grossed out.

Things probably would’ve ended there. But I felt obligated, as a concerned father, to show them my lima beans.

I wanna go HOME

Today, we will be covering basic troubleshooting techniques for your computer. By the end of this column, you will know how to identify a problem within your system, and then determine whether you can:

a) Fix it yourself, or
b) Save yourself the trouble by taking your computer somewhere and shooting it.

To begin with, most of us have absolutely no idea how a computer works. This is illustrated by the fact that, when there’s a problem, we get really mad and yell at the monitor. This is sort of like yelling at the refrigerator because the container we thought was “Cool Whip” actually turned out to be refried beans left over from last year’s Cinco De Mayo party.

The fact is, refrigerators and computer monitors are just boxes filled with stuff coming from somewhere else; over time, improper maintenance can result in something that really stinks.

One of the reasons we know so little about computers is because they keep making them easier and easier to use. This in turn makes them harder and harder to understand because, as technology makes things smaller and smaller, there’s less and less actual STUFF inside. Right now, you can still look in and see a few wires and some solder melted onto a plastic motherboard, which makes it possible to at least PRETEND you understand what’s going on:

You see! If I take a piece of aluminum foil and touch this part to that shiny blob over there I can AAAAAGH!

At the current rate of technology, that’s all going to change as ever-increasing macro-technology scales down the internal components of personal computers. This means we need to take better care of our current computers so that we can pretend to understand them for as long as possible. It does not require being able to tear apart and reassemble your entire PC system. In fact, a recent study conducted by Falcon Safety Products, Inc., showed that 70 percent of computer malfunctions are simply caused by…

You guessed it:

People shooting their computers.

No. Actually, according to a nationwide survey of 1,300 computer technicians, most computer malfunctions were caused by things like food, dead rodents, cockroach nests, and, in the case of one Pittsburg, Calif., technician, “a stash of marijuana” that mostly effected the computer’s memory.

This brings us to how to clean your computer. You will need an antistatic wrist strap, a can of compressed air, and, if at all possible, a drug-sniffing dog. Once you have these items, you can remove the housing from your computer and use your antistatic wrist strap to begin cleaning. Depending on what you find inside, you can utilize the alligator clip attached to the wrist strap as either 1) a conductor to keep static electricity from discharging into the sensitive internal circuitry of your computer, or 2) a way to keep from burning your fingers.

Once this phase of cleaning has been completed, use the can of compressed air to blow out particles in some of those hard-to-get-to places—such as the nostrils of a drug-sniffing dog.
Repeat this process at least twice a year, or, depending on your situation, as often as you’d like for the next 3 to 5 years.

By then, of course, it will be time to get a new computer.

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