The United States Military spends billions of dollars each year, much of that on hardware: tanks, rifles, bullets, planes, boats, jeeps, humvees, missiles ... the list goes on and on.

The U.S., in fact, spends more money on military items than any other country in the world. Recent estimates show we fork over $276.7 billion annually (I base this figure on something I once read on the Internet while trying to find a recipe for home-made Silly Putty) to keep our armed services up and running.

Armenia, by contrast, spends a grand total of only $135 million. Of course, I could beat up Armenia single-handedly, armed only with a slingshot and a pocketful of smooth stones.

Folks expect more than that from the U.S.

Anyway, of the country's $276.7 billion military tab, approximately $1.7 billion (I base this figure on either something I may have seen on an old episode of "MacGyver," or on an extremely vivid imagination - you decide) is spent on small caliber ammunition.

Now, I know government types might consider $1.7 billion for ammo to be a heckuva good deal, but to those of us struggling to make the car payment every month, $1.7 billion seems like real money.

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for a strong U.S. military. You never know when Armenia might decide to invade. But as a taxpayer, I certainly wouldn't complain if the Pentagon brass found a few ways to save a buck now and then. Ammunition is as good a place to start as any.

To that end, I think I may have stumbled on a brilliant, money-saving alternative to bullets: cherry pits.

That's right, cherry pits.

They're cheap, easy to obtain, biodegradable and - equipped with the proper delivery system - the human mouth - they can be quite deadly.

As evidence, I present Brian "Young Gun" Krause, the 25-year-old Dimondale resident who not long ago won the 31st annual International Cherry Pit Spitting Championship in Eau Claire, Michigan.

Krause sent a tart cherry pit flying 88-feet, 2-inches at the Tree-Mendus Fruit Farm to take top honors.

Factoring in the Earth's gravitational pull, wind shear in effect the day of the competition, and the "D" I received in ninth grade algebra class, I've calculated that cherry pit must have been traveling at about 600 feet per second (OK, now I'm just making stuff up) or about the same speed as a bullet fired from a .38 Special.

Anyone hit by a cherry pit moving at that speed would experience instant death, or at the very least, a sharp stinging sensation similar to the bite of a black fly. Either way, it would be darned uncomfortable for the recipient.

Naturally, U.S. troops would have to be trained in cherry pit "delivery" techniques - i.e. "spitting."

Recruits from places like Arkansas and Georgia would have a distinct advantage here, as would any major league baseball players who found themselves serving their country during wartime. But there's no reason northerners and non-baseball-playing soldiers couldn't learn to spit with the best of them.

Likewise, women wouldn't necessarily be excluded from combat missions. Just ask Ann St. Armand of St. Joseph, who won the women's cherry pit spitting title for the third year in a row with a 46-foot, 1-inch spit.

While perhaps not as lethal as Krause's expectoration, Ms. St. Armand's pits could be every bit as dangerous in close quarters combat. Perfect for "clearing out" enemy bunkers!

And the savings to taxpayers! Oy! Consider this: a 1,000-round box of ammo for the kind of rifle used by NATO troops costs about $78.95.

A 1-pound box of cherry pits, meanwhile, goes for $1.25. I estimate, based again on my "D" in algebra, that each box contains 180 pits. Extrapolating outward, that means the Pentagon could purchase 11,368 cherry pits for about the same price as a box of bullets.

Whatta deal!

Add to that the savings the military would glean by not having to buy rifles and you're talking some serious bucks here, folks.

Finally, the clincher (and I'm not making this up): cherry pits contain Cyanogenic glycoside, a very, very toxic chemical. In short, if an enemy takes a cherry pit to the chest, he is going DOWN, baby!

I'm planning to send my complete proposal to the Pentagon brass later this week. If they're receptive, I have a lot of other money-saving ideas they may want to implement, including my rapid-fire rubber-band gun and garlic-scented mouthwash (intended for hand-to-hand combat situations).

I'll let you know how it works out.

To contact me with your questions, comments, or military spending strategies, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Want more? Archived "Reality Check" columns as well as photos, links and previously unpublished "mini-columns" may be found online at http://mtrealitycheck.typepad.com.

I'm worried about the future of the English language. It's not that I'm a member of the Grammar Police or anything. I don't go off the deep end when somebody spells "light" l-i-t-e. I never cared much for that particular word when followed by the word "beer," but that's another story. And it doesn't bother me when someone begins a sentence with a conjunction (such as "and").

I've got no problem with colloquialisms, double negatives or slang. As far as I'm concerned, slang ain't gonna hurt nobody. I'm not especially keen on profanity (despite occasional claims to the contrary on the part of my numerous detractors), but when it comes down to it, a few dirty words aren't going to ruin my day, either.

Dangling participles are supposed to be a literary no-no, but I sometimes use them anyway, as most writers on occasion do. There are a few other odds and ends of the language which I see abused on a regular basis, but none bother me much.

So how did I get the idea the English language is destined for the scrap heap? It began with the purchase of a toy for my grandson, Edison.

The two of us were at a local discount shopping store whose name begins with a large, red K. I was there shopping for a new mechanical pencil. My old one, which I've had for years, finally threw a rod, or whatever it is old mechanical pencils do.

Edison, however, had other plans. For reasons I don't understand, five-year-olds would prefer to shop for toys rather than pencils. Any toys. Or more specifically, all toys. His latest ploy is to reason with me concerning his deep-seated need for every brightly-colored piece of plastic in the store.

At any rate, my willpower in this regard is notoriously lacking and the little beggar came away from the store with a new toy. It was a cheap one, at least, a plastic microphone that adds an echo effect to the voice of the user. Actually, I had as much fun playing with it as Edison did.

But the real fun came when I got home and read the packaging the thing came in. On the back of the microphone's shrink-wrapped cardboard card were the instructions. The mere notion that a toy that simple to operate came with instructions struck me as humorous, so I went ahead and read them. Or tried to.

It soon became apparent that the instruction writer's native tongue was "OTE" (Other Than English). I flipped the package over. Sure enough, stamped there in tiny letters was the all-too-common phrase, "Made in China."

I flipped the card again and continued with the instructions. They went something like this:
"To enjoyment most get from megaphone follow instructions most careful and fun. Hold in hand while voice through the megaphone or shake to get magical voice for occasional need. Need batteries does not will work on voice.

"Many hours of fun will be have. For results. Keep out children age 3. Will be for party and many times to fun."

The instructions went on this way for another few paragraphs, and by the time I'd finished them, I had no idea how to use the darned microphone. As I understood it, I was supposed to shake my magical voice, but only occasionally. And I would have fun and be invited to parties if only I could keep batteries away from three-year-olds.

These were paragraphs that had been struck with a grammatical sledgehammer and left to sort themselves out. This wasn't the first time I've encountered this sort of convoluted English. It's everywhere in modern society. Most noticeably, it's where we need it least, in places such as manuals for assembling complicated machinery. What homeowner hasn't cursed together a lawn mower or stereo with instructions which read: "Taking most care not to bend the tab red, please insert slot M into place that is provided for and with screwdriver turn but not too tight for good that is of mower engine."

It's enough to drive you crazy. But more than that, it represents the first tentative mallet blows which, if left unchecked, will eventually reduce our native tongue to so much verbal rubble.

I can just hear Edison and the rest of his generation by the time they reach their teens, after years of reading material from the Mysterious Orient: "Excuse please," he will say to his mother while she sits reading the evening paper. "The car, of which I am borrowed has in traffic. To left but not too hard an other direction automobile vehicle was met."

"That's nice," she'll reply. "But you've got homework."

He will shrug and go upstairs to study. It won't be till she goes out to the garage the next day that she'll realize Eddie has totaled the family car.

Or how about this one: "May I to store please with card most plastic with intent of employment keep and years many?" Edison will ask.

"It's about time," Edison's father will answer, thinking the kid intends to get a real job at one of the stores in the Mall. It won't be until the end of the month, when he gets his Visa bill, that he'll figure out the employment Eddie was talking about was his father's and he'll have to put off retirement for a few years just to pay off the bill his son has run up.

The way I see it, there's only one way to combat this linguistic menace: Learn to speak the language myself. Starting today, I'm going to covet every Republic of China instruction manual I can lay my hands on. And I'm going to study them till it kills me. I figure by the end of next year I should be reasonably fluent.

In fact, I may as well start practicing as soon as possible. To that end, please to read as well as in seven days will with most notable return again to column make.

Translation: See you next week.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or inquiries into his new Chinese-English translation service, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

Is there a reason a doctor's time is more valuable than my own? I'm not talking about a heart surgeon holding the keys to life or death in his hands as he performs a quadruple bypass. I'm not talking about a neurosurgeon bringing new hope to a tumor victim with a few deft turns of the laser. I'm not even talking about the pediatrician who recognizes that the little red spots covering your toddler are a rare allergy, not mumps.

What I am talking about is my foot doctor.

He's not actually "my" foot doctor, but he's the doctor who's been fixing my foot since it quit working right a couple weeks back. He's also fixing a lot of other feet, judging by the crowds gathered in his waiting room every time I stop by for an appointment.

Appointment. In the physician's lexicon, that word is defined thus: "Appointment; the interval of time between when a patient is scheduled for examination and the time the doctor actually sees said patient. Disparity between two times should not exceed 12 hours, unless it is a very good day for golf."

My appointment was for 2:10 p.m. From previous visits to my foot doctor's office, I knew this time was mostly hypothetical, like my love life back in high school. So I called ahead, just to make sure the doctor was on schedule.

"Oh certainly," said the woman who answers the doctor's phone.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Because last time I was there I had to shave twice while waiting for the doctor to arrive."

"Hee-hee. That's a good one," said the woman. "I haven't heard that one before." This indicated to me that she had heard plenty of other comments about the long waits experienced by patients there.

"So he definitely is on schedule, right?" I said. "Because I have other stuff I could be doing if he's not. I could come later."

"No, no," she assured me. "He's right on schedule."

"Okay," I said, trying to sound unconvinced.

I arrived at the doctor's office at 2:05 p.m., five minutes early, and let the receptionist know I was there.

"I'll tell the doctor," she said, and disappeared into the hallway adjoining her cubicle.

My foot doctor has the most boring collection of magazines imaginable, unless you're an avid skier, bicyclist or housewife. These are the only three magazine types available in his waiting room.
Speaking of which, what other profession even has something called a "waiting" room? Can you picture a waiting room at a grocery store? At a movie theater? A newspaper office?

Anyone else in the world, when they make an appointment for 2:10, actually intends to see you at 2:10. No waiting room is needed. Only a doctor can get away with this sort of baloney.

Sorry, I'm ranting.

The point is, my foot doctor has a waiting room and I was in it.

I was in it at 2:10, at 2:20, at 2:30, and at 2:45. Finally, a nurse stuck her head around the corner and called my name. She escorted me to an examination room, but I was not encouraged. My foot doctor has four examination rooms and a patient was waiting in every one of them. Some of the patients had long, unkempt beards and looked very hungry, the kind of thing you'd expect to see in a medieval dungeon.

Sure enough, I was waiting in the examination room until 3 p.m. Then 3:10, then 3:15, the 3:20.

When I was a teenager in the ‘60s, I was briefly into transcendentalism. Sitting on the examination table, wearing one shoe and one sock, I tried to revisit the meditation techniques of my youth. I closed my eyes, breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth. In. Out. In. Out. I searched for my "center," for tranquility and inner peace. I glanced at my watch. Another ten minutes had passed. I was feeling neither tranquil nor peaceful.

I found myself longing for the fabulous stimulation of the waiting room, where fascinating articles on skiing and house keeping were to be found in abundance. The only reading material in this room was a chart showing how all the bones are supposed to work and which could be replaced with plastic and steel when they didn't.

Finally, I decided I'd had enough. I put my high-tech velcro and plastic cast back on and hobbled toward the door, determined to tell the receptionist exactly what I thought of the foot doctor's scheduling practices.

At that moment, the foot doctor strolled in, smelling of fresh cut grass and nine irons.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" he said with a smile.

I grunted non-commitally. I'm not really old enough to be overtly cantankerous or curmudgeonly, but I'm not too young to start practicing both.

The "examination" took a grand total of 28 seconds, during which time he asked me if my foot still hurt, (No), whether I was still taking my medication, (Yes), and whether there had been any swelling, (No).

His advice was that I should wear the cast until my foot quit hurting, then take the cast off. For this, he spent six years at med school.

On my way out, the receptionist asked me if I needed to make another appointment. I was glad she asked. It gave me another chance to practice being cantankerous and curmudgeonly.

Another few trips to the foot doctor and I think I'll have it down pat.

Went in for a physical the other day.  I was about a year overdue.  Like most men, I hate physicals, for one reason: The Rubber Glove.

You guys know what I'm talking about.  At least you guys 50 and older.

The rubber glove, while (so the say) necessary, is - for me at least - more dreaded and loathed than Saddam Hussein and re-runs of "The Golden Girls."  The only thing more feared, in fact, is cancer, which is why we put up with the rubber glove.

So you can imagine how pleased I was when the exam ended and I still had both my pants and my dignity.

"What about the rubber glove?" I blurted, instantly wishing I could retract the comment.

"We won't be doing that this time," the doctor said.

"Well, cool!" I said, meaning it.

It was then he told me the reason I wouldn't need the rubber glove: He was scheduling me for a colonoscopy.  For those lucky enough not to know, a colonoscopy is a procedure in which a proctologist runs a camera up your ass on the end of a flexible tube, then sits back with a bowl of Chili Cheese Fritos and a cold beer and enjoys the show.  I wish I were kidding here, but I'm not.

I have a month to think about it before I go in for the procedure, which is not nearly long enough.  I'm hoping an asteroid hits the earth sometime before then, but I doubt I'm that lucky.

And what sort of person becomes a proctologist, anyway?  At what point in a promising med student's career does he or she sit back and think, "You know, I'd really like to spend the next 30 years studying assholes!"

No doubt there are hundreds of political analysts who at some point reached that same conclusion, but at least they get to wear suits to work, instead of scrubs.

Anyway, barring an asteroid strike, I've got 32 days, nine hours and 17 minutes before they turn my rear end into "must see TV."

And no, I won't be posting the video on U-Tube.