The worst thing about the downturn in the newspaper industry, aside from massive layoffs, careers in ruins, frozen salaries and the grim realization that my only other marketable skill is frying hushpuppies at the fish camp, is the cutback in good, old-fashioned monkey coverage. 

The end of summer is fast approaching. No, not the end of the actual season itself, but the “real” summer, when my kids are out of school. I can walk around guilt-free with my shirt off (pants are optional), and the neighbors go out of town so we can use their washing machine and watch their 67-inch plasma TV. 

All entries are in for the Second Annual Write Scott Hollifield’s Column While He Is On Vacation Or Performing Court-Ordered Community Service Contest.

I thought I had it bad, but some of you at one time or another have transformed into one huge, hideous blister, shunned by family and friends and forced to live in outbuildings so no one could hear your agonizing cries and see your incessant scratching. 

As I write this, I am trying mightily to keep from removing my fingers from the keyboard and raking them across the ugly, raised red patch on my shin. Or the one ringing my wrist. Or the one spread across my forearm. Or the one slightly north of my pinkie toe. Or the one shaped like a chain of Caribbean islands two inches from my belly button. 

At this point, I will tell you that Independence Day is, without a doubt, my favorite holiday. It makes me happy. There’s no pressure to buy gifts, no obligation to say how thankful I am for everything, and no kids banging on the door demanding candy. 

Back by popular demand - and, yes, I consider one demand to be wildly popular - it’s the Write Scott’s Column While He Is On Vacation or Performing His Court-Ordered Community Service Contest. 

Without the third-rate, big-headed minor league baseball mascot, we wouldn’t have lasted the four innings before the screaming started. 

Having been voted “Most Likely To Be Shot In The Head With A Nail Gun” in school and having a family history that includes mishaps with chainsaws, machetes and even a cotton swab (punctured eardrum), I am just waiting for George’s fate to befall me. It’s not that I dread the pain so much - George said there’s surprisingly little of that - it’s the whole bureaucratic nightmare that follows - hospitals, insurance companies, etc. 

My name is Scott. You may remember me from such previous public service announcements as “Cable Theft: Is Wrestlemania Really Worth It?” and “Say No To Crack: A Parent’s Guide to Baggy Pants.”
Today, I’m talking, or rather writing - that’s the thing people did before text messaging - about something you may have thought about doing or have already done: Showing your backside for the amusement and/or horror of others. 

According to The Associated Press, the source I turn to for news about non-functioning interplanetary bathroom fixtures, the toilet has been acting up for weeks and the three astronauts onboard have “temporarily bypassed the problem.”
The story did not elaborate, but if you visit the international space station, do not look in cargo hold No. 4. 

I chuckled when I perused that AP story, amused that unenlightened 17th century man would use a single unsanitary device to clean both his teeth and his ears - until I read the tiny gold toothpick and earwax spoon was valued at more than $100,000. 

“Who said we’d never make it?”
“Your family. My family. All our friends. The wedding caterer. The preacher. The woman who played the piano. The guy at the gas station where we stopped to ask directions to the hotel after the wedding. The ticket agent at the airport. The stewardess. The fat guy who sat two seats over on the plane. The kid in Jamaica selling T-shirts by the side of the road. The woman with a big basket on her head -”

The incessant political coverage has even pushed to the backburner what I consider the most important story in recent memory: After decades of trial and error, science has finally produced its crowning achievement, the robot squirrel. 

I was fortunate to receive that life-altering bit of advice at her 100th birthday party at the Friedberg Moravian Church in Winston-Salem, or as my daughter referred to it before we arrived, the Free Bird Moravian Church