JOKE MEETS GROUND

I Grow Fatigued With Waves of the Future, But Whatev

2012-02-10T14:43:00.002-05:00

Attention anyone who's left on this sinking ship: the goof-offery has moved to Twitter, which I understand will enable me to compose blog entries of up to 180 characters--meaning each one will now only be too long by about fifty percent! Join me at @sorennarnia. There will be prize giveawa--good God, what am I saying?

Smack!

2010-12-12T11:05:00.003-05:00

Sorry, dear reader! Simply by reading this post you've unleashed an ancient Sumerian curse which has now condemned all your future children, both male and female, to be named Ambrose.

Come to Me, My Severance

2010-12-02T16:13:00.001-05:00

Menken, thanks for sitting down with me today. I’ll try to make this brief. As you know, two years ago I asked you to come up with three ideas for tasty stir-in suggestions to list on the side of one of our company’s six boxed macaroni and cheese products, Shells A-Cheesin’. Since December of 2008 you’ve had absolutely no other duties, no other responsibilities but to generate those three ideas, which you frankly could have safely lifted from any number of other boxed macaroni and cheese products, or perhaps spent all of five minutes on the internet to compile. Last Friday, you finally presented me with those ideas on company letterhead, the summation of twenty-three months of work. One of the stir-in concepts is certainly usable, while another sounds frankly unappetizing, with the third suggestion being Shells A-Cheesin’ itself. This catastrophically insulting effort on your part naturally deserves a swift firing, but I don’t want to be too hasty, for I believe we are presented here with a situation that calls for more--in fact this may be a rare opportunity, given the utterly dizzying atrociousness and absurdity of your failure, to commence a firing on a scale heretofore unattempted at either Foods A-Vendin’ Incorporated or any other S & P 500 company I am personally familiar with. So I’ve brought you in today to get your input on this, for it really needs to be done right. The boys in Accounting suggested we hire a fake doctor to come to your cubicle to tell you that the results of your tests are the worst possible and that you only have six months to live--followed immediately by me firing you on the spot with obvious full cognizance of your impending end, thereby demonstrating to one and all that your incompetence is so vast and all-encompassing that nothing, nothing at all, can save you from instant and remorseless unemployment. I also thought I could simply harangue you verbally for hours in the hallway before finally delivering a profane death blow, only to stage a show of sympathy by re-hiring you after you beg for forgiveness, after which I would suddenly deliver a double whammy by firing you a second time the moment I return your key card, revealing to one and all that I was merely setting you up for a bonus helping of get-the-hell-out all along. These are both workable ideas but I’m not too worried about the budget for this, as we’ll obviously be saving $30 on your birthday party in March. To that end, I was pondering the construction of an ominous ring of fire in the east courtyard; there, you would be tied to a metal pole of some sort and fired via loudspeaker as the entire company watches in amazement while through a cleverly crafted trap door, a perfect effigy would rise quickly to replace the real you at the crucial moment when the fire has eaten through the grass to engulf your feet, and this dummy would burn horrifically while the deceived onlookers weep and scream. Call it overly avant garde, but I feel the spectacle of a ring of fire and all it suggests would surely create a dismissal for the ages, and of course you would merely be escorted through a secret tunnel directly to the unemployment office, safe and sound, with the staff mistakenly mourning for nothing but a few sandbags tied together with your face Photoshopped onto a pumpkin or something. My last idea involves Cheap Trick, whose members I happen to know personally, having gone to medical school with them. Imagine, if you will, a so-called “benefit concert” staged in our very own parking lot, with not only our entire company but everyone in the building invited to hear the band rock through ninety quality minutes of both classics and new material, and the big surprise at the end, revealed by Robin Zander himself as he stands at the mike, is that the people benefiting from the concert is all of us except you, because we’re being relieved of your presence effective immediately, “your ass being shipped UPS in a cardboard box directly to Loser Land,” as Robin will put it to the cheering throng. And there’s an actual symbolic cardboard box that descends from the arm of a crane! Sounds ambitious, I know, but I think we can pull it off! So go back to your desk and we’ll agree to keep this between ourselves for now, and tomorrow will be showtime. And when you come back from lunch today, let me know what they have down in the cafeteria. If it’s anything involving corn, I don’t want to know about it. Corn is the yellow whore.

Take That, Enriching World of Arts and Leisure!

2010-11-24T08:42:00.011-05:00

Sometimes having a blog means being utterly fearless, and if I may toot my own horn, such was the case last Thursday, or as it’s now referred to, the Day of the Bloody Knife, when without reservation I took down fourteen American philharmonics in a single paragraph by referring to them as “only average,” going as far as naming names, because I felt it’s what I had to do. I regret nothing. Because I do not possess the bandwidth to respond with cutting prose to each and every savage attack that followed, I present here a brief summary of the ensuing carnage for posterity, for I shall never, ever be silenced:

PHILHARMONIC DEVASTATED: Cincinnati
CONDUCTOR'S RETALIATION: Squeezed out the entire contents of an economy-sized tube of Aquafresh into my asthma inhaler
MY RESPONSE: I stand by my courageous words

PHILHARMONIC DEVASTATED: Pittsburgh
CONDUCTOR'S RETALIATION: Somehow acquired my credit card number and subscribed me to no less than one hundred and fifty adult web sites
MY RESPONSE: You can attack me, but you cannot attack the reality of your transparent averageness

PHILHARMONIC DEVASTATED: Seattle
CONDUCTOR'S RETALIATION: Broke into my home and took my cat
MY RESPONSE: The truth I bring to the world about your middling philharmonic cannot be denied or contained; also, please bring me back my cat, as I have grown quite fond of it

PHILHARMONIC DEVASTATED: Dallas
CONDUCTOR'S RETALIATION: Called me a "numbnut bastard"
MY RESPONSE: You yourself are the thing you have accused me of being, good sir

PHILHARMONIC DEVASTATED: Phoenix
CONDUCTOR'S RETALIATION: Openly challenged my citizenship status in an essay for Atlantic Monthly
MY RESPONSE: I say again: my eleven years working for North Korean intelligence forces were a youthful mistake for which I shall not apologize again

PHILHARMONIC DEVASTATED: Baltimore
CONDUCTOR'S RETALIATION: No action yet taken
MY RESPONSE: I take your silence to mean that you will soon quietly disband for the benefit of all who love beautiful things

PHILHARMONIC DEVASTATED: Tampa-St. Petersburg
CONDUCTOR'S RETALIATION: Quietly left the music business
MY RESPONSE: Your overly restrained direction of The Magic Flute completely justifies your sad end

PHILHARMONIC DEVASTATED: The Boys' and Girls' Club of Flint, Michigan
CONDUCTOR'S RETALIATION: Came at me with a machete as I stood in line for Eat, Pray, Love
MY RESPONSE: Yeah, uh-huh, where's your machete now, friendo?

It Could Happen, Actually. I Read an Article.

2010-11-10T08:43:00.003-05:00

It was showtime. The cameras rolled. The classical music was piped in and the director cued the talent to speak.

"Hello, and welcome once again to Tea Time for the Pleasant,” said the man in the sweater vest sitting at an oaken dining table. “I am your host for today’s tea, Grady St. Paul. With me today is a very special guest and one of my oldest friends, Lynette Van Ott, the curator of fine teas at the Paris Annex of Gentle Sigh University. Lynette, it’s lovely to see you.”

Lynette smiled. “I’m delighted to be here, Grady. Do you realize we haven’t seen each other since Earth Day?”

“That’s very true, Lynette. Thank you for pointing that out.” He gestured at the several teacups placed before them. “Now as you know, I’m very excited today because you’ve brought with you some teas which I have not stopped talking about since the Twinings Taste-Off in Nantucket. The first one I cannot wait to try is Lemon Dusk, which won the 1997 Legion of Loveliness Award for Quality Teas and hasn’t been tasted in this country for seven years. Lynette?”

“That’s right, Grady,” said Lynette as they both dipped their teabags. “It was originally brewed in the Hudson Valley, but was found mostly in Quebec for many years and was sadly unavailable to us until now--and I don’t know about you, but this absolutely makes my decade.”

“Shall we?” Grady asked, removing his bag.

“Indeed,” said Lynette, removing her own.

They both gently sipped their tea with silent anticipation. A moment passed. Then Grady spewed the tea out of his mouth in disgust, spraying it the full length of the table. Lynette gagged and dropped her own teacup in revulsion.

“My GOD!” Grady said, wiping his mouth and grimacing. “What was THAT?!”

Lynette couldn’t speak for a moment. She looked around for a rag to brush her tongue with.

“That is the WORST taste I’ve ever had in my mouth!” Grady proclaimed. “It’s like licking a stop sign!”

“Ah...perhaps we should move on to the Paris series,” Lynette said, trying to keep her composure. “I’ve brought it from over two thousand miles away.”

“Let’s do that,” Grady agreed. He moved on to the next teacup and Lynette did likewise. “The Paris series consists of several highly acclaimed teas endorsed in the pages of This Week in Steeping. The tea we’re most interested in sampling today is called Vive La Soleil--loosely translated, meaning ‘Long live the sun.’ Some say it was the favorite of no less a dignitary than Prince Mahibna of Ivory Coast. Lynette, are you ready?”

“I am, Grady,” she said hopefully, lifting her bag and placing it daintily beside her cup. “This should be super.”

In unison, they sipped the contents of their fine china cups. Instantly they ejected the tea into the limpid air with the force of an anti-aircraft missile, their taste buds lashing out in terror against the accursed liquid. The mist hung in a cloud for several seconds while Grady seized the tablecloth so as not to fall backwards out of his chair. Lynette clawed at her throat like a vampire suddenly exposed to the sun.

“Good god, woman, what are you trying to do to me?!“ Grady shouted. “Where’d you get this, a dead goat's kidney?!”

Lynette settled herself, regaining her on-camera persona with great difficulty.

“Ah...you know, some teas just aren’t suited for all palates, I suppose, um...”

“This crap isn’t suited to paint my Prius!” Grady yelled.

“Please, Grady--”

“Look at that color—-I know CORONERS who would get the creeps over this!”

Lynette pushed on. “Yes, ah...I was going to save the finest tea I have for the end of the show, but I think you deserve a little treat now, Grady...let’s play a game: can you name a tea that was actually honored by Canadian Parliament?”

Grady stared daggers into her, nodded threateningly. “All right, I’ll play your little game, sis. Is it Earl Sunflower?”

Lynette attempted a smile. “No...”

“Geneva Apple?”

“No...this tea was featured in the motion picture Breakfast at Tiffany’s...”

Grady closed his eyes, exhaled bitterly. “Island Mist?”

“No...”

Grady slammed a fist on the table. “OH CHRIST, YOU SLAG, JUST TELL US THE BLOODY NAME!” The teacups rattled.

Lynette cowered. “Why...it’s Tangerine Dreamer...it’s in the cup beside your elbow. Shall we...shall we give it a whirl?”

“All right,” Grady said with menace. “All right. But listen, if I send THIS one back out of my piehole, I’m hurling myself across this table and strangling you with your own phony accent, understand?”

She nodded defensively. The teabags were removed. The cups were placed to their mouths. In less time than it takes a pretty hummingbird to flap its wings but once, Grady dropped his cup on the floor where it shattered.

“Look at this!” he cried. “There’s a RAZOR BLADE in this!!”

“Oh my goodness,” Lynette whispered. “It must be a new derivative of a classic—-”

“RAZOR BLADES IS NOT A DERIVATIVE, SLUT MONKEY!” Grady shouted, waving the object in her face. “RAZOR BLADES ARE RAZOR BLADES!”

Suddenly Lynette grinned strangely. “That’s right, Mr. St. Paul,” she said, standing. “Razor blades are meant only to put an end to your reign of tea tyranny!” She yanked off her wig in one violent motion. Grady gasped. “We, the People of the United Front of Leisure Time Beverages, declare your hosting days over! No longer will this publicly-funded PBS station be a slave to your pedestrian palate! I, Hortense Mozart, will be taking over! Henchmen, seize him! Seize him now!”

“I’ll die before I let you tell our viewers what to drink, Nazi cow!” Grady cried. The oafish, lumbering henchmen were not quick enough; by the time their simian hands brushed his vest he had put a couple of cyanide-tipped slugs into each of their patellas. He turned his revolver on Hortense.

“Don’t do it! We can rule together!” Hortense pleaded, backing away.

“Rule THIS, assneck!” he declared, and took her out with his dead aim. Then, for reasons which would remain unclear for months, he leapt out the closest window, screaming out his love for the fatherland as he descended to the unforgiving pavement below.

An absurd dream or a cautionary reality? When viewers like us fail to meet our moral obligation by making good on pledges to local PBS stations, funding problems can lead to our favorite shows getting lost in the shuffle, or even the ghoulish deaths of their hosts. Please stand up, be counted, donate generously, and everything should be all right come the harvest.

Down into the Zero

2010-11-06T09:28:00.005-04:00

(Blogger's note: Due to temporary and perhaps permanent creative bankruptcy, I turn now to the Old Files for whatever content I can squeeze from them. Please, no complaints, as you were warned about this some time ago.)

Wendell and Doris drove toward East Whippany. It was going to be a super weekend of fun which might or might not include eating in a restaurant--the kind advertised on television and in newspapers.

“Hey, remind me,” Wendell said, “we should stop in Oatesville and shop for jeans at this great bargain store, Gabe’s Warehouse.”

“Do we have to stop for that?” Doris asked, daydreaming of restaurants and the food she believed them to contain. “You can get that stuff anytime.”

“You can’t get jeans for seven dollars in Beebs Gulch,” Wendell noted.

Doris frowned. “You can get jeans at the Games Warehouse?”

“Games Warehouse?”

“Yes, you said Games Warehouse.”

Wendell clarified. “No, I said ‘Gabe’s Warehouse’.”

“Games Warehouse?” Doris asked, puzzled.

“No, Gabe’s Warehouse.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, Gabe’s Warehouse.” This time Wendell overpronounced the B.

“You sound like you’re saying Games Warehouse,” Doris said.

Wendell shook his head, frustrated. “I’m saying Gaaaaaaaabbbbbbbbe’s Warehouse!” he said. “Buh! Buh! Buh!”

“You keep saying that!” Doris said. “Games Warehouse!”

“B! B! B!” Wendell shouted. “The second letter of the alphabet is what you’re hearing!”

They drove in silence for a while. They passed some trees.

“Games Warehouse?” Doris asked, very confused. “Say it again.”

Wendell slammed on the brakes and pulled over on the shoulder. He got out of the car and walked over to a road sign that read SPEED LIMIT 55. He pointed at the M over and over again. Doris stared out the window at him.

“This is NOT the letter I am saying when I speak of the topic at hand!” Wendell shouted over the noise of passing traffic. “Imagine this as a B!”

"You're pointing at the T!" Doris yelled back.

Wendell saw that his finger was, in fact, a bit wayward and he corrected this. "NOW look at what I'm pointing at!"

“But it sounds like an M!” Doris protested. “As in ‘Games Warehouse’!”

Wendell got back in the car and they drove on in silence. He just didn’t even feel like talking to Doris anymore.

They passed a business on the side of the road. It was called THE GAMES WAREHOUSE. Wendell pulled into the parking lot.

“What are you doing?” Doris asked.

“I want to check this place out,” he said.

“But this isn’t the place,” Doris said. “Is it?”

“NO!” Wendell yelled. “The place I want to stop is called GABE’S Warehouse!”

“Then why are we stopping here?” Doris wanted to know.

“It’s unrelated! I happened to see it, okay?!”

“Okay!” Doris said. “No need for a hissy fit!”

Doris waited in the car. Wendell came out ten minutes later with Deluxe Stratego under his arm, which some game enthusiasts claim is twice the Stratego that Stratego ever was.

“There, did that kill you?” he asked Doris crossly.

She didn’t answer. They drove on.

They passed another business on the side of the road. It was called GABE’S WAREHOUSE. Wendell drove right past it. Doris held her silence for as long as she could, but then turned to a stone-faced Wendell out of a nagging curiosity.

“Why are you going pa--”

“BECAUSE THAT’S NOT THE RIGHT ONE!” Wendell screamed. “IT’S A DIFFERENT GABE’S WAREHOUSE! NOW FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LEAVE ME BE, WOMAN!”

Wendell pulled over again. He looked at Doris tenderly and recalled how beautiful she had looked when he first saw her at Battlestar Galacticatoberfest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I got angry.”

“It’s all right,” Doris said grumpily.

They drove on. Two hours later Wendell slapped his forehead.

“I think that was Gabe’s Warehouse,” he said.

“Of course it was the Games Warehouse, assface!” Doris said furiously. “You’ve got the Deluxe Stratego receipt to prove it!”

For these two young lovers, marriage seemed a dubious idea at best.

The Blatant Unfairness of It All

2010-11-03T15:54:00.004-04:00

I am very weak as I write this---oh so very weak---but I shall try my best to finish these sentences before I pass out again on my filthy straw mat.

As I announced on this blog two months ago, I am on a hunger strike until the 1976 Tampa Bay Buccaneers (0-14) defeat the 2007 New England Patriots (16-0) in a football game simulated by the WhatIf? Sports stat generator.

Every day for sixty-one days I have had the stat generator simulate a contest between these two historic teams, and every single day my dream has been crushed.

I can take this no longer.

I don’t know if I can go even one more day without taking in substantial nutrients---and yet I refuse. I refuse to ingest anything other than Orangina and clam juice until the inevitable happens.

For all I know, this could be my last day on earth---sometimes now when I drift in and out of unconsciousness, I see a dark specter beckoning me.

Now, while you are here with me, and my strength is high (the afternoons are always better; I don’t tremble so much then), I shall click the SIMULATE! button afresh.

Please, Lord...please let this time be different. I simply don’t have the strength to continue.

Now. NOW:

The Blog = Library Card

2010-10-26T08:10:00.003-04:00

Today our continuing series of literary classics which may or may not have been improved if conveyed through the medium of texting turns its focus to the great tradition of Victorian ghost stories. The selection we’ve chosen is The Horror at Braughmsby Gate: A Tale of Unsettling Transpirance by C. H. Metherwill, a popular author around the time when wainscoting was much discussed.

The Horror at Braughmsby Gate: A Tale of Unsettling Transpirance by C. H. Metherwill

It was on or about the 23rd of October, 18__ that the following exchange occurred, which with pen and patience I hereby relate 4 posterity.

I had chosen 2 take lodgings @ the parish of the local vicar for the summer solstice, being of temperant custom @ the time, and none 2 infractious. During dinner, he was seen 2 recline at leisure w/ pipe & tobacco & heard 2 recount this chilling factual narrative:

“It was on the eve of frostmas, 18__ that a most troubling apparition materialised @ Underswich Moor past sundown, causing the charwoman 2 wring her hands most fitfully and exclaim, in a tone that it pains me 2 say in such pleasant company can only be described as tremulous, ‘My word! ‘Tis an apparition that bears the most striking resemblance 2 the late Mme. Foursault!’ At which point she made haste 2 call on Father Wickerby, who was undoubtedly put out by the lateness of the hr., having been inclined 2 put himself abed early w/ pipe & tobacco & his notes 4 a defence of the Episcopacy @ the Archdeaconry of Chulbridge Friar.’ “

I leave it upon U, dear reader, 2 judge whether this extraordinary tale seems 2 ring of truth or cruel fiction, but whithever, it has now certainly been set down, & thus no further comment can be made which may affect the behaviors or attitudes of those named within it. May God look kindly upon their labors!

END OF THE HORROR AT BRAUGHMSBY GATE: A TALE OF UNSETTLING TRANSPIRANCE, BY C.H. METHERWILL

Questions for review:

1) How do you think this story would have differed if it were actually, you know, good?
2) Imagine the names in this story were names like Flannery, O’Shaughnessy, and Doyle. Would that make you even angrier? Are there any nationalities you can think of besides the Irish that you don’t particularly care for?
3) How much would you pay to get the last two minutes of your life back, and why?

Do Read the Fine Print Etched Upon Your California Roll

2010-10-20T17:21:00.006-04:00

Yes, Akihiru, the valiant one they call The Whispering Ghost is dead, his body left for the gods upon the mighty Rock of the Tenth Son---and you are the Last Samurai. Yes, it is true; as you had long believed you might be, you are the final soldier in a great and proud line, and thus you must fight on, carrying the burden of all those samurai who have fallen before you. If you are ready for the immense responsibility of being the Last Samurai, draw your sword gently across my left palm, and your destiny will be sealed.

You make me proud, Akihiru! All right then. As the Last Samurai, your main responsibility will be to write the story of your people for future generations to learn from. Deep in the cold woods of the Kabato Mountains will you spend day and night listening to the spirits and transcribing their individual histories, going without food or drink for long periods out of respect for their sacrifices, writing until your hands bleed and break. We’re looking to have this project done by next summer, next autumn by the latest, and then your words will ring out through the coming centuries, and all that the samurai have struggled for will not be in vain. Best to start outlining and taking some basic notes right now so you don’t forget everything. We’re going to need about a hundred leather-bound copies. No, two hundred.

Also as the Last Samurai, it falls upon you to compile a spreadsheet of all your dead comrades, listing their achievements, their glories, and yes, even their failures. Like the story of your people, this too is for the future generations. The spreadsheet will be long and its compilation most difficult; again there will be no food and water for long periods, but I know that you have the inner strength to prevail. It goes without saying that the headers of each column should be in bold blue type, does it not, Akihiru?

I’m thinking it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to keep hosting the samurai web site, so as the Last Samurai can you give Yahoo a call and have that taken down? Also, the samurai bulletin board in the sacred chamber beside the Nobu River seems to be sort of pointless, so that should go, just be careful not to damage the wall when you unscrew it. What else...oh, you should probably send out a message to the email list and let them know it’s just you now. Put a thing in there about how downloading the samurai social networking app we were working on will probably be a waste of time and money.

Um, someone has to clean out the Ivory Temple of Kenta...and since there are no other samurai left...well, you get the picture. There’s a lot of trash in there, soda bottles and such, so you’ll probably have to stop at CVS and get a bunch of bags. After you clean it, make sure all the lights are off, kill the AC, lock up, and make sure the great warrior Haatu gets both copies of the key. I’ll write to him on blessed parchment and tell him that you’re the Last Samurai and he won’t give you any hassles. Cancel the mail there, too, now that I think of it.

When you’re done all that, just take a look around the area, you know, give it a once-over, make sure we didn’t forget anything, and after that I guess you can just go keep upholding the noble ideals of the samurai, fighting whoever needs to be fought and such. You might want to be, you know, extra careful, since after you, there’s really no backup plan. We really don’t have the budget to just keep cranking out samurai.

Shoot, you know what? We had that charity thing all set up where those lonely women were going to bid on dates with samurai. We can’t cancel that, we already paid for the ad, so as the Last Samurai...do us a solid?

Animal Magnetism

2010-10-18T15:42:00.003-04:00

Randy, I know that look on your face, but just keep the flashlight steady and listen to me, all right? Here...put your hand against this part of the wall right here. Now tap on it. Hear that echo? It goes through the entire thing. Which means this wall, which we know from the schematics to be no more than five inches thick, is also hollow as a drum. Look at this hole someone accidentally kicked in it last month--you could break through this thing in about three seconds if you wanted to bad enough. Seems we’re confronted with some basic, incontrovertible facts here. Number one: tomorrow morning at ten a.m., the 2010 Chumbler’s County Cat Show will begin in this space, drawing more than seven hundred and fifty attendees over the course of two days. Number two: the cat show crowd will be separated from space 2A by a hollow five inch wall which can be breached practically by breathing on it. Now it’s fact number three which terrifies me, Randy, absolutely terrifies me. Point the flashlight at the registration book, right here. Hold the beam steady, now. Read those words and try not to panic.

That’s right. Noon tomorrow is when the Association of Portly Women Who Tend to Wear Sweatshirts Advertising Midwestern Vacation Spots convenes for their semi-annual convention, right beyond this wall. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me they won’t be able to hear what’s happening on the other side. You tell me that, dammit! Because if and when they do...I don’t want to think about it. I just don’t. What I want is for you to round up Sal and Pepito and Luscious Larry and get them out here on the double, because if we start right now, we might just be able to collect enough bricks and cement to thwart a potential catastrophe. This building was not even remotely designed for a possible stampede like the one we’re facing--we’re missing three fire extinguishers, the structural integrity of the floor itself is by no means guaranteed, and Mercy Hospital is chronically understaffed since Target started hiring again. If two inevitably attracting forces are going to collide tomorrow, Randy, they’re going to be a bottle of Michelob Ultra and my grateful mouth, and nothing else, not if I can help it. Because this has happened before, and no one learned. What happened was...well, there was this one group of people in this building, and at some point they became aware of something close by that really compelled them...just a second, it’ll come to me...

Oooo...what a weird feeling I just had, Randy. I don’t know why, but I just got this sense that somewhere out there, there’s some dude sitting in front of a battered typewriter trying to come up with one more easily-mocked-segment-of-the-population-is-wildly-attracted-to-something-they-tend-to-really-go-for analogy in order to close out a blog entry with a cheap joke, and he just can’t seem to pound one out, mostly because his boss keeps passing by his cubicle and if he gets caught slacking off again, it’s back down to Elixirs and Potions where he started, and this time the lead apron stays on through the entire ten hour shift--no exceptions. Do you ever get that feeling?

No? How about the feeling that somebody somewhere has just sat down to eat a baked potato, not realizing that it happens to look exactly like them? Could you imagine? Could you imagine them dying someday having no idea what they had eaten?

These are the things I think about, Randy. Will you hold me?

THE CRITICAL CONSENSUS OF TODAY’S BLOG ENTRY:
Blogs in Review: D+
Woman’s Day: C-
Electronic Media Monthly: D-
The Boston Herald: F
Cat Fancier: F
Mom: B for effort

The Streak

2010-10-04T16:47:00.002-04:00

A List of Assfaces and Their Trespasses Against Me, the Week of 10/2/2010

1) That dude behind me in the center lane on I-70 at about 4:15 on Tuesday
2) Bob

Shirley:

I’m sorry, but I think this may be the last week I’m going to need someone to transcribe my weekly lists of assfaces and their trespasses against me. As you can see, I’m kind of running out of steam. I know you’ve been doing this for me for nineteen years and I hate to think you’ll have to look for another part-time job, but as I make out the lists I keep having this weird thought that in certain circumstances, maybe it’s me who’s the assface, not the other parties involved. Do you think this could be? I’m not sure. Whatever the cause, at this rate the only assface I’ll definitely be able to list on a weekly basis is Bob. I’ve thought about splitting him off from the assface list and making a kind of sub-list which details the actual reasons he’s on there from week to week, but honestly, I don’t think that one would have any greater chance at publication than the original.

I’ll gladly pay you through the end of the month if you could just do one wrap-up favor for me, which is to go through the lists since 1991 and circle any duplicates on them so I can get a more accurate total assface count spanning the last two decades. Also, I know I said your son could have the microphone and tape deck I bought last year to create an audio record of the lists, but if Deathraisin is really broken up for good this time, do you think I could have the stuff back to sell on eBay?

Anyway, I’d say we definitely had a good run, wouldn’t you? Lots of memories. As long as every assface since 1991 has been accurately identified, I guess I can make peace with stopping here. And while I once couldn’t imagine you going to work for Bob, I know he always needs help with his daily record of unbelievable jerkwads, and in this economy I wouldn’t blame you for going over to “the other side.”

Thanks for everything,
S.N.

P.S. If it’s not too much trouble, go back and add the layout editor of Modern Scoutmaster to the list for the week of 3/27/2005. I know I have a hard rule against being retroactive, but I feel I absolutely must make an exception in this case.

Have You Dined With Us Before? Super.

2010-09-27T21:43:00.005-04:00

Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her
by Christopher Brennan (1870-1932), Interspersed with Items from the Cheesecake Factory Menu, and Let’s See Which You Like Better

If questioning would make us wise
No eyes would ever gaze in eyes;
If all our tale were told in speech
No mouths would wander each to each.

Breast of chicken coated with a romano-parmesan cheese crust
served with pasta
in a light tomato sauce.

Were spirits free from mortal mesh
And love not bound in hearts of flesh
No aching breasts would yearn to meet
And find their ecstasy complete.

Spaghettini with smoked bacon,
green peas,
and a garlic-parmesan cream sauce.

Available with chicken.

For who is there that lives and knows
The secret powers by which he grows?
Were knowledge all, what were our need
To thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?

Black beans topped with cheese quesadillas, sunny side up eggs, spicy ranchero sauce, salsa, sour cream and avocado. Certified Angus beef ribs slow roasted until almost falling off the bone, then grilled and glazed with our barbecue sauce. Served with french fries and onion strings.

Black,
green,
or
tropical iced teas.

Tiramisu.

Then seek not, sweet, the "If" and "Why"
I love you now until I die.
For I must love because I live,
And life in me is what you give.

Wild mushroom burger - our great glamburger challenge winner!
We will gladly honor requests
to modify your order
to suit specific health or dietary needs.

The Blower of Whistles Springs Into Action

2010-09-23T14:19:00.002-04:00

Okay. Okay. I want to remain very calm as I write this. I wasn’t sure if I should even reveal what I’ve discovered, if maybe it would be better to keep this secret locked with me until I reach my big comfy deathbed, but I find myself unable to hold it in. Undoubtedly there will be dire recriminations for my actions here on the blog today, and if anything should happen to me, if I should meet with some unfortunate “accident,” please know that my demise was certainly caused with extreme prejudice by those who wanted to hold onto this information for all eternity. The mysterious crashing of a news helicopter into my Jetta, a screaming foul ball off the bat of a little-used Toronto Blue Jays utility infielder named “John Smith” that somehow connects with my duodenum, a sudden rain of deadly molasses from a seemingly cloudless sky--these are the things you must not accept as mere happenstance.

Here goes--and if I’m signing my own death warrant, then I’ll believe it was worth it even as I’m suffocated by an invisible pane of glass laid quickly and perfectly over the surface of a swimming pool into which I dove without a second thought for a refreshing afternoon swim that instead became the very last experience of moisture of my tragically edited life.

You know how when you go up to a candy machine, check out the selections, put your money in, and then press the buttons for the food you want? Try this: go up to a candy machine, check out the selections, and skip Step 3. Press the buttons before you put the money in. The Twizzlers come tumbling down without it. There is not, and has never been, any need to actually insert your coins. Stop assuming you won’t get the Snickers bar, or even the Mike & Ikes, without them. Think of it: have you ever once tried this?

My God, do I feel relieved. It’s out! It’s out and there’s nothing that can be done about it! Any moment now I expect a bored Filipino Girl Scout to discover my body near the unforgiving banks of the Patapsco River, crushed inside a crudely constructed nine-foot waffle iron that somehow bears no fingerprints, but I no longer care. Justice has been served, and the world will now be held hostage to one less industry legally offering goods in exchange for money, as is the custom of the free market!

I don’t know if this works with soda. Haven’t tried it. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. I don’t have buckets and buckets of free time, you know?

We Can Work It Out

2010-09-17T14:48:00.003-04:00

Fellas, let me just apologize to you both right now for what I did on Tuesday, and I can promise you that if you let me back on the air, just for the final week of episodes, it’ll certainly never happen again. Rick and Tony, you both have been there for me since I walked into this office twenty-nine years ago with an idea and a bit of gumption, and you have my word that I’ll never embarrass you again. The thing is, I just snapped. I mean, I have six thousand and twelve tapings of Was Liam Neeson in Lord of the Rings, Yes or No? under my belt, and I’ve asked that question of our fine contestants approximately two hundred and forty thousand times, and on Tuesday I simply lost it. I don’t know what to tell you. Seriously, you would think that in this age when Google 7 can tell you anything you want to know just by pointing a barcode scanner at the part of your head where the question is being formed, people would have kind of figured this one out by now and wouldn’t need a minute and forty-five seconds of video conference deliberation with their spinster aunt in St. Louis to crack the freaking code. But this show is my life, and if you’ll just let me close out the final taping with a little dignity, I’d be indebted. And of course I’ll both apologize to the FCC and make full restitution to Mrs. Shrebnikov out of my own pocket for the blouse I ruined when I threw those hot dogs at her. If it reassures you, as of yesterday I’m on a drug called Zalpepitol-G which soothes my nerves and sort of flattens out all foreign accents so they’re not so jarring.

Onward and upward, I always say--what I’ve envisioned for the series finale is kind of special. First of all, the curtain rises on a dark set, after which I come out in a spotlight flanked by young children and sing a rousing version of “We Built This City.” Then Liam Neeson himself emerges and I ask him the famous question personally, and when he answers, the set is suddenly lit up by a rushing circle of fire! Men dressed in firefighters’ garb rush out to douse the blaze, and after the applause has died down, they take off their hats to reveal--you’ve got it--the starting lineup of the World Champion 2005 Chicago White Sox. It’s at this point that I shout to the audience, “There’s nothing that a dream can’t conquer!” and the staff of the show joins me on stage for a ritual milk bath to wash away twenty-nine years of togetherness, comraderie, and sexual tension. The most interesting part? None of this will be in color.

I may have taken more Zalpepitol-G than I was supposed to, now that I think about it. The dosage size is sort of confusing because it comes in pasta form.

You Try to Help People.

2010-08-30T14:57:00.001-04:00

I’d just like everyone to know that this is really the LAST time I can run the following blog column, which, since it was first published back in 2006, has become by far the most requested one, to the point where I can no longer respond to people asking me to run it again. Despite its usefulness, which I guess I am now completely convinced of, I can’t just keep printing it over and over for those of you who missed it the first, tenth, and twentieth times. I’m not sure if this particular column’s popularity is simply a sign of our increasingly stressful technological times or if the demand for such advice has some other root, but here it is ONCE more:

HOW TO WRITE ALL YOUR USERNAMES, LOGINS AND PASSWORDS ON YOUR CAT FOR EASY REFERENCE

1) Wait until your cat is in a mellow mood and not paying very close attention to what you’re doing.

2) Lift up your cat and with a non-toxic, erasable marker, write all your usernames, logins and passwords on it so you can easily access them if you forget what they are.

3) Let the cat return to its business; wash the usernames, logins and passwords off once in a while for security reasons.

(P.S. Portions of the second most-requested blog column, “How to Precariously Stack Burning Candles,” are being permanently withdrawn pending class action litigation against myself the column’s co-author, actor Colin Farrell.)

The Sweet Embrace of the Grave Delivers Again

2010-08-26T17:03:00.003-04:00

Today the blog remembers the widely known film director F. F. Arboplast, who passed away on Sunday at the age of 81 after a very brief struggle with RDS (Rapid Descent Syndrome). Arboplast, the creative force behind films like 1965's Over the River and Through the Spleen and 1982's No Clams for Kermit was of course most discussed for his unusual habit of beginning each of his movies with the final sentence of a conversation the audience was not privy to, as in 1977's Orangina at Midnight, which opens with the featured couple, Klaus and Helgafred, in a restaurant completing a meal:

HELGAFRED: Well, I guess it all depends on the number of stab wounds you think is appropriate.
KLAUS: Right, right...so, moving on, let's talk about our marriage, darling.

Or in 1969's Rodeo Clown, Wander On, which fades in on two businessmen concluding a meeting:

BUSINESSMAN 1: It must have been because of all the group sex.
BUSINESSMAN 2: One would assume so. Anyway, do you have the fourth quarter projections on you?

Another of Arboplast's famous quirks was his penchant for creating a wordless subplot in each of his films which involved a different young, unidentified Hispanic man trying to vain to locate an address by reading house numbers on a very long street. Critics have long theorized that this repeating subplot, which takes up a good ten minutes of every movie except Arboplast's 1994 swan song, The Unvarnished, possesses a devastating symbolism, while others claim that the director merely liked seeing various lawns on the screen. Arboplast was also one of the first major filmmakers to shoot every scene with all of his characters surrounded by mosquito netting. Traumatized by reading about malaria on a Burger King placemat as a young boy, some say he overreacted and caused many a set designer profound headaches with his insistence on the netting, particularly in 1986’s A Loaf Shall Rise, whose poignant final scene in the Sistine Chapel seemed tempered somewhat with its presence. No idiosyncrasy was greater, though, than Arboplast’s dedication to scoring the end credits to each of his films with the New York Mets’ fight song, regardless of the movie’s subject matter or tone. How many of us lingered in the theater after his haunting 1974 masterpiece about the barbarism of the first World War, Kiss No Other Knees But Mine, as the lyrics soared through the speakers:

Meet the Mets, meet the Mets,
Step right up and greet the Mets.
Bring your kiddies, bring your wife,
Guaranteed to have the time of your life.
Because the Mets are really sockin' the ball,
Knockin' those home runs over the wall.
East side, West side, everybody's coming down,
To meet the M-E-T-S Mets,
Of New York town,
Of New York town!

The world of cinema salutes you, Mr. Arboplast---yet looks forward to the day when you are at long last tried in absentia for your many crimes against the people of Newfoundland!

This Warning Must Be Posted At All Exits

2010-08-07T12:47:00.003-04:00

Dearest children: I welcome you to my modest trailer, and I thank you for your participation in my child’s birthday celebration. I know that Stumper thanks you as well, and I must say that never in his eight years on this earth has he seemed more jocund than at this time, surrounded by his closest well-wishers. In a few moments, we will conclude this wonderful gathering my motoring across town to Faceburger, where I hope we can all share a warm and nutritious luncheon. But I think it only fair to warn you of the possible consequences of misbehaving in a public restaurant. I’m certain that you, my son’s fine playfellows, would never dream of such behavior--but as I say, there are things that must be spoken of.

It all happened on my child’s seventh birthday, just one year ago today. That day was as bright and cubulent as any I have ever known. On that day, too, my wife and myself took Stumper and the children in the Pacer to Faceburger, a favorite bistro of my son’s and I know one of yours. All was going well when we ordered our nutriment and sat down with the nine priceless tots around the table. It seemed to be the end to a perfect day.

But then, all went nightmarishly wrong. I blame myself, of course! Had I only warned those children of the dangers of rambunctious deportment in a public custom house, perhaps some of them might have been saved. As it was, we all got halfway through our meals when a small boy of nine named Bip began to argue with his pal Frankie about the median length of each other’s french fried potatoes. I admonished the children and beseeched them to be silent! But they would not listen. Soon the shenanigans increased twofold, spreading from child to child. Hair was pulled....yes, meat was thrown. Several of the children began to run in meaningless concentric circles. And this miscreantic horseplay is what prompted the attack of the most fearsome creature known to childkind: The Great Purple Snagdurple.

The Snagdurple, a Lovecraftian dybbuk with the body of Winnie the Pooh and the head of a Cloverfield, burst without caveat through a side wall of Faceburger, catching us all unawares, sending the restaurant staff fleeing for cover. Instantly the carnage began. Bip, the child who had seemingly started it all, was scooped off the floor and decapitated with one snapping of the creature’s lusty jaws. Dark blood spouted in a pulpy river from the stump of his neck, while inside the Snagdurple’s cavernous mouth, his saliva-slicked head begged for forgiveness. Two young twin brothers--Emo and Zeb I believe were their names--were trampled into stinking ichor by the Snagdurple’s barbed feet. Their teeth were scattered like shrapnel. Little Emo, who just days before had been the happiest of boys, having found on the street an autographed photo of the first lady of the American Theater, Miss Helen Hayes, was also one of my son’s closest confidantes. There was nothing left of him to identify but a spleen torn messily in half, its severed veins having nowhere to pump their gushing bounty. Darling Trishy was next! Trishy whose pigtails had been captured in many an adorable photograph! I last remember seeing her brain sucked from her skull like a rancid prune and inhaled through one of the monster’s steaming nostrils.

Oh, foul Abaddon! But what could I do? I had thought the children might understand what were the consequences of tomfoolery! I took my wife and Stumper in my arms and made for daylight while all around me unfolded a hellish spectacle of bloody violence--the shouts, the shrieks, the cubulent sound of eyes and tongues slapping wetly off the weeping walls. I don’t know how I managed to regain my senses long enough to call for an air strike which transformed the building--and some of the slower customers--into a seething mass of fire and ash.

Where is the Snagdurple today? No one knows. Perhaps he lies in wait around the corner of the nearest hamburger foodery, waiting for one child to call another a boogerhead, to order lots of food and then not eat it, to raise his or her voice just one tiny decibel too high. Dear children, I know that you are of a maturity far beyond your years, and that I have nothing to fear. Still I beg you: let the killing stop. Let us go now to the vehicle and begin the last phase of this day. If you gawky little bastards are all good, perhaps the afternoon will begin a new, safer era, and perhaps there will later be an hour of Transformer time for all.

Sweets for the Damned

2010-07-26T09:40:00.002-04:00

Look, man, I’m just reporting what I saw. Whether you want to believe me isn’t my problem. Me and Jez were just kind of messing around in that old warehouse there, nothing big, we thought we might toke up and tell ghost stories or something, and we found a window that was unlocked and we went in. And there was all this machinery in there but it smelled really nice for some reason. We found all these stacks of white boxes on pallets, everything shrink-wrapped, and we went up to some of the boxes and we noticed they all said ENTENMANN’S. Entenmann’s! We figured we had totally scored, so we looked a little closer to see what we were dealing with, and that’s when we got freaked out so bad. On the label where it usually says Apple Turnover or Dutch Crumb Cake or Peach Pie Deluxe, it just said WE’RE THROUGH F***ING AROUND. That’s it. That’s all. And it was in this kind of serious typeface, not their usual friendly thing, you know? So then we peered through the crinkly window that looked in on the stuff inside the box, and oh my God...I mean, I don’t know how many fruits they put together, and nuts, and there were three different kinds of icing, and it was all in slices, and the slices were divided lengthwise by some kind of filling, and...oh man, the ingredients list just went on and on, and halfway through I was seriously thinking of killing Jez just so he wouldn’t be able to have any of it. It was like Frodo when he picks up the Ring, man. And I realized we had to get the hell out of there and tell someone about this, maybe go to the newspapers, because I don’t know what their intentions are with this, you know? You hear about these bakeries that go bad and start working on things that are like eating dessert for an entire year in one sitting, and no one should have that kind of power. All those boxes were just sitting on those pallets waiting to be shipped out...even now it might be too late to stop them. I’m worried that the security cameras got our faces...and who’s got more ability to destroy people’s lives than Entenmann’s? Probably no one. If they know we were in there, they’ll find us. So we might have to go underground, Jez and me. And maybe you, now that you know about it. And oh crap, there’s this totally hot girl in Second Life I was hitting on and I may have mentioned something. At least I think she was hot. I’m not sure why a person would make her avatar have really bad acne, but she did for some reason.

Hey man, let me ask you something: why is there some dude’s business card sticking out of your pocket? And why does it have Little Debbie’s corporate address on it? Are you---whoa, why are you walking around with a stun gun? Is that the one I gave you for Flag Day?

Marketing Plan Needed

2010-07-05T11:49:00.000-04:00

Mr. Channing, I accept your condemnation, but only because I know it will dissolve like gossamer in the months to come, replaced at first by grudging admiration, and then a kind of…well, love. For what I have accomplished here in this space is something no man can truly deny. You issued me a four million dollar budget and a decree to build a dual off-ramp which would re-route traffic over Kennedy Boulevard and onto I-460, and instead I have given you a gift to history itself, something unexpected, something beautiful: a genuine, authentic bog.

Look at the bog before you. Look at what my team has wrought. It’s as if southern Louisiana got on a Greyhound bus and came here with arms outstretched, ready to embrace the cold white north in its own soupy, sweltering way. Listen to the bloated insects, happy in their new home, and feel that oppressive, almost malarian humidity as it descends upon us. And the shadows! My word, they came out longer than we had even dreamed! Yes, Mr. Channing, I dare say the bog we have made here will stand for a hundred years, long after the state highway administration’s misplaced rage has faded into memory. This is a public bog, a bog for families and children, not just for rich automobile types cruising around in their gas-guzzling supercars. Anyone with a dream and a taste for solitude and itchy skin can come here, meditate, paddle slowly in a handmade canoe, or even dump a dead body if that’s the way you roll. This bog is a statement, shouting out to one and all “Embrace my low swirling mists, my dead plant material, my acidic peat, my possible accumulations of lingonberries---I am everything you want and nothing you expected!” The other great part about the bog? It’s the only one within thirteen hundred miles, so there’ll be absolutely no competitors to worry about.

Here’s the thing: I went a little bit over budget, so we may have to put our heads together on how we’re going to talk about the numbers to the board. I thought a bog with a gift shop would be a bog that could generate some income, but the guy we hired to run it---I don’t know, the way he pitched his business plan was just so convincing, the next thing I knew the place had forty full-time employees and a miniature golf course out back. I figured that attaching a restaurant would bring the thing back into some kind of architectural symmetry...I just didn’t know that a hotel would sort of organically grow out of it, kind of unnoticed. Still, the only bog in the world with a four-diamond hotel isn’t something you can put a price tag on. My problem at the moment is that a four-diamond hotel demands a four-diamond helipad, and no matter how we nuance the blueprints, Carsten Street simply has to go. So just close your eyes and press down on the plunger, will you? I’d do it myself, but it’s sort of outside my job description. I’m mainly about the nuts and bolts of the bog, not so much the demolition part. Tell you what, if you’re still on the fence about this, I’ll upend the plunger and you hold the thing by the base and sort of push it into the ground to set off the explosives; that way you can always claim “Hey, I didn’t touch the damn plunger, it was the earth itself which went to town on it.” Sound good?

I can see you’re still wavering, and I think I know what this is about. Do you not trust me because I wear this enormous black parka in ninety degree heat and have a tattoo reading DIE ISRAELITE on my forehead? I thought you weren’t like the others, Mr. Channing. Guess I was wrong.

And Next Week, Son, I'll Tell You All About Walnuts

2010-06-18T15:55:00.001-04:00

There they go, Jeremy, off on their mysterious pilgrimage...stand back behind the trees now, we don’t want to frighten them off, do we? This is something that happens only once every twelve years; what you’re seeing you won’t see again till you’re a man of twenty-one! Look at that slightly dazed expression in their eyes, their heads all tilted slightly to the left as they march along. What is this long, long procession of part-time nature center volunteers hearing as they move? Watch closely, Jeremy, for you won’t see this many skinny unmarried bespectacled women in their mid-fifties with long gray hair who dress like boys in one place for a long time to come.

Oh, oh, there’s Miss Formsby from the Scrupps Bird Sanctuary! We went there two years ago, remember, and we asked her where the bathrooms were! Oh, and there’s Miss Numster from the Evelyn S. Thangis Wildlife Trail Park in East Smithy---I specifically recall her telling me when I stopped there one day to get directions to Pizza Hut that she worked at the visitor’s kiosk on Tuesdays and Thursdays. So many others I think I recognize…well, they’re all one now, all part of this great and sacred autumn journey that begins at the ocean and moves west toward Ann Arbor, where these thousands of polite, soft-spoken women in ponytails and old jeans who like reading Anne Tyler novels and volunteering at the nature center because it gives them someone to talk to and nice fields to look at will seem to disappear into the earth’s crust itself for exactly nine days, at which point they will reappear as if nothing had ever happened, their memories wiped utterly clean of the fourteen hundred mile walk down I-70 through rain, sleet, hail, snow, and very very rare catcalls. What secret information is imparted to them when they finally vanish from human sight, what immense communal experience do they share as their minds become psychically entwined on a level no normal human can ever experience? We’ll never know, Jeremy. We’ll simply never know. The only thing we do know for sure is that some of them never return, sacrificed by the group to appease the higher entity which silently summoned them. The Overmind must be obeyed, it seems. Yes, yes, it must.

Now then, Jeremy, I also wanted to take this time with you to explain a few other things about the way the universe works. Sometimes, when a man and a woman love each other very much, they want to express that feeling in a physical way. This is called “playing Frisbee on the beach.” You’ll see it happening when we go to Ocean City this summer. The thing to remember in this life, Jeremy, is that no matter how badly you want to do it, playing Frisbee on the beach is not even remotely fun. It’s too windy, the sand is difficult to run around in, you can cut yourself, it’s hot, and women suck at throwing the damn thing. Take it from your old pa, Jeremy---just lie there on the beach towel bored out of your mind when you’re there with a girl; don’t try to bring props or “do something fun.” Got that? The “fun” part is heading to the seafood buffet later and going to freaking TOWN. You’ll see. Oh yes, yes you shall.

And the Aide Whispered, "Stop Talking, Please Stop Talking"

2010-06-13T19:02:00.003-04:00

My fellow Americans, I, like any other person, have failings, and I stand before you today having confronted them and hopefully bested them. It is true that in the past, I performed at a level that I knew was not up to my capabilities. I am ashamed to say that I often put movies in the mail without first making sure I had selected others I wished to see, resulting in either long downtimes between the arrival of new discs, or receiving titles I had long since lost interest in. I was also at times careless with my spelling and memory of which sequels went with which originals, and so I often found myself shaking my head at what came to me. And yes, more than once during the year 2008, I sent back a movie in the wrong envelope, or no envelope at all. In short, as was accurately reported by the San Francisco Chronicle, my queue was a study in inefficiency and miscalculation. But an examination of my opponent’s record uncovers some equally startling truths. In 2009 the average time he spent watching any one particular Watch Instantly selection was sixteen minutes, a startlingly low figure suggesting indecisiveness and poor decision-making. A disturbing total of seven months of that same year were spent clumsily working his way through the Leprechaun movies---he even got part three twice, apparently having forgotten he’d already watched it. Even worse, he contacted customer service no less than four times because he could not remember his login or password. Now I have always stressed that my campaign is about issues, about the economy, about national defense, and the future of our children. But if we are to enter into a war of words about our Netflix management skills, I am not a candidate who will back down. The record clearly shows that since my initial mistakes I have become a fully functional Netflix user while Seymour Hersh’s investigative reporting in Esquire has shown that my opponent still remains unsure of the difference between ‘Save’ and ‘Add to queue.’

You know, I didn’t want to have to mention this, particularly since this occasion is supposed to be about nothing but crowning a new Miss Teen El Paso, but guess what else my opponent does a lot of? He kills people. That’s right---he just goes out and literally takes human life. See, this is why he’s on what is commonly referred to as “death row” and four days away from being executed by firing squad. So, here’s a news flash---voting for him in seven days is going to be kind of a waste of everyone’s time. Now Bob Gershner---he’s a candidate. I’ll give him that. A man of respect, of vision, of principles, and a man whose appeal to the state Supreme Court should get him off death row in a matter of months. Okay, I will now field questions about the unfortunate ceremonial opening pitch I threw at the Rangers game last week. But before I get totally raked over the coals here, ask yourself this: what the hell were the last three remaining World War I veterans doing at a Rangers game to begin with, and why didn’t they have any dental insurance?

True to One Another Till the Rebranding

2010-06-12T15:26:00.002-04:00

Well, Mr. Plywall, the scenario we find ourselves in is indeed unusual, but it’s certainly not without precedent. Right here in St. Louis a few years ago, Altered States Biometrics was spending a lot of time with United Separators, the company that makes those fabulous orange tubes you like so much, and at some point, who knows when, the whole thing just kind of happened---they were in love. And then there’s the Great Northern Popcorn/Amalgamated Curvature merger, which started out about the money but of course wound up being a simple case of overpowering emotions between the two---though pessimists will claim it never went any deeper than mutual logo lust and now you can sense they made a mistake. The legal issues that we’ll have to deal with if IntegraCor confesses its feelings for Reliable Flushes are myriad, but I suppose at some point we simply have to ask ourselves: is our company in love with them? If the feelings are genuine, then I won’t stand in our way of finding happiness, but remember what happened when KetchupConnect moved into the office park across the way and we spent all that money and attention on them and then found out their employee pension plan was woefully underfunded and all they wanted to do was work and maybe restructure their shipping routes once in a while? I remember you sitting in this very office and telling me, “Winkovich, never let this company give its heart away again,” and then you using my personal copy of What Color is My Parachute? to dry your tears. And let’s face it, this isn’t a brief fling with some nonprofit with a short lease or a summer romance with a company that sells a product we always wanted to but were afraid to try, making us feel electric and alive for a few months---no, this goes beyond that, doesn’t it? I mean, when the board of directors calls a special meeting on the beach at one in the morning and comes to a consensus that a single day without Reliable Flushes is “like an eternity,” we’re in for the long haul. So what I propose is this: we continue to supply them with crossover cords and thirty-six inch feeder pods at cost, maybe throw a red rose into one of the shipments now and then, but all the while we keep cool and aloof, see if they come to us. If by the end of the fiscal quarter they haven’t made a move, then we just plain come out with it in the standard PowerPoint presentation that lays our cards on the table. If they’re not interested, fine---there are other fish in the sea, right?

Sorry...sorry, let me gather myself a bit. I just got to thinking what it would be like if we’ve totally misread the signals. God, the rejection! What would the industry say? We’d have to close the Cannondale office and lay everyone off at the very least. But if they say yes...oh Mr. Plywall, tell me they will! Tell me they’re not just interested in raiding our award-winning HR department for cheap hires, and that they love us for what we are and can become if only we find the right company to believe in us! We could be so happy together! Unless of course they’re talking about settling down right away and expanding to more locations. Ha, IntegraCor still don’t play that, am I right? Eh? Am I right?

Inexplicable, Really

2010-06-06T21:58:00.002-04:00

I don’t know what to tell you, honey. If I broke your heart, I’m sorry---but I’m The Calibrator. I move from town to town, alone but not lonely, untouchable, unknowable. When I get to a new place, I make sure the C02 cartridge inside the local convenience store’s fountain drink machine is properly set to deliver maximum carbonation to the water passing through the bib connects and syrup pumps, I befriend someone whom justice has done wrong, I break a heart, and then I move on. The Calibrator knows no other way to live, and just as sure as you should never hook a generic secondary regulator to any post-1997 stainless backflow preventor lest you want your town’s Dr. Pepper to come out flatter than the opening number of High School Musical 3, I never will. I’ve calibrated in burgs bigger than this and loved women more beautiful than you---but neither my heart nor my mission ever changes.

But because you’re special---yes, it’s true, no woman ever had the kindness to show me season five of The West Wing before---I’ll leave you with a little memento of our time together. This here’s a 10-button bargun with barbed input fittings, drain tube, and mounting hardware. I took this off a Pepsi fountain drink machine in Winnipeg nine years ago. See how the soda water button is a little chipped? Still works perfectly.

I also want to leave you with this DVD, The Calibrator’s 20-Minute Ab Workout. I produced it a couple of years back. It did okay, I guess, but I wish the public wasn’t so fickle. There’s a problem with the left audio channel on this copy, like most of the others, so it can be tough to hear at points.

Oh, here’s a keepsake I know you’ll like: a hardbound copy of Archery Basics with The Calibrator. Everything you need to know to get started is right in here, and of course I’ll autograph this before I hit the road. There’s some pretty serious legal wrangling going on with this book at the moment, so this edition may get kind of rare.

Let me see here, what else...oh, here’s a roll of nickels. Nowhere I go ever seems to have a CoinStar machine. Man, how I’d love to get into that racket. I bet those things are really easy to fix. And that sweet music they make...RATCHA RATCHA RATCHA RATCHA RATCHA RATCHA RATCHA....ah, pure pleasure!

Do you want these Clippers tickets for next Tuesday? Section 370, row H...not terrible, not great, but I just can’t deal with the NBA since they put in the jump shot.

Okay. Ready to go. If you could just sign this release form saying that I didn’t damage any property while I was here...great. Thanks.

I leave you now the way all Calibrators have always left their lovers: by gently singing Rush’s classic eighties hit “Tom Sawyer” to you as I back slowly away.

Oh, sweetheart, looking at you as I fade away into your trove of most secret memories, I can tell exactly what you’re thinking: A) Who the hell is this total freakazoid, and B) how quickly can I close and lock the door behind him, peering out the blinds when he leaves to make sure he’s really gone. And it’s okay; I know that the Calibrator has some quirks, and I’ve accepted them. I should probably tell you, though, that I have an unfortunate habit of getting ridiculously lost on my way out of every town, to the point where I usually have to walk back in the middle of the night and ask if I can sleep on your sofa until the next Greyhound run, so you might want to open up that sofabed before you go off to do your errands. FYI, the Calibrator’s always been a two-pillow man, so if you could make that happen, that would be aces.

Is that a policeman you’re waving over here? Sure, I understand. No problem. I would do the same thing in your position. Just one question before I run for it: Are you really happy with your current cable, internet, and phone bundle?

Great. Yet Another Supernatural Smackdown.

2010-06-02T12:47:00.003-04:00

There I was on Tuesday, kind readers, awash in delirious celebration over the fact that this blog, barely four years old, had just notched its fifth subscriber, when it all came crashing down around me. No sooner had I rented a Big Wheel to cruise around the campus of Dick’s Notch Community College proclaiming the blog’s success through my friend Eppy’s bullhorn when the IP address of that fated fifth subscriber became visible to my horrified eyes---and when this data was coupled with the emerging patron’s screen name, the awful truth was revealed: my newest fan was Blacula.

Blacula. The very name conjured up waking nightmares of brain-squishing terror. Like everyone else I foolishly believed that the dark vampire once known as Prince Mamuwalde, who came from Africa to America hidden in an antique coffin accidentally purchased by two gay interior decorators in swinging 70s San Francisco, had died on that downtown rooftop after intentionally exposing himself to the dawn’s early light, his mighty evil heart broken by the death of his beloved Tina. Such a fool I was---we all were---to believe that his maggot-devoured bones would lie still for all eternity!

I recovered my senses quickly (rapid sense recovery after a sudden psychological blow is one of my untrumpeted strengths) and yesterday I went over my options. They seem to be these:

1) Do nothing. I can continue to blog as usual, keeping an eye open for any comments Blacula might leave on it which might provide a clue as to his intentions and/or whereabouts. I could slowly look for an opening which might allow me to sneak a message to the authorities, and perhaps my information could assist them in finding and destroying He Who Walks By Night. But would a foe as savvy as Blacula reveal his dastardly schemes in my blog comments box so easily? I know Charlie Sheen did, but to expect lightning to strike twice---madness.

2) Confront the monster myself. A risky, desperate, and foolhardy plan, to be sure---but how can I not feel that even now, someone’s life is in danger while I continue to selfishly share my thoughts and feelings in electronic diary form? If I don’t attempt to draw Blacula out in some way---perhaps by blogging about efficient methods of garlic dispersal or offering relationship advice to the small percentage of my audience who possess three or more castle-bound brides of darkness---he will undoubtedly keep killing, and my conscience cannot allow this. Or can it?

3) Ratchet up the American Idol jokes. I was planning on doing this anyway, and it might provide my tortured, frightened mind with a valuable bulwark against inevitable thoughts of vampiristic doom.

Above all, I must keep calm, and I must also avoid any friend request that Blacula might send me on Facebook. Looks like he needs all the help he can get in that area. He’s got a lousy 18 friends and it looks like he’s been spending most of his time messing around with Farmville. Could it be that the relentless time demands of social media, and not the cold-blooded wooden stake, will spell his ultimate demise? Looks like he’s still got the ‘stache working, though. Let’s face it, that thing’s been carrying his career for the last 150 years.

# * % ! ^

2010-06-01T17:18:00.002-04:00

Frankly, Sergeant Dell, I’ve never been this worried. This is not like losing a Picasso or a thousand gold bars...we’re talking about the DeVance comma here, and this whole city should be shaking in its boots today. Imagine a bit of punctuation crafted so meticulously and so brilliantly by Franciscan monks four hundred years ago that even today it can be used anywhere---even within a simple phrase, even between the letters of a word, for the love of God---and still work as a completely legal, dictionary-recognized comma. The possibilities if the wrong sort of criminal has made away with it...I can barely speak of them. If the DeVance is placed just so, God knows what elements in a series might be separated from one another, what independent clauses could become irreparably divided. The entire meaning of key passages from any number of national constitutions could be changed overnight, or we may wake up tomorrow and have to pause between pronouncing the first and second syllables of Kiefer Sutherland’s name. Dare we even recall what happened during that dark episode not so long ago when splinter elements of the Mossad inserted a crudely fashioned but fully functioning ampersand into the Al-Bereh Treaty, making their enemies believe they were in favor of both war and peace? The confusion which set in has reigned for a thousand years! (Well, not a thousand obviously. The math isn’t important.) Either way, I say we pay the ransom tonight, no questions asked. I can come up with the fifteen dollars by making a few phone calls, but I’m a little confused as to why we have to put the bills inside the jacket sleeve of a new copy of Frampton Comes Alive. In fact, the more I look at the note, the more that references such as this one, plus the fact that it’s dated February 3, 1977, make me think that this matter should have perhaps been brought to my attention more than thirty years ago. So let me get this straight: the DeVance comma has been missing for three decades, and you picked this occasion---the traditional father and bride dance to mark the midpoint of the wedding reception---to inform me of it? Was there a reason you had to cut in as opposed to just waiting four minutes and ten seconds for it to be over with? I don’t know what’s gotten into you these days, Sergeant. First you completely forget to tell me the Pound Sign Killer is still on the loose, then you totally blow the Symbol for Absolute Value kidnapping investigation....sometimes it seems like you’re losing control of the entire department.

On a side note, should we maybe adjust the fifteen dollars for inflation? And since the last Bugle Boy outlet store closed about ten years ago, do you think the thieves would want us to make the drop at a comparable jeans retailer instead, or should we just call them back from the pay phone they mention that was removed in 2002 from the front of the Dart Drug they refer to that went out of business in 1995? See, this is the problem with making these ransom demands so topical.

Doubleheaders? How About Three a Week!

2010-03-13T19:37:00.003-05:00

Dear Ralph,

I’m excited to enter the 2010 season with you as the Pittsburgh Pirates’ new manager, and I’m confident that with me in the front office and you on the field guiding the team to victory after victory, we can turn around the Pirates’ recent history and give the fans a summer to get really excited about! I look forward to sitting down with you all day Monday and reviewing your season strategy. First, a few points to get us thinking about what it’ll take to produce a winner this year:

1) I talked to a guy in a bar last month who said there’s an obscure rule that says if a player throws his mitt at a runner and it hits him above the knees, he’s out. We need to take a look at the potential of this, and if it does turn out to be true, we have to keep it as quiet as possible and pick just the right moment to spring this play on our competition---do we go with it from opening day or wait till a key spot later in the season? And should we be buying lighter, rounder mitts before everyone else snatches them up?

2) This is definitely the year I want to finally identify the chubby guy in the moustache who sits at the very end of the bench a lot. Nobody seems to know who he is or what he does, but he’s got a uniform and occasionally he appears to mutter something. Been there for years. Coach? Trainer? Any insights?

3) We keep forgetting Orgo’s birthday. Orgo is the guy on the groundskeeping crew who seems like he’s about seventy but he’s only maybe forty. He must smoke like three packs a day. But I feel bad because we keep forgetting his birthday. It’s usually around President’s Day weekend so it’s a weird one. That's why.

4) Tell me it wouldn’t be awesome if we had something I call Game Seven night---one night in September when we’ve been mathematically eliminated from the playoffs, we put up all kinds of decorations in the stands and we paint the field and we have a million TV cameras and we say that some game against the Astros or someone is our game seven of the World Series, and we ask the fans if they’ll pack the place and pretend the Series really is on the line and to cheer like crazy. We can even have a big celebrity throw out the first pitch, maybe that funny Jewish weather guy from KDKA.

So that’s it for now. Get some sleep, get your cap fitted just right, and I’ll see you in Altoona! (Yeah, our spring training’s in Altoona now, just for a little while, as a cost-cutting measure. Remind me to show you the awesome coupons I have for the local barbecued chicken place...yumzers.)

Sincerely,
General Manager Tom!

The Blog = Historical Accuracy!

2010-03-06T18:44:00.003-05:00

Indeed, the Cavalcade of the Iffy is proud to announce that our crack team of LEARNED HISTORICAL INVESTIGATORS has, after years of effort, cracked the secret of

THE CRYPTIC BIBLICAL CODE OF THE APOSTLE

which has mystified lesser scholars for centuries, if not decades! Yes, the true meaning of the enigmatic string of hand-written numbers inscribed inside a temple in the city of Antioch and discovered by REAL-LIFE ARCHAELOGISTS WORKING AS HARD AS ANYONE CAN WORK is now public knowledge thanks to copious note-taking and a sudden shocking discovery! For those of you unfamiliar with

THE PERPLEXING BIBLICAL CODE OF THE APOSTLE

what follows is the numerical string in question, purportedly made by Paul the apostle during the early days of his ministry:

7 – 9 – 10 – 8 – 8 – 6 – 9 – 9

Paul’s very signature, authenticated by a panel of people who traffic in authenticating such things, proves that yes, the string was undoubtedly his work. Since its discovery in 1833, thousands of pages have been written about what secrets Paul may have been trying to embed within the deceptively simple code...was he giving a clue as to the whereabouts of the savior? Was it a key to unlocking vast wealth, or perhaps powerful information to be used in the relentless spiritual battle against Roman aggressors? Could it possibly have even represented a mathematical riddle designed to identify---wait for it---an as-yet unborn Anti-Christ?

NO, NO, AND NO

says this blog, for last week’s unearthing in Corinth of an eyewitness account of the creation of

THE INSCRUTABLE BIBLICAL CODE OF THE APOSTLE

written by Amicah of Damascus, one of Paul’s closest allies, proves once and for all that the string represents

A HALF HOUR WHEN PAUL WAS BORED WAITING FOR HIS LAUNDRY TO DRY AND DURING WHICH HE BEGAN TO KILL A LITTLE TIME BY RATING HOT WOMEN WHO WALKED BY.

Thank you for your interest and your support of the blog’s indomitable pursuit of facts, validity, and value for money! Next month, we take on

WHERE THE HELL JAMES EARL JONES'S LITERALLY BRAND NEW BOX OF WHEAT THINS DISAPPEARED TO

Still Considering a Number of Other Applicants

2010-02-28T18:10:00.002-05:00

Ever read any military history, Benito? Stuff about Patton, Rommel, Napoleon and such? Well, I’ve skimmed some of those magazines when Waldenbooks was still open. And I think if those guys were in my shoes, they would recognize this situation for what it is, and they’d be looking to hire the same kind of person I seek now---steely, heartless, aggressive. Alas, the facts as they stand are very simple, Benito: every store inside the once proud but now recession-beaten Knipton Mall has permanently closed its doors except for two. That the store we’re standing in and the other survivor both happen to be devoted to selling value-priced sweaters and slacks to plus-sized women is a coincidence we can do nothing about. What we can control is how badly we want to be the last man standing in this barren consumer wasteland, and buddy, I’m here to tell you that I want it bad. Now, you may not think that a part-time position as nighttime cashier would be a critical role in the drama we’re about to play out, and you may not even be ready for what you may be called upon to do. But if you’re willing to reach for bloodthirsty glory in addition to $7.25 an hour, let’s get this war started tonight, bus schedule permitting. In the drawer beside your left hand are contained several highly illegal but necessary objects with which we will one day begin our tactical assault after months—perhaps years—of planning. Go ahead and lift a couple of the objects right now. Feel their heft, their warmth, their solidity. These are the only friends you will make here—mostly because you and I are the only employees. You will split your time between stocking, running the register, saying hello to walk-in customers, and training yourself in six kinds of deadly combat, as well as getting basic overviews of military surveying, electrical engineering, locksmithing, and psychological warfare. (You’ll also need to take the trash out to J.J. Subs & Pizza’s dumpster twice a day.) Each piece of the puzzle will slowly lock into place, and when it all comes together, Operation White Leopard will commence. If we can pull it off, we’ll own this mall. If we do not, which is simply unthinkable to me, there’s still a chance we’ll own this mall, because I think The Lady Is Round only has a one year lease anyway and it’s up at the end of next month. Either way, I couldn’t live with myself if I just laid back and accepted fate’s damnable dice roll; I want to make something happen. So if you want the job, shake my hand firmly right now, leave me your learner’s permit so I can make a copy of it for payroll, and come take a walk with me past the door of our foe for an initial sizing up of what lies before us, and to say hi to Cathy the assistant manager, who’s kind of nice so we’ll let her slide when we take hostages in phase four of the spring offensive. And don’t worry, we can be gone for fifteen minutes, no customers are going to come. Trust me.

Now With More Chunks of Stuff Than Ever!

2010-02-15T20:25:00.002-05:00

First of all, I want to thank everyone for making time this morning to attend this meeting; I know we’re all very busy with the March deadline fast approaching. Secondly—and I don’t want anyone to panic here and try to be a hero—I need to tell you that I’ve booby-trapped everyone’s chair, and if our parent company tells us during this imminent conference call that they’re shutting down operations on the only publication that ever mattered to me, we’re all going sky-high in a multi-colored eruption of office furniture and leftover candy corn from Joanne’s birthday party. Okay? And don’t think I don’t KNOW that all of you are totally against me. In my opinion, the editorial decisions that you people have made over the last few months have all but brought Hostess Individually Wrapped Apple Pie Magazine to its knees. By making our central theme a virtual afterthought and watering the content down with feature after feature about lesser Hostess products, you’ve alienated our core readership, disrespected the third greatest snack in American baked goods history, and just plain phlegmed on all the hard work I’ve done since 1983. I see you snickering, Jeremy---but can you tell me what January’s interview with Wes Anderson had to do with the tasty goodness and undeniable cultural influence of Hostess Individually Wrapped Apple Pies? And can you tell me what sort of new audience you hope to win when you enrage our current one by adding color photography to our pages? Because I’d REALLY like to know. So here’s the way it’s going to be, folks---if I hear the wrong words come out of this little speaker in front of me, we’re all going to ricochet off the side of George Washington Carver Elementary School. But if I get the support I need today, we can move directly to plan B, which consists of an unabashed re-embrace of the things that made this magazine great---1) fun Hostess Apple Pie trivia, 2) the most delightful two-panel comic strip about responsible snacking since What’s Chet Chewin’?, and 3) subliminal messaging on the Sweet Tooth Club page which stresses the importance of keeping our government informed of the activities of subversive groups and individuals who would collude to undermine our national ideals. There will be no more “web sites” for this magazine, no “social networking,” no “interactivity.” Let me tell you what there WILL be plenty of: word scrambles, puns, and letters to the editor from eight year olds telling us how much they enjoy riding their bicycles, even if I have to forge them myself.

All right, there’s the first ring. I hope you don’t mind if I unwrap this delicious Hostess Individually Wrapped Apple Pie and clench it tightly in my gritted teeth as I pick up the receiver, because if I’m going to be catapulted at four hundred miles per hour over Burlington Coat Factory, I’m damn well leaving the coroner a little message about what I stood for. Now before I pick up, someone please tell me how to pronounce this woman’s last name. Is it FAH-ri-day or Fa-REE-day? Is it the middle syllable that’s stressed? Don’t set me up for failure here, people. Okay, okay…I hit RECEIVE, right, then 4, then RELEASE, then….ANNOUNCE? No?

Okay. She’ll probably call back, right?

Obstructed-View Tickets Still Available

2010-02-10T09:10:00.002-05:00

Mr. Rose, what I want could not be more simple, and it’s something I feel I’ve truly earned---my track record speaks for itself. Every man in my position dreams of the same thing: full creative control of his next project, without interference from yes-men, revisionists, or silly focus groups. After eleven almost flawless hits, surely you must agree I’m entitled to this modest level of trust. Who more than me deserves to take out Willie the Plank in a method devised, planned, and executed by me and me alone? What I envision for poor misguided Willie would be considered by many to be a bit daring, a bit edgy, especially my ideas concerning floating his bullet-ridden body down the Hudson on a raft made entirely of the bags of counterfeit fifties he tried to pass off on Eddie Ecks (himself a very underrated killer, whose early experimental work laid the foundation for my penchant for strangulations involving chicken wire). But if you take a look at the budget I’m proposing, it’s really no more expensive than Shoehorn Vlad’s hit on Dom the Pelican, and I promise you that when I’m done, you’ll be able to see every penny right there in Willie’s terrified expression as his grieving widow identifies his carp-nibbled corpse. But I want no interference this time, and I want to be able to hire the crew I want, and I want my name front and center on the whole project, which means that in any sort of grand jury testimony, I want to be the one accused of putting Willie down, not some organization flunkie. I can toil in the shadows no further, Mr. Rose---my hits now must bear my personal stamp, just as the entire east side knows immediately just from the pattern of the blood spray on the wall of a meat locker that a certain whacking was Saul the Flautist’s original conception. (Not that his latest projects haven’t been without their glaring flaws, particularly the clumsy pacing of the Marconi wedding reception shootout.)

There are certain other matters I want to go over with you, but before we get into all that, I want to go over the rules of this game one more time so we’re ready for tonight. Basically, it really does help to have seen the show so that you can answer some questions when you pick a trivia card, but it’s okay if all you know is that the main characters are named Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda, they’re all heterosexuals, and they all have high-paying jobs that seem to be extremely easy. It’s essential that you answer a single question from each of the five categories, but I think in your case, we’ll focus on “stealing” a player’s correct answer chip when the DVD stops on the No She Didn’t! screen. Now, I cannot stress this point enough: do not, under any circumstances, call out an answer that you suspect might not be correct, as the risk for a wrong one far outweighs the reward for getting it right---a subtle kink in the design of the game that I believe we can exploit to our benefit. Of course, we might also consider pulling out machetes midway through the Plodding Voice-Over Mashup round and murdering Zoho’s entire crew. Totally your call.

The Blog = Prizes!

2010-02-03T20:07:00.002-05:00

It’s time to announce the winners of the blog’s annual Blood...Blood! awards! This year we received more than fifteen thousand submissions, requiring a full-time staff of nineteen people to watch every twenty-second video not just once, but several times so that every nuance was absorbed and digested. As you’re well aware, the goal of the contest is simple: to deliver the line “Blood...blood!” in the most memorable way possible. Last year’s winner, Doris Snowdigit, just barely eked out a victory over professional actor Arliss Howard with her memorable interpretation of the line--it started out spooky, got funny in the middle, then strangely poignant, and ended with us merely nodding in overwhelming artistic appreciation. This year’s top three scores (entrants are judged on a 1-10 scale in the categories of originality, style, diction, creepiness, and sheer human effort) were achieved by:

THIRD PLACE
Frank Sessnass of Willoughby Glen, New Mexico for his traditional 'mad scientist' reading of the line, but with a unique twist: he cackled for a good eighty-seven seconds between the first word and the second, deliciously drawing out the suspense as he gazed up into a driving rainstorm and raised what appeared to be a goat’s brain to the heavens!

SECOND PLACE
Elwood Bakerbody of Willoughby Marsh, Pennsylvania, who drew out syllable #2 and faded it slowly to nothing in a way you just knew meant he was going down hard, and go down hard he did, collapsing in a heap in the middle of Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia, one impotent hand clasping at empty air as passersby looked on in fear and confusion. The fake blood he had smeared across his Teletubbies sweater freaked the medics out quite badly and all but guaranteed second place!

GRAND PRIZE
Myron Bellblurn of Willoughby Hills, Maryland. Dude did more with “Blood...blood!” than Ben Kingsley, Jeff Bridges, and Cate Blanchett put together. Seriously, we didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, call the police, or harm ourselves in some way. His gradual escalation of the line from serene contemplation to dawning horror to forehead-reddening, gut-busting rage, especially when accompanied by his delicate cradling of a young girl’s innocent face (his niece, it turns out), did it for us every time we spun that sucker through the DVD player. Myron will be awarded with a $15 gift certificate to the Cheesecake Factory of his choice and invited to perform his version of “Blood...blood!” live in Knipton, Tennessee at the St. Abernathy Church of the Redeemer’s Spring Craft Fair and Ice Cream Social on March 21. Well done, sir!

Remember, next year we're breaking from tradition as the "Blood...blood!" contest becomes the "It was you...yes, you who defiled this ancient crypt!" contest. The entry fee will also increase by eighty percent.

The Randomness of the Universe Comes to Town

2010-01-27T09:27:00.003-05:00

A bunch of things that don't exist yet, and I'm not even sure what they'd be, but they sound pretty neat:

Oreos: The Platinum Collection

Micropepper

No-sided dice

Sherlock Holmes and the Piece of Paper

Tollbooth porn

Stutterers Without Borders

TithingCon 2010

Doughnut milk

Foldable cactus

Love between two poltergeists

Twitter solitaire

Peeblers!

Peeblers! Now with bigger surface area

Antiquing with Lou Diamond Phillips

Audio recordings of meat

Abercrombie & Putin

See Yourself Inside a Rhombus

Horse chickens

Cat butter

Snowmobiles

Partisanshipitude

2010-01-15T15:36:00.000-05:00

Congressman, I fully respect your outrage concerning the issue before us, but as I believe I’ve stated many times for the panel, there are only so many new ideas floating around the universe, and sometimes we must simply be patient and wait for them to strike us. Please keep in mind how far we’ve come from the days when human beings were forced to show appreciation for each other’s sports-related deeds with a mere handshake. The advances made in athletic feat acknowledgement in this country are simply mind-boggling, and I’m positive that with the right funding stream, America will always stay out in front of other countries in this area. We’ve got the high-five, the low-five, the butt-pat, the fist bump, the boisterous leap into the air with the half-twist so that only the sides of the body connect, and by spring of 2011, we hope to introduce something we refer to as the Forearm Swirl, which will give any adult male a way to physically express his approval of another’s homerun, touchdown, or clutch free throw that may make all previous methods obsolete. What we must avoid, Congressman, is the temptation to panic and become too hasty with launching these things in our desire to usher in the next age of congratulating a dude for that sweet catch in the corner of the end zone. I point to the recent disasters plaguing the Federal Foundation for the Development of Stadium Sports Anthems as an example of what can happen when we panic just because the Canadians suddenly realized an old Suzanne Vega song perfectly expressed the emotions that follow when the Edmonton Oilers kill off a power play. Today, for example, is the first I’m hearing of this absurd notion of bringing props into the mix; we as a nation are years away from developing that sort of technology. I don’t care that men in the English Premier League have taken to brushing each other gently across the jaw with a loaf of raisin bread after goals; this is a different culture and our own sports franchises will not take kindly to either the expense associated with the beta testing of this trend or to being forced to adopt it just when the practice of giving each other the E.T. finger and then spinning around in a circle until dizzy has proven popular after three-pointers in the lower divisions of college basketball. And I’ll tell you something else, Congressman: I don’t appreciate being blindsided with this issue as I sit here in a bus station in El Paso. I don’t have to tell you that stalking an ex-girlfriend requires subtlety and anonymity, and I expect to be reimbursed for all the time and travel it’s taken me to adopt this most awesome disguise of a homeless man walking around with all his possessions in a cat carrier. Original twist, eh? Cat carrier? Eh?

Why I'm Poorly Regarded: The Transcript

2010-01-12T11:11:00.001-05:00

TECH SUPPORT: Thank you for calling Dole Bananas, this is Ben, how may I help you?

SN: Hi, my name is Soren, and I’m having a problem playing one of the games in the Kidz Korner on your web site.

TECH SUPPORT: I’m sorry to hear that; can you describe the problem for me?

SN: Um, it’s when I’m playing Mon key Business, I know for a fact that I beat my high score because I popped 33 balloons, I was counting aloud to myself, but it wouldn’t save it.

TECH SUPPORT: Okay, I see. I’d be happy to help you with that. Would you like me to manually override your high score?

SN: Oh, that would be awesome!

TECH SUPPORT: Certainly. I’ll just need your Kidz Korner username and password. If your parents are there, maybe they know it.

SN: No, that’s okay, I’m forty, so I got it. The username is AlanAlda, and the password is 4077MASH.

TECH SUPPORT: Okay, let me just bring your record up…there we go. Now to manually override a high score, we will need to ask you the two security questions you set up, okay?

SN: Sure, I remember those.

TECH SUPPORT: Okay, the first one is, what is the name of the street you grew up on?

SN: Walnut!

TECH SUPPORT: Okay, and the second one is, can you sum up for me Arthur Schopenhauer’s philosophy of the will?

SN: Ooooooh….yeah, let me think for a second. Damn. Um….Schopenhauer was critical of Kant and Hegel’s logical optimism and the belief that individual morality could be determined by society and reason. Right? Is that right?

TECH SUPPORT: Yes, that is correct, but there’s more.

SN: Oh I know, I know….um….Schopenhauer believed that humans were motivated only by….oh shoot, they were motivated by something…..it wasn’t fruits and vegetables….was it pride?

TECH SUPPORT: Uhhhh, nooo….

SN: No, wait, it was their own basic desires, or Wille zum Leben, “the will to live”! For him, human desire was futile, illogical, directionless, and, by extension, so was all human action in the world. To Schopenhauer, the Will is a metaphysical existence which controls not only the actions of individual, but ultimately all observable phenomena!

TECH SUPPORT: Okay, thank you sir. In three to five business days, your high score should appear on the web site, though I’m required by law to advise you that the Kids Korner will be taken down next Friday with all scores erased.

SN: Oh. Oh. How come?

TECH SUPPORT: How come? You know sir, I don’t have the answer to that question at my fingertips, and frankly, when I was a young man growing up in Paris, wanting only to become a great artist and sacrificing everything I had just to buy paints and canvas, starving on the streets but experiencing an almost hallucinatory joy when a passerby paused on the street to simply glance at one of my landscapes, it’s not a question I thought I would ever have to hear or answer. In fact, now that I think of it, the phrase “Now hiring Dole Bananas Kidz Korner FT/PT Customer Care Specialists / Open interviews on Tuesday” never once entered my mind as I lay night after night beside the enigmatic Arianne on the makeshift bed we made, huddled against the city of light’s brutally cold winter yet warmed and empowered by our dreams of a world where beauty was valued above all things. Is there anything else I can do for you today, sir?

SN: Well….where am I going to play Monkey Business?

TECH SUPPORT: I just don’t know, sir. I just don’t know.

Good Times Where There's Not Always Teens Playing Their Music

2010-01-10T11:48:00.003-05:00

Your Eminence, I really have to tell you something today. I mean, we’re both men of God, sure, but once in a great while I feel we should open up our inner selves as men of the world. You don’t mind if I hit you with a little shot of reality, do you? You’d be down with that, right? The thing I’ve always wanted to say is that for me, what it’s all about is what we’re doing right now---walking along very slowly across a perfectly manicured lawn with a flawlessly trimmed hedge to our right, a big marble fountain to our left, and our hands clasped behind our backs while speaking quietly. Call me a man of simple tastes, but this has always just totally buttered my toast. Ever since I was a little kid watching a movie involving some scene of high-ranking church types walking very slowly across a perfectly manicured lawn with a flawlessly trimmed hedge to their right, a big marble fountain to their left, and some genuine clasped-hands-‘n’-quiet-speaking action being rocked out, I thought to myself, “Man, that looks killer. Stick me in a red cap in a tasteful garden setting and flank my sorry ass with a cardinal or a bishop on a sunny day and I’d be king of the world.” And it’s turned out to be one of those rare things that’s even better than advertised. And who’d have thought that it’s really all we do as church elders? Seriously, you’d think there’d be no way we could be out here in this same garden-type-thing every goddamn morning strolling along and yakking in low voices about this-and-that without someone eventually catching on that no actual work is getting done, but nope! Anyway, I know you’re more into the whole Jesus angle of what we do, and that’s very cool. I just felt the need to express a little appreciation for this particular activity and let you know that if you were ever having thoughts like, “Hmm, I wonder if the garden setting strolling is getting a tad stale for Father De Brickassart,” the answer is a bag fat “No freaking way, Goddie!” When I think that tomorrow morning you and I are going to calmly and respectfully discuss expanding the Ottawa seminaries’ reach into the community while we cruise past the marble fountain for the millionth time and regard the hedge and maybe get a little crazy by unclasping our hands from behind our backs to touch a rose or something, I get completely deked. You know what really caps it off? It’s when we pause briefly at the end of ol’ Mr. Hedge so you can totally blow me away with one of those pithy conversation-ending recollections that manages to tie our whole discussion into some religious anecdote that cuts to the heart of the matter in like eight seconds. When you drop one of those mothers on me, I can almost hear some director somewhere shouting “Aaaaaand….cut! Print it!” Let’s shoot for one of those moments today, okay, your Eminence?

Crap, I heard it was going to rain tomorrow. This whole vibe just does not work if we’re wearing the giveaway parkas we got that time we went to the Packers game.

Okay, Who's Got a Stamp?

2009-11-01T14:20:00.002-05:00

Dear Mr. McCorkle,

Thank you first of all for submitting your proposal, and your patience while the committee deliberated. We can appreciate your desire to bring this matter to a conclusion, especially with the people in the house wounded to various degress, slowly going insane with fear, and your very life possibly at risk. What we did was analyze situations similar to yours as depicted in thirty years' worth of horror films, true first person anecdotes, and floorplans of various crawlspaces around the world to compile a database from which experts in the field of crawlspace investigation drew up a statistical profile of the results of past moments when someone decided to track a mysterious thumping sound up there. We're sorry to say that the numbers are not indicative of a pleasant outcome to your specific scenario. Three different computer simulations suggest there is a 94 percent chance that the lifting of the board which will reveal the heretofore unknown area above your ceiling will result in the ghoulish death by supernatural forces of every remaining person in your household within sixty minutes, with a 22 percent chance that you and your family will have your bodies turned inside out (see Data Table F-4). While this may happen anyway, our data shows that if you refrain from the slightest peek into the crawlspace, you will at least have made the phantasmagorical terrors above you do some legwork to track you down before having their accursed way with the souls of you and yours. In the haunted house field, we call this a "Lose-lose" situation and recommend that the priest within your group---whose recent attempted exorcism of the child's doll you mentioned in your cover letter is most likely responsible for the demonic orgy of horror you are currently ensnared in, if Graph A-3 is accurate to within even four percentage points---administer last rites to all as you cower in the northeast corner of the basement. Please note for the future that advance knowledge of a spooky crawlspace within your home provides a twenty percent increase in survival chances against vengeful ghosts, though our guidelines still suggest that living on a single level, without stairs, and vacating your house every night when the sun goes down are still the surest ways to avoid the costly unpleasantness of a mind-ripping, throat-clawing fatal haunting.

Happy Holidays from Ellsworth Haunting Solutions! Please confirm your billing address below and use the prepaid envelope to send payment, making sure to write your phone number on your check.

Sincerely,
The Staff

The Descent

2009-10-28T16:25:00.003-04:00

I suppose things could be worse---well, maybe they couldn’t be worse. In fact, if you want to call a chicken a chicken, this is probably the absolute lowest point that can realistically be reached. I guess what I’m not seeing is how we got to this point. When I originally suggested temporarily adding a thirty-second flavor to Baskin Robbins’ lineup as part of a new marketing campaign (“We’re busting out all over---with flavor!”), I expected a little opposition from some old-timers, sure, but nothing more than that. Honestly, the 77 percent decline in our stock, the dozens of lawsuits, and the necessity for a bankruptcy filing came as a pretty big surprise. That the company would be forced to shut down entirely in only five months’ time? Yeah, that too. But where my imagination seems to be really failing me is taking it from that point to where we are now. I mean, please whiteboard for me how this caused the collapse of the American economy, a doubling of the crime rate, and the forced evacuation of thirteen major cities? And if you have the time---and I know you do, since the unemployment rate somehow stands now at 82 percent---could you please, very slowly, take me through the steps to show me how adding Mocha Ripple to the Baskin Robbins flavor lineup led to packs of wild dogs completely taking over the streets of Detroit, Baltimore, St. Louis, and Providence, heroin addiction skyrocketing, and the President rescinding the Declaration of Independence? It just doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. When a poll of American citizens reveals that their number one daily concern has changed from “saving for retirement” to “being eaten by another human being,” and the addition of a single tub of ice cream to the display case at a handful of Sacramento-area Baskin Robbins locations is blamed by scholars, the media, and every significant world government as the initial domino that set this whole horrific chain of events in motion, I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’ve completely lost the plot here.

You know what the part that most baffles me is? How all of a sudden, in the midst of a national catastrophe more nightmarish than any in history, ABC is making new episodes of Barney Miller. Not that I’m not grateful, but you’d think now that the airwaves have gone dead with all the signal satellites having been brought down by terrorists, and with the Internet being cut off under martial law, the people in Hollywood would be scavenging for food and a reliable source of heat like everyone else instead of shooting new Barney Millers on scavenged Super-8 film and projecting it in church basements. But hey, any excuse to get Max Gail back in front a camera. You want to go see one tonight after you finish looting that Hanes outlet store? Dietrich arrests the Phillies’ mascot!

Police Report, 10/26/09

2009-10-27T11:57:00.001-04:00

Officer Faceworthy arrived at 400-L McLemon Industrial Park Drive to find three men standing in the parking lot of Business Center Plaza. Each was holding a big metal letter N under no small amount of strain and effort. The first man Office Faceworthy approached was Lemuel Lipps, owner of National Air Compressor Calibrations. Mr. Lipps was holding the N from the sign hanging over Foosball Suppliers of Sodstown, owned by Mr. Ronald Glackney, and threatening to smash it on the pavement. Mr. Glackney, meanwhile, was holding the N from the sign hanging over The Scented Hammocks Warehouse and threatening to smash it on the pavement while Mr. Hamish Valtz, that particular operation’s proprietor, held Mr. Lipps’ N precariously, also in an angry state and making suggestions that he would destroy the N. Each man seemed very serious in their agitation and their intent to smash each other’s Ns if they did not receive an immediate and satisfying resolution to their respective demands. Officer Faceworthy, however, despite lengthy conversations with each man, was unable to pin down exactly what it was each wanted from the other. This tense standoff went on for six and three-quarters hours with other units arriving on the scene every fifteen minutes and hostage negotiators brought in. At 8:13 p.m., Mr. Valtz was seen to knock his own sign’s N from Mr. Glackney’s hands, smashing it on the pavement. When Mr. Glackney and Mr. Lipps witnessed this shocking act, they realized that any man who was insane and dangerous enough to smash his own N was to be mortally feared, and as they trembled, Valtz quickly destroyed the other Ns. He was booked by Officer Faceworthy back at headquarters, his newborn legend riding in his wake of terror. Mr. Glackney and Mr. Lipps briefly grieved for their Ns before vacating their places of business, never to return. While in his holding cell, Mr. Valtz grinned strangely and whispered, “The time of Hamish Valtz has come.” He was fined $50 and released under his own cognizance.

Because Officer Faceworthy worked seven minutes beyond the end of his shift, he is making a formal application for overtime. Due to budget cuts, please ask Officer Faceworthy if he will instead accept a box of six (6) Safeway-brand sugar cones in lieu of pay.

The Fourth Wall Comes Down! Sort of.

2009-10-26T12:46:00.002-04:00

A BLOG BONUS: Today’s post features grading notes from Mrs. Robisher, my 8th grade English teacher!

I know the statistics are truly damning---fourteen friends, fourteen comptrollers. (nice vocab!) But I swear, things have just shaken out that way. No one goes through life trying to amass a bunch of comptrollers as friends, but this is what’s (make this ‘what has’) happened, and I make no apologies for it. It’s like (make this ‘as if’) every time I turn around, I’m accidentally staying in the same hotel as a comptrollers’ convention, or I’m at a wedding and somebody says, “Hey, I heard you’re in good with comptrollers; let me introduce you to my nephew, the comptroller”, or my do-nothing agent is sending me on a cattle call to be an extra in yet another movie about comptrollers (Are there really many movies about comptrollers? Research this), and suddenly another one’s sticking to me like glue. I thought I was out of the woods on my vacation and talked sports with the guy who repaired my jet ski, then asked him if he wanted to have a beer and scope out the chicks (Change this to unmarried ladies---this is crude!) since he knew all the good local places to go. So there we are, shooting the bull for a couple of hours, and it turns out he’s from East Whippany, and we decide to hit (Change this to 'attend') a Nets game later in the month, when BAM! he tells me he’s only a mechanic during the summer and the rest of the year he’s a comptroller. Damn! (Delete!) There must be something about me that attracts comptrollers, is all I can say. (What would that be? Needs more detail) I used to have an ombudsman thing going about ten years back, but thank God that faded. (You seem to be losing focus here) I just didn’t know what to talk about with them, even though I knew nine of them. They were pretty much my entire friends group in Shappahannock. In fact, they used to call us The Nine Ombudsmen and Tim. We owned the 117th Street Denny’s, I’ll tell you that. (How is that related to your original thesis?)

What I’d like is to start getting to know some coopers. I could really see myself hanging with people who make wooden barrels, casks, and buckets. Couldn’t you? (Why is that? Insufficient background provided) I’m just trying to avoid another crazy moment like last month when my girlfriend of two years looks at me and says (You have a verb tense problem here!) “Wait…you’re judging what cheese today? I thought you were a comptroller since you never hang out with anyone else. You’ve been a fromager all this time?” Comptroller by association, that’s just great. Do I ever say to her, “Since you know so many cicerones, you must be a cicerone”? (I am not familiar with this term.)

(You need a stronger ending and perhaps a stronger beginning and middle. Look into a new concept as well, and clean up your to-be verbs. A decent start, worthy of a check-minus.)

Channel 149, Tuesday, 2:15 a.m.

2009-10-24T08:17:00.002-04:00

Sometimes when life gets you down, there’s really only one place to turn where you can feel safe, secure, and welcome. It may not be everyone’s favorite place to be, but why not check it out when times get tough? Instead of acting out, consider custody!

People who have been there will tell you about the calm they felt and the sense of relief that came when they checked into custody for a while. It was in custody that they got the time and the quiet to evaluate their choices and maybe even forge a better life. Don’t believe us? Ask your friends who have had a taste of being in custody!

Maybe you know that temporarily confused someone who committed a crime, or simply lost their way to the point where they became a danger to themselves and others. Three out of four people who have been in custody say they think they’ll be in it again at some point---so what are you waiting for? Why go through the embarrassing charade of an arrest when you can come in on your own terms? If you haven’t talked to a law enforcement officer about custody yet, become one of the millions of Americans who have experienced the custody difference. It’s how we keep our country safe---and keep you on your feet!

Paid for by the Circuit Court of Michigan

Custody is not affiliated with physician-assisted suicide

Another Million Dollar Idea Turns Odd

2009-10-22T21:36:00.012-04:00

Welcome, dear readers, to a revolutionary new system of rating films. The Soren Narnia Cinematic Color Coordinator tracks each consecutive minute of my movie-watching experience and translates it into a particular color according to how I felt about the movie during that sixty second stretch!

GREEN – The movie’s going over great!
RED – I’m a little confused!
BLUE – Well, at least the movie is making me think!
YELLOW – Uh-oh, I’m not entertained!

This week’s review:
What Women Want starring Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt (127 minutes)

Next week’s review: Hostel 2!

Oh, Oh, It Might Have Been

2009-10-22T06:57:00.001-04:00

It was a memorable time while it lasted, I’ll tell you that---a strange, kind of magical feeling that just washed over me one summer day out of the clear blue sky. It hit me just as I was coming out of Seven Eleven with orange Gatorade and sunflower seeds and was sitting down at one of the two white plastic tables that Ammar the morning manager had set out on the sidewalk back in May. At first I couldn’t identify the feeling, and thought for a moment that I was still a little high from the joint I’d done three hours earlier. But then I realized that the moment had simply come, and for six straight minutes, I was finally in the mood to watch Fried Green Tomatoes.

I guess there’s no telling what might have happened if in that moment I had been in a video store or flipping through the channels at home and noticed that Fried Green Tomatoes could be rented on Pay-Per-View for $1.99. The sad fact is, I was at Seven Eleven and in no position to do anything about it. So I tried my best to enjoy the feeling while it lasted, and appreciate it for what it was. How long I had dreamed of the day when I’d find myself in the mood to finally watch Fried Green Tomatoes! And suddenly it was on top of me. I could picture the movie poster in my mind, and for no reason I could put my finger on, I found myself not having anything in particular against Jessica Tandy or Kathy Bates. I remember thinking, “It was kind of a hit when it came out….it might be something to talk about with Grandma…hell, why not?” And then, just as quickly as it had come, the mood to watch Fried Green Tomatoes faded like gossamer on the breeze. I was left with half a gallon of orange Gatorade and a sixteen ounce bag of sunflower seeds and no interest at all in watching that thing. No one had even been around to witness the moment.

Now it’s years later, and sometimes these days I think about those six minutes and I both smile and feel sad at the same time. There might come a day when lightning strikes again, but as I get a little older I feel that life has lost just a little bit of its capacity to amaze, and that brief brush with the directorial work of Jon Avnet (Up Close and Personal, 88 Minutes) just isn’t ever going to be duplicated. If anyone even mentions Fried Green Tomatoes in the course of conversation I tend to tune them out, wondering why anyone would ever want to watch that Mary Stuart Masterson-ridden piece of crap. But late at night, when I’m alone, it kind of feels like a whirlwind summer fling once lifted me up and set me back down again, somewhat wiser than I was before…or did I lose a tiny part of myself forever? I’m reminded of some immortal lines from Robert Frost: “I shall be telling this with a sigh / Somewhere ages and ages hence / Two roads diverged in a wood, and I / I took the one less traveled by / and that has made all the difference.” I guess in this case the road less traveled is the one with people who have never watched Fried Green Tomatoes.

It’s not at all like the time I got the urge to get into bowhunting. That was just a big bloody weekend mess, and the mayor still has a little limp because of it, which he’s kind of bitter about. He keeps having my garbage pickup cut off. Can he do that?

SUDS!

2009-10-21T16:16:00.001-04:00

WHEN YOU’RE HOME ALONE AND JUST WANT A BATH AT THE END OF A HARD DAY….THE LAST THING YOU SHOULD FEAR ARE

SUDS

BUT WHEN THE LAST THING YOU’D EXPECT TO STRIKE TERROR INTO YOUR HEART BECOMES THE ULTIMATE VESSEL OF FEAR, IT’S TIME TO SCREAM AT THE SIGHT OF

SUDS

FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE TUB WILL COME A HORROR MASQUERADING AS SOMETHING INNOCENT….BUT WILL YOU BE ABLE TO SPOT THE MENACE HIDING WITHIN

SUDS?

THEY CAN SLIP UNDER A DOOR….STICK TO YOUR SHOULDER…LEAVE A RESIDUE OF FEAR…AND NOT EVEN FLEEING TO THE OCEAN WILL ALLOW YOU ESCAPE FROM

SUDS

IN 2010, THEATERS EVERYWHERE WILL QUAKE WITH THE MOIST, SOAPY SHRIEKS OF THOSE WHO WERE NOT FAST ENOUGH TO ESCAPE

SUDS

AND EVEN IN THE EVENT THAT NO STUDIO WILL PURCHASE THE THEATRICAL OR DVD RIGHTS TO

SUDS

THE INTERNET WILL TREMBLE AS THE VIDEO BECOMES DOWNLOADABLE IN NINE MINUTE CHUNKS ON YOUTUBE, WHERE

SUDS

WILL NOT BE QUITE SO TERRIFYING AS THEY OBVIOUSLY WOULD BE ON THE BIG SCREEN, IN THE DARK, AND OUR IDEA TO HAVE THE TICKET-TAKERS SHOOT OUT

SUDS

FROM PLASTIC GUNS TO GET PEOPLE IN THE MOOD TO BE SCARED WON’T BE DOABLE, BUT STILL, WE THINK WE DID SOMETHING KIND OF COOL HERE, NOT A BAD FIRST FILM AT ALL CONSIDERING EVERYONE WAS SO YOUNG AND MONEY WAS SO TIGHT, AND IN FACT THERE’S ALREADY TALK OF A

SUDS

REUNION WHERE WE CALL GET TOGETHER NEXT YEAR AT THE DAYTON RADISSON AND TALK ABOUT THE GOOD TIMES WE HAD WORKING ON THE MOVIE. I MEAN, IT’S NOT THE DEER HUNTER, BUT IT’S GOT SOME GENUINE CHILLS WE THINK. LIKE, IS LEPRECHAUN REALLY THAT MUCH BETTER? NO, I DON’T THINK SO. AND IF YOU’RE GOING TO TALK A BUNCH OF CRAP ABOUT HOW AWFUL

SUDS

TURNED OUT, FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T LET THAT CUTE GIRL WHO PLAYED MEGAN HEAR YOU, I’M TRYING TO GET ON THAT AND IT DOESN’T HELP IF YOU’RE BEING SO NEGATIVE.

Two Words: Golden Bigness

2009-08-29T08:10:00.003-04:00

Is the Golden Bigness within you?

If you’re not a woman or a minority, the answer is an undeniable YES! You DO have Golden Bigness within you, and the blog is now dedicated to helping you discover it!

Golden Bigness has been determined to be the “X factor” which will enable you to succeed in business, relationships, and even hobbies like fishing or making your own ice cream. Don’t let your fears or a troubled past keep you from scaling the heights you were meant to---discover your Golden Bigness before someone else takes it!

Ever wonder how that star quarterback manages to throw a touchdown blitz, or how a police officer scores a big drug bust? Do you ever think to yourself, "How the heck do fabulous people win Halloween costume contests while I sit alone in my room night after night?" The answer is clear: they seized their own Golden Bigness, cultivated it, and let it shine. Until now, no one knew how to do it except them---but now their secret is out, and they hate everyone for it! The secret belongs to YOU, and the road to greatness is yours to savor.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS ABOUT YOUR GOLDEN BIGNESS

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A: The best thing about your Golden Bigness is that it’s the one part of your innerness that can be brought out with sheer physical effort. We have found that the best way to release it is through squeezing yourself through two closely set, rigid objects like a door frame or tree. There may be some pain involved, but the greater the effort, the more amazing the feeling of finding your Bigness will be! Some people even report being able to release their Bigness through shutting their eyes tight and pounding their head against a cupboard or yield sign. Once it’s out, there’s no stopping you---your confidence, courage, and charisma will all reach Star Wars levels!

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A: We guarantee that you’ll not only lose weight, but you’ll keep it off too. Rumors that you may become grossly obese are wildly untrue and have been maliciously spread in order to undermine the program, its sponsors, and the hardworking people of middle America.

Q: How much will it cost me to find my Golden Bigness?

A: The actual finding and releasing of your Golden Bigness is ABSOLUTELY FREE, and your credit card will not be charged the $250 processing fee until you’re fully satisfied that your life has changed for the better!

Q: My credit card was charged for the processing fee somehow even before I enrolled in the program. Why is that?

A: Only your Golden Bigness---a mystical concept re-discovered after more than four THOUSAND years---holds the key to lifelong success and a brand new outlook on life. This exciting wave of the future, which renders all other self-help programs obsolete in less than fifteen seconds, has been embraced by celebrities such as Valerie Perrine and Lee J. Cobb. Call today!

Special Deliveries

2009-08-28T06:34:00.002-04:00

All right, we’re going to just put this to a vote. We’ll put it to a vote, and whatever the majority says, then the issue is settled either way. Because we’ve been debating this for six hours now, and I’m hungry and tired and I just want to go home. Okay, so, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way. All in favor of having a cake party on Friday afternoon because the very last body part of the unidentified drifter who was murdered in 1998 was just finally sent to the precinct by his killer, raise your right hand. Okay, that’s one….two….five…nine. We have nine Yes votes. Okay, everyone who thinks the cake party would be in "bad taste", completely missing the point of how cool it really is that after eleven years and nineteen different UPS packages, each containing a single body part, we finally have the last piece of that dude in evidence, then raise your hand. Hmmm…three…six…eleven….twelve….sixteen…

Twenty-six….thirty-two….okay, I guess we know the answer then, there’s no point in counting further. So no cake party on Friday afternoon. So who volunteers to tell Bill Whitelaw and Gary Gulpis, the men who have been methodically investigating this case for eleven years, that they will not be taking a break to enjoy a little Entenmann’s going into the long holiday weekend because it would be in “bad taste”? Because I’ll tell you something, it isn’t going to be me. What am I missing here? First of all, let’s have a little respect for the killer, whoever he might be. Eleven YEARS of packages? You think any of our kids are going to grow up with that kind of patience? Which reminds me, Mark, that might be something to toss into the ol’ psychological profile: I’ll bet he’s older than thirty, because anyone younger than that has all the patience of a crappy Fourth of July sparkler. Doesn’t everyone remember how excited we got when we realized the killer’s plan to slowly send the body in delightful little vignettes, giving us something to look forward to every few months? Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten our childlike collective glee when a new package came bearing an ear or a tibia---especially you, Darla. We’ve gotten more body parts in the mail than you’ve had dates since 1998, so a little gratitude might even be in order. And keep an eye on the big picture here: we’re never, ever going to get another limb here at the station. An era has passed. It really has.

Okay, I’ll get off the topic. So on Friday afternoon we’ll all just work straight through till three-thirty. What a bunch of killjoys. Scotland Yard has really changed.

An American Tragedy

2009-08-27T20:38:00.002-04:00

Faithful readers, it has come to my attention that at 4:29 a.m. on November 10, 2008, there was a sad thing that happened. On that date, in that moment, the PA system in the Fair Hills Shopping Center in Oshinsky, Michigan was fully operational and faithfully playing its rotation of pre-selected shopper-friendly hits from the seventies and eighties when Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” came on. Now none of us would expect the shopping center to be filled at 4:29 a.m., but the facts incontrovertibly show that not one human being, animal, or other entity heard a single note or word of Foreigner’s wonderful “Hot Blooded” during that pre-dawn moment. Even the shopping center security camera failed to capture the song’s valiant play, someone having forgotten to change the tape in the machine the week before. The tragic fact we are left with is that there was seemingly no point at all in softly broadcasting the sexy bass line which acts as a precursor to the tune’s legendary lyrics, which begin thusly:

I'm hot blooded, check it and see.
I got a fever of a hundred and three.
Come on baby, do you do more than dance?
I'm hot blooded. Hot blooded.

It was simply heard by no one, not even a vagrant or squirrel. The sidewalk alone absorbed the sounds which had once bedazzled millions. The facts prove it beyond a shadow of a lonely doubt. The song went on, but it didn’t matter one whit:

You don't have to read my mind to know what I have in mind.
Honey you oughta know.
Now you move so fine, let me lay it on the line.
I wanna know what you're doin' after the show.

At Payless Shoes, the window display rack of value-priced footwear could neither hear nor understand Foreigner’s noble effort, even though the front door is right below the speaker, and the JOIN US FOR NATIONAL STRAWBERRY MONTH sign hanging in Baskin Robbins sure as hell didn’t register anything either. The song ended after three minutes and fifty-seven seconds with words that only underscored how much of a mournful joke this episode truly was:

Hot blooded, every night.
Hot blooded, you're looking so tight.
Hot blooded, now you're driving me wild.
Hot blooded, I'm so hot for you, child.
Hot blooded, I'm a little bit high.
Hot blooded, you're a little bit shy.
Hot blooded, you're making me sing.
Hot blooded, for your sweet sweet thing.

And so it faded into silence. We now know that not ten seconds after it passed from the world and “Ebony and Ivory” began to play, a thirty-two year old crack addict walked through the parking lot on the way to his grandmother’s house, so at least THAT song didn’t go to complete waste.

My original point of conveying this information becomes a lot clearer when you realize I haven’t had anything to eat since that bowl of Crispix on Tuesday.

The Nougat Experiment

2009-07-26T12:41:00.000-04:00

THE NOUGAT EXPERIMENT WILL BEGIN IN 4….3….2….1….

BEGIN THE NOUGAT EXPERIMENT

The Empire Strikes Nougat

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Nougat Robert Ford

Glengarry Glen Nougat

They Shoot Nougat, Don’t They?

Dracula Has Risen from the Nougat

I, Nougat

When Harry Met Nougat

Whose Nougat Is It, Anyway?

The Nougat of the Sierra Madre

In the Heat of the Nougat

EARLY FEELINGS ABOUT THE RESULTS OF THE NOUGAT EXPERIMENT: Well, I would have to say they’re mixed.

O'Higginstein's Pub, Wednesday night, 10:38 p.m.

2009-07-24T11:03:00.002-04:00

Yeah, you know, I think my problem was that I was basically typecast---oh, wait, let me get you another drink, beautiful. You’ve gotta try the Litigious Mexican, it’ll knock your socks off. Anyway, you have to understand the whole politics of the industry and how casting directors think, all that jazz. So no, I didn’t really accept any other major parts after we shot Hitch’s movie---ha, yeah, I always used to call him Hitch during our discussions about the film. He let me improvise, we had a good time. I mean, I was looking to get out of acting anyway, the hours were brutal, I was away from my girlfriend a lot, and I’m the kind of guy who really believes in romance and working at a relationship, you know? I didn't want potential fame to erode our love. So for the last few years I’ve just been doing the usual things, picking along the ground for stuff to eat, flying here and there, migrating when the time’s right, blah blah blah. I figure when a part really speaks to me I’ll get back in the game. I turned down a lot of bird roles, of course, because I want to expand my range, really craft my art, you know? But yeah, to make a long story short, I definitely consider myself still in the business, and I’m sure that if we spent some time together I could get a sense of your, um, essence, and maybe I could talk to some people, you know, some people I know on the lot. Maybe if we had dinner a couple of times….whoa, ha, go easy on that drink, it’s a killer…I remember when we were shooting the scene where I attack Tippi Hedren, it was so exhausting we all went to the nearest bar and---well, sure we can go back to my place to watch it! I should explain that what happened during the scene was that Hitch told me I was actually commanding too much presence, so he asked me if I would hang back, which is why I’m only on the edge of the screen and for a second and a half. Yeah, he wanted me to kind of nurture the other birds along, they kind of looked up to me….hey, did that guy over near the Keno machine just drop part of his sandwich? Sorry, I’m just gonna go check that out. Don’t you go anywhere, I want to tell you how I got into the part. I actually flew all the way to Vegas and back with a group of birds undergoing treatment for rabies just to master the character….what? No, no, I don’t think that’s George C. Scott over there…well, I wouldn’t bother going over, I know Georgie pretty well, and he’s not really very---um, okay.

Man vs. Nature

2009-07-23T16:58:00.000-04:00

Let me make this perfectly clear: I realize that you, as a human almost six feet tall and weighing upwards of one hundred seventy pounds, hold all the bargaining chips in this deal, while I, a lizard barely four inches long, don’t have a lot to work with here. And I want to reiterate that I am NOT threatening you in any way. As I see it, we are two rational parties, both of whom possess a clear goal: you, to keep me out of your home by any means necessary, and I, to enter said home for a pre-determined length of time which, as I have stated again and again, will not be exceeded under any circumstances, and you have my word as a lizard on that. I literally just want to come in, take a quick look at what’s going on with the Packers game, get a score and see who’s got the ball, and then I will exit, with absolutely NO designs on creeping into your pipes and setting up shop there for months, even years, wallowing and bathing and delighting in the slippery goo therein, becoming the happiest of all God’s creatures. Dude, you have to believe me on this one: it’s just about five minutes of tube time to check on the game. Now, I do not recall ever having insinuated that if my request were not granted, I would sneak into your pipes some other way, and tell a few close friends about the hundreds of feet of slippery goo-filled piping there for the taking if we just marshal our efforts and try hard enough to slip in. I apologize profusely if you perceived my words as any sort of veiled plan to penetrate your home and pop my little head out of the kitchen sink from time to time when your wife least expects it, giving her a big old lizard Howdy before ducking back into the dark and glorious goo, where my body---tiny now, yes, I’ll admit---will double in size over the years.

So I guess we’re at a standoff. Again, ten minutes in front of the set and I’m history. If you don’t feel comfortable with this arrangement, then hey, no hard feelings, I’ll go on my way. As a fellow sports fan, I just thought you’d understand the fact that there’s a division up for grabs and I’m understandably concerned with how the Packers are doing. If I’ve misjudged you, my bad.

Okay, so….you’re seriously not going to let me in for ten lousy minutes? Oh for God’s sake, you can stand right beside me the whole time, and I’ll tell you what, I’ll dab my feet in whatever molasses you have lying around so I won’t be able to scamper off all of a sudden and disappear into a crack in the wall. What do I need, references? Look, I’m doing you a FAVOR here, when you think about it. When’s the last time you had ANYONE over? You sit around all day writing crackpot letters about Castro and piecing together Kennedy’s route through Dallas as if you’re going to DO anything. That’s right, I’ve been watching through the window, and let me tell ya, pal, you’re what they call a TALKER, not a DOER.

THANK you. Yes, the plan you propose is in fact one I will tentatively consider. I would say that it all depends on the size of the water glass you want to trap me under, and how confident you are that you can skoosh me across the floor using it as a little cage without getting my tail pinned under the rim. Also, I really must insist that I be allowed to walk out under my own power, with some kind of dignity, rather than being skooshed over the threshold. And I think we need to talk about snacks if I’m going to have to make the sacrifice of listening to the game with the sound all distorted because of the glass. You got some Ritz?

Some Like It Digital

2009-07-16T10:48:00.002-04:00

Good eyes, ladies and gentlemen, good eyes. I see you’re all admiring the latest gift to the world from Electronic Deities Incorporated---we're simply calling it The Gigantic Goddamn Television Set. Yes, citizens, eleven FEET of viewing craziness, and really, what more do I have to say? Why should I even go on? Every word I utter is like a foul gas just clouding your judgement! I defy you all to look at this thing for five seconds and then not say to me, in all honesty, "YES! I would rather own this TV than ever SPEAK to another human being again!"

Look, we’re not children here. I want to tell you something from the heart. I love ALL television---and so do you! You wouldn’t be sitting there like oversized blocks of cheese if you hadn’t already accepted this undeniable truth. You know, I read a book last year---something about animals taking over a farm from their masters and then they became corrupt---I don’t know, but I read that book....and I just started laughing. I started laughing thinking how pathetic this book was compared to television. Where were the actors? Where were the commercials for valuable consumer goods, such as televisions? It took me eight months to read that alleged entertainment, and then a week later, bam, there it was in the TV Guide, they’d made a movie of it. I had been played for a FOOL, ladies and gentlemen, and so are we all whenever we get suckered into believing that this product is not all there is to know about culture. I would rather watch the crappiest ten minutes of Happy Days than read one word by so-called "geniuses" like Dean Koontz or Jackie Collins. (Even the weird later ones where the Fonz moved in with Dracula.) So I’m gonna say it now, before the world, and may God strike me down if I offend thee, but thank you, television! Thank you for saving me from the strain of maintaining interpersonal relationships! Thank you for being the only one who understands my violent mood swings! Now I’m not saying we should engage in mass genocide against people who read and then all of us watch television twenty-four hours a day. No, I'm really not saying that, for that would be cruel. What I am saying is that these literate freaks are threatening a way of life we have fought for for millions of years! So now I say "Save us, television! Save us!" And you know what television would say back if it could? "No problem, man! I am eleven feet wide and I’ve got vertical hold and brightness control, and the printed word can kiss my big rubbery butt!"

I remember my first TV. Oh, it wasn’t an eleven foot sperm whale like this one, it was just a small one, I was just out of college, didn’t have a lot of money, it was only a sixty-eight inch screen or so. And I sat down in front of it that first night and I remember the first thing that came on: it was a wrestling preview show. I realized at that moment that divinity school had been a waste of my time, seven weeks down the drain. All the education I required was contained in my new little friend there. Through television, I have been to the two corners of the globe, I have watched the Buffalo Bills lose like ninety Super Bowls, and through a glitch in my cable transmission, I have managed to glimpse entire naked women on the scrambled channel every night at exactly 2:17 a.m.!

I had a dream the other night. It was a dark and terrible dream. In the dream, there was no more television. (Also Aquaman was in there for some reason, but his contribution was minimal.) And because there was no television, there were no celebrities. Because there were no celebrities, there was nothing to talk about. And because there was nothing to talk about, the world cried out for television! We wander around this earth so happily assuming that TV will be here forever---well, wake up, people! The government already took away our right to buy Russian women for cheap farm labor! They already took away our right to enter our own children into futuristic demolition races! So you WILL buy this television from me and you WILL take advantage of EDI's new pyramid credit scheme, in which you make no payments until you physically die and lie rotting in the earth! Now if you’ll just place your Visa cards in the tote bag that’s making its way around the room, we can start breaking down this universal remote. Get comfy, this is gonna take a while.

Beware of All Job Fairs

2009-07-15T14:14:00.002-04:00

Well, I’m just in way over my head, and that’s all there is to it. I’m sorry I ever accepted the job in the first place. So now I’ve learned never, ever to lie on your resume. What can I say, the benefits this outfit was offering were just too good to pass up. Plus the opportunity to tell people you’re a divine oracle….how much hottie action would that have gotten me if I were able to stay? But there’s just no way, not with the sorry training I got. So now I stand there every time someone comes up to me with some profound philosophical question or a need to look into the future and get a good, hard answer about it, and I’m always stalling for time and asking the divine oracle next to me how to respond. This dude yesterday asked me which of his children was going to usurp his throne and I was like, “Um, give me some names,” and I just picked the middle child and said, “Yeah, he’s totally the one! So keep an eye out.” And then the explorer on Wednesday who begged me to tell him which way to send his fleet of ships so his legions of men would survive the ocean’s terrors---how am I supposed to answer that on my fifth day on the job when I missed orientation and my supervisor is on maternity leave? I can’t even get into Outlook because my password never works. You know how embarrassing it is when Prince Caspian asks you to call over a manager because he totally knows you just made up a bunch of crap in response to a seemingly simple question about whether the Prophecy of Ulthar was going to come true or not? I must be the first divine oracle in history to be called a “retard” to my face. Absolutely the only part of this stupid job I’ve got nailed down is the shimmer. From day one, I could shimmer impressively and give off a perfectly green ethereal glow and levitate over the Pool of Tears like nobody’s business. Yet I still have no idea who to even talk to about getting direct deposit, or what to tell people when they say that the answers I’m giving them conflict with what the Three Sisters of Sagittarius spoketh on Mount Teslus. Who? Where? What page of my intro packet were they mentioned on again? Oh, they NEVER WERE? I am so done. The second I get my first paycheck, I’m walking out and going right over to that arcade in the mall and applying for a job there. “Excuse me, I’ve got a question---can I get four quarters for this dollar bill?” YES. YES, YOU MAY.

The Salty Tang of Vengeance

2009-07-14T10:06:00.002-04:00

Yes, you inhuman piece of trash, it was I who poured vanilla pudding all over the hood of your precious Nissan Sentra---a full eleven years after you offended both myself and Captain Sal’s Crabcake Grill with your insolent affront! Ha, you never suspected that when you parked in our lot in the summer of ‘98 and then slapped us and our paying customers in the face by crossing the street to Eyepatch Sally’s Shrimp and Steak Buffet, I would be watching and memorizing your license plate! For years I kept the information close to my heart, waiting for exactly the right moment to remind you of the strict Parking For Captain Sal’s Customers Only policy which I was hired to protect and defend! Try and have yourself a decent honeymoon now, punk, when you’re busy scraping pudding off your ride! How ironic that eleven years after your crime, you would return to Skaggs Beach and I would still be working the lot for seven fifty an hour! It appears that fate and I are apparently better friends than I once believed!

In fairness, I should point out that due to some economic difficulties at Captain Sal’s, the parking policy has since been dropped and the lot is now open to anyone, even those who are only seeking a round of putt-putt at Pirate Rudy’s Tee Time Booty. If anyone asks, you got puddinged because of your past, not because of parking there tonight. Also, I apologize for slightly scratching your left rear tire rim when I tripped over a pebble and fell against the car, which caused me to briefly lose my grip on the pudding bucket. My insurance policy number is C08-775-1910 and I can be reached by phone here at the restaurant from ten until eight Monday through Saturday.

Urban DANGERS

2009-07-13T20:09:00.000-04:00

I’m telling you, the thing literally came out of nowhere, and I feel lucky to be alive. Can I have a drink of water, maybe that’ll calm my nerves. Anyway, I was walking north along Ender Street like always, just thinking about what kind of bagel I was going to get from Lippy’s, and yes, I had my iPod on, but it was at really low volume. Suddenly, WHAM---there it was. I walked right into it. On my left instead of an empty sidewalk there was a woman selling homemade candles and on my right there was some Jamaican-looking dude with a cart full of handbags. As I was falling to the pavement the first time, I caught sight up ahead of some housewife trying to hawk copies of her self-published romance novel, and I almost totally lost consciousness right then. I managed to get to my feet but it just got thicker and scarier---beadwork everywhere, papier mache rabbits, hand-painted cuckoo clocks, and I swear to God, a fifty-four year old man with a ponytail. I’m telling you, we DESPERATELY need some kind of warning system to alert people that there may be an arts and crafts festival up ahead. You have no idea what it’s like to try to get past all those tables with crappy jewelry on them. What happened to Herb is NOT going to happen to me. That dude had looked forward to having a Saturday off for months, and I still remember him smiling at me as he and his girlfriend headed out for an innocent morning walk, then disappearing around the corner of 8th and Duvall just to pop in on Howie, and you KNOW what happened next. The look on his face when he came out the other side of the Arts Council’s Folk Art Block Party…something in him had died inside. He was carrying a freakin’ LANYARD some graduate student had made, man. He even got caught in some theater subscription pitch at the table where they were handing out flyers for the Crescent Hill Players. Yes, the very same Crescent Hill Players that did that total botch number on West Side Story. Now, the last time I checked, I am still mayor of this crappy town, and from now on I want gigantic day-glo orange signs alerting pedestrians to the possible presence of arts and crafts fairs, and I want them COMPLETELY encircling the area. I don’t care how much it costs---we’ll find the money in the budget. To start with, we might want to think about cutting the number of cop cars on noon patrol down to thirty-five or so. To be honest with you, I’m not sure why a town with a population of sixty-seven would even need that many. Just because two different mass murderers strangled the entire population in two separate incidents seven years apart, it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen on my watch.

You seriously missed the Crescent Hill Players do West Side Story? Amazing. They literally forgot to sing the first two songs. Just skipped right past ‘em. You could see it on their faces. “Aw crap, we forgot a couple of songs, didn’t we?” Love it.

If We'd Had a Few Men Like That in Guadalcanal...

2009-06-25T08:31:00.000-04:00

Ha ha, looks like ol’ Donna is back again. I went out this morning and there she was, sitting on the front lawn as if she had a perfect right to be there. I don’t know why I call her Donna---giving a name to a small bag of trash probably doesn’t make a lick of sense, but anything that keeps coming back again and again seems like a friend after a while. That’s certainly no ordinary white plastic sack of apple cores, cereal boxes, soup cans, and old Clorox wipes anymore.

Nope, I don’t why Donna keeps coming back no matter how many times I set her in the trash can and take her down to the curb. The first time it happened, not even a day went by before I stepped out the door to look down and see her there sitting on my WORLD’S BEST GRANDPA welcome mat. Nowadays, it can be up to two weeks before she mysteriously plops herself down on the lawn or beside the mailbox. Some things in this life just don’t want to pass on to their last end without a fight, I guess. I thought I have might put something in the bag that the trash men didn’t like, but they’ve never even opened it. I asked one of them about it, and he told me he’d had a similar experience many moons ago. It took him thirteen tries to get rid of a bucket of recyclables. At his wit’s end he called the police, who took the stuff away even as he stood there with a small tear in his eye---he’d become real attached to Ol’ Harold, and couldn’t say why of course.

Well, I think what I’m going to do is take Donna in tonight, put her right back in the can in the kitchen where she began, let her get one more good night in there, and then I really have to make it goodbye this time. I’m not a sentimental man by nature, but if this keeps up, soon I won’t have the heart to do what I need to do. I’m sure the neighbors won’t be too pleased to hear the sounds of a chainsaw, flamethrower, and an explosion of fifteen pounds of Grade 2 Dynacore erupting in the middle of the night, but they should maybe pay more attention to their own business, or I might start asking a few questions about some of the little moonlight shortcuts they seem to be taking sometimes with the cremations people are paying good money for.

It Beats Working at Payless

2009-06-22T13:42:00.001-04:00

Look, if I’m still nervous after six months when I go to work in the morning, it’s my own fault. Really, the job is not bad at all, all I do is check people’s coats, give them a little tag, and return the coats when the people are finished eating. Ten to six, and I get a half price meal! And truth be told, I did read that last line of the job ad, the one that said the applicant should have some familiarity with the use of a Nynaxitron High Speed Plasm Vaporizer and Matter Combiner. I just figured I could fake it at the interview, and you know what? They didn’t even mention it. But lately I’ve had some troubling dreams, and I’ve begun to wonder why this four ton machine that almost reaches the ceiling of the coat check room is even there, practically pressing me against the wall, giving me almost no room to stand. I look at the feeder belt and all the gauges and dials and big red warning stickers, and I think to myself: Why does Anthony’s Family Restaurant even need a Nynaxitron High Speed Plasm Vaporizer and Matter Combiner? Because it’s never been used, not once. No one talks about it, either. But when I asked Anthony if maybe we would have room for thirty coats instead of just fifteen if we didn’t have the thing in there, he just shifted his eyes in a strange way and said, “Better not mess around with that space too much.” Then this one time, Jose who washes the dishes went past and stared at the machine for a minute, then held up his handless right arm and started cursing loudly in Spanish. Weird, right? Kind of like the strange, spiky pencil scrawl underneath the intake flange, the one that just says HELP ME.

It’s like I keep getting sucked into jobs where this happens. I remember when I went for the janitorial gig at the hospital, and all they asked me at first was if I was comfortable mopping large floors and if I had any scheduling limitations and if I had a ride to work, and then on my first day the woman said to me, “Just clean up Ward 4, and please sub for Dr. Brown at ten; he has a shoulder surgery scheduled in OR nine but can’t make it.” And let me tell you, I was so nervous, never even having graduated from high school, that I nearly made a total mess of that operation---it took me twice as long to finish as it was supposed to. I really need to ask more questions up front at these interviews, or maybe at least seem like I’m more professional and won’t be taken advantage of. I read an article that wearing swim trunks to an interview can be a negative, so for me that’s totally out from this day forward.

The Game is Aface!

2009-06-18T20:31:00.001-04:00

Watson, I’ve got it! This has been a most exhausting case, but I believe the time has come to put away your obscure (but most entertaining) theories about the fate of the Imandhi diamond. Piecing together the clues, there can be only one possibility for a solution to this fascinating crime. Don’t you see, Watson—the motive, means, and suspect all become quite clear when one realizes that Colonel Smithson’s pancakes were mere holograms all along.

What’s that you say? Impossible? Uh….yeah, you might be right. I’m actually not real sure on this one. To tell you the truth, I’ve even been going back through some of our old cases, like The Adventure of the Speckled Band, or The Red-Headed League, and I’m coming to realize that I probably only got about fifty percent of the solutions right. I was just way off base some of the time, now that I think of it. I feel kind of bad for those people in jail.

Oh heck, I’m just going to come out and say it: I think we should get out of this sleuthing racket entirely. I’ve totally lost any semblance of professionalism, and you’ve never been any help at all, so let me bounce a couple of notions off you. First, what do you think of my idea to sell personalized grocery belt dividers? You know what I’m talking about, the sticks that keep your muffins and lemon Pledge and such from the stuff of the person in front of you in line? We could charge fifteen, twenty bucks a piece for ones that people keep permanently and have their names engraved on, don’t you think? In a variety of colors, so the iMac set gets all excited? Second, I’m still thinking that a lot of advertising space could be sold on the sides of zoo animals. They just stand there all day, people gawk at them---why not put a message about Diet Sprite on the side of a giraffe? Doesn’t have to be a banner weighing them down and messing up their spines; you could spray-paint it right on with some kind of non-toxic gunk.

Neither one of those ideas floats your boat? Okay, I was ready for that, so let me give you the golden ticket: I know a guy in the East End who can sell us ten thousand bottles of diet pills for next to nothing. We could slap a logo on them, market our name---“Holmes and Watson’s Baker Street Weight Loss Miracle”---fat people would lap it up. Am I wrong?

Do you want to talk about the time machine idea again? And before you ask, the answer is no, I still don’t have any scientific ideas about building one that would function; the whole point is that it’s just a big hollow box, but by the time people realize it we’ve already pocketed eight hundred pounds and we’re just vapor, we’re gone, we’re an exhaust cloud. I’m willing to come around on the percentage if that’s your hesitation.

Okay, I can see your mind is wandering yet again and your head’s not in this conversation. So we’ll talk about something else. What did you think about the obnoxious comment Professor Moriarty made on that blood-stained cryptogram he sent over, the one about my meerschaum pipe? What was the snide little implication there? You’d tell me if I look like an idiot with that thing in my mouth, right? Right?

All I Need is a Chance

2009-06-17T11:06:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. Mothclark,

I am interested in applying for the position of ditch pre-digger as advertised on Craigslist. It had long been my ambition to be an actual ditch-digger, and I value this opportunity to enter the field via a job stamping on the topmost layer of dirt for a few hours to loosen it up before the professionals arrive to excavate it and create the hole itself. I do have some stamping experience, having loosened topmost soil layers one summer on my uncle’s farm (though admittedly this was more of a boyish hobby than a vocation), and I believe I have acquired the confidence and determination to get even the most stubborn surfaces somewhat ready for a dig. I do possess my own boots and have recently joined a gym to strengthen my leg muscles and thus stamp more efficiently. I look forward to joining a focused, driven team of pre-diggers, or working alone if that’s what the job most likely entails.

I am available for any shifts, weekdays or weekends, and because I take in so little food and water compared to the vast majority of people, the pay rate of “nothing”, as it is phrased in your ad, should suffice as long as there is room to grow. Please note that I am also open to post-digging duties and am certain that with time and guidance, I can master the art of running the edge of the shovel under a hose to clean it off before the next ditch is dug.

In my spare time, I enjoy writing books about American history which espouse my theories about the genetic inferiority of northerners. My resume is attached; I look forward to hearing from you!

Sincerely,
Hillcote Upworthy, D.D.S.

The Cinema Comes Alive!

2009-06-14T15:08:00.002-04:00

An analysis of five movies depicting someone in need of a sudden escape from a villain shooting a steam pipe to release steam into the villain’s face to facilitate that escape, and whether it was appropriate

1) Dangerface (1957)

Scene: Rex Jumper is pinned by three of Mr. Evilicus’s henchmen and about to be fed to the glowing anacondas
Action: Rex kung-fus the henchmen, kicks a .45 out of his pants leg at the last second, and shoots the steam pipe next to Mr. Evilicus’s head, serving up a hot spray of nature’s finest, at which point he dives over the railing into the Thames for a clean escape
Steam pipe usage appropriate? Oh yeah

2) A Thousand Acres (1997)

Scene: The characters played by Michele Pfeiffer and Jessica Lange confront their father about a lifetime of verbal, emotional, and sexual abuse on the family farm
Action: Jason Robards delivers a boot to each of their stomachs, spins, and shoots the steam pipe next to Jennifer Jason-Leigh’s head, bathing her in the good stuff so he can jump on his favorite horse and gallop toward Des Moines
Steam pipe usage appropriate? Debatable. The film’s poor box office showing may hint that the audience was expecting more of a “let’s talk our way through this” vibe

3) Ken Rankin: Action Eater (2004)

Scene: Hung upside down from a roof beam and dangled over a vat of piping hot five-alarm chili, Ken realizes this is curtains for him.
Action: Ken tells the Livid Robot that he’s forgotten one factor in the equation: the element of surprise! He gnaws his way through the ropes around his feet, makes a shotgun out of an old golf club and a cigarette lighter, and shoots the steam pipe next to the Livid Robot’s head, dousing him with premium vintage steam-a-roony and making him go “AAAHHHHHHH, WHY WAS I EVER MADE?” while Ken hops into his glider and hightails it for Six Flags
Steam pipe usage appropriate? No, considering that A) this was the eleventh time in the film that someone in need of a sudden escape from a villain shoots a steam pipe to release steam into the villain’s face to facilitate that escape and B) according to an expository title crawl, the film takes place “in a post-apocalyptic world when there are no more amenities, not even television or steam pipes”

4) Frost/Nixon (2008)

Scene: Richard Nixon, played by Frank Langella, is cornered by David Frost’s relentless questioning
Action: Nixon makes the fatal mistake of asking Frost if he wouldn’t mind moving a little closer to the steam pipe beside his head so that he can shoot it and make a break for safety; an indignant Frost counters by using words with even more syllables
Steam pipe use appropriate? Judgment call; while the steam pipe wasn’t actually shot in the film, it appears to have been exquisitely made by the prop crew and lit with great care by director of photography Salvatore Totino

5) Watch Out for That Steam Pipe, Moron, You’re Standing Right Next to It! (2007)

Scene: All of them; this is a two hour montage of clips from Hollywood films in which various action heroes use the steam pipe for its intended purpose
Steam pipe usage appropriate? Yes, except for a clip from 1984’s CrimeCop in which Lance Smackit means to shoot a steam pipe but misses and instead gets the villain right in the heart, killing him instantly and bringing the movie to a close just forty-six minutes in. Also, a lengthy lecture about the history of steam itself adds little to the experience, and the inclusion of a scene from an unidentified Mexican crime thriller depicting the villain frantically blowing the jet of steam away from his face after the pipe is shot just isn’t terribly realistic. Come on, people.

Seek, Sports Fan, and Ye Shall Find

2009-06-11T21:20:00.002-04:00

Don’t look at me like that, Jarold---like I’m crazy. You at least owe me the favor of listening to all the evidence I’ve collected over the past six years since I first formulated my theory. It boils down, my friend, to these undeniable facts:

1) I have not been able to locate a single fan who was at the game on 6/2/1998 who can testify with one hundred percent certainty that the pop fly that Jorge Otanez struck with two out and no one on base in the bottom of the fifth was in fact caught by any of the Allentown infielders. Those same infielders, all of whom I’ve interviewed personally, mysteriously cannot produce the mitts they used only a decade ago so that I might test them for ball residue.

2) The box score for this game, unearthed only after many hours of digging through the minor league baseball database, reveals that the game was “suspended” in that same inning. But the records of the National Meteorological Bureau in Houston prove that the weather in Allentown was only mildly drizzly that day. Why might the game have suddenly come to a halt? Why?

3) In Sorry, It Looked Like a Strike to Me, his mesmerizing autobiography covering his seven years umpiring in the East Spotsylvania Rookie League, Don Blinkringer reveals that “sometimes things happen in baseball that just make no sense to me. You know, weird things---I can’t think of any specific examples offhand.” Blinkringer is listed as having been the third base ump for the game in question. Enough said?

4) My brother-in-law was there that day, Jarold. He was quite sleepy, a little inebriated, and in line to buy a hot dog when the nine hundred fans in attendance started to file out, but he remembers returning to his seat to pick up his sunglasses and seeing a dazed expression on the Steelton Sammies’ manager’s face as the man looked up at the sky as if to say, “My God, that pop fly never came down, never WILL come down, and life as we know it has changed in a small way forever.”

I’m leaving my files on your desk, Jarold. You publish the biggest newspaper in town and if you won’t give up three columns in the Lifestyle section to the story of a conspiracy to quash the fact that a pop fly supposedly bound by the laws of gravity simply vanished off the face of the Earth in 1998, then shame on you. And shame on me for even thinking of living in your garage for a while until I get back on my feet. If I didn’t have about sixty percent of my stuff already moved in there, I’d haul it all out right now, the broken wheel on my wheelbarrow be damned.

Creative Freedom at Reasonable Prices

2009-06-09T20:54:00.003-04:00

Some may call me a provocateur---I don’t mind the label. If the way I make my films gets you to think deeply and understand that reality is not always pretty, that to me is a good thing. The critics, of course, are less kind. Fortunately the words “idiot”, “moron”, and “self-destructive dumbass” can wound, but they cannot kill. And so, yes, Mr. Morganthaler, with all due respect to Sony Pictures, I shall continue till the day I die to insist on showing all my characters waiting for their change in restaurants and cabs no matter how many minutes it adds to my films and no matter how it “ruins” them. For how absurd is it to believe that supposedly authentic human beings would merely toss a twenty on a café table and offhandedly leave the establishment, or hand a taxi driver whatever they have on them and simply dash off the way they do in your silly Hollywood opuses? In real life, where both you and I hang our hats, people don’t throw their money around so easily, and it’s absurd to depict them doing so in cinema. Did showing the lovers waiting for their change after their heartrending breakup scene in my 2004 film Adore Me As You Would An Uncle add eleven minutes of inert, incredibly awkward silence to what would have been a taut ninety-one minute feature without it? Yes. And did the fourteen-minute montage of the Russian spy having the cab driver go around the block twice to find a Bank of America ATM so he could get a ten dollar bill out of it to pay for his breathless ride through the streets of New York without having to give too large a tip “utterly disembowel” the otherwise thrilling climactic chase at the end of Stop That Roustabout, Stop Him I Say ? If you listen to the dunderpates who write for Variety, absolutely. But I could no more stop showing my characters waiting for their change and otherwise being financially sensible than I could refrain from demanding, yes, DEMANDING, that the James Bond film you propose I direct include a lengthy set piece in which 007 sits down and fills out the proper tax forms which enable Her Majesty’s Secret Service to pay him properly and legally for his various contractual services. It’s a scene which has been shockingly omitted from every film in the series---until now. Because when audiences want realism, Mr. Morganthaler. THAT is the kind of thing they’re talking about. Trust me. I KNOW these things.

Now then, I hate to make this meeting even more of a pressure cooker, but what I really need from you today is to buy a magazine subscription from me, choosing one from this expansive list I have right here. I get double points if you purchase Vogue, Discover, or Cooking Light, so keep that in mind. It all goes to a very worthy cause, and you’ll be doing yourself a favor as well by staying “in the know”. After you’ve written a check made out to Central Atlantic Publications, I’ll put this little door tag outside your office to tell our other representatives in the area that I’ve already visited you and that they should move on. Sound good? It sounds good, right? Not a Vogue man? How about Modern Pimpernel?

Alas, I Have Never Been Comfortable With Objects

2009-06-05T10:41:00.005-04:00

It's not often that I open this forum to suggestions, but the time has come. I suppose you can guess what I need your help with---yes, it's the invisibility ray. I wouldn't usually dream of imposing upon my readers to lend a hand with this, as there's really no way you could possibly know about temporal diffusatory dappling, porro prism quantization, or concavity extract masers, but tomorrow it'll be fifteen years since I perfected my invisibility ray except for a maddening inability to cloak either elbows or gums, and Project Capricorn really can't go on without me nailing this sucker down. So I'm throwing the question open to anyone who might have an idea as to why it took me all of six weeks to invent a virtually flawless invisibility ray which hides 98 percent of the human body but can't seem to do a damn thing about elbows and gums. At this point I will literally listen to ANYTHING that rolls off your tongues. Even SINGLE WORDS might be enough to jostle something, so for instance, if someone were to simply throw out the phrase "irradiant emulsion metrix quotient" maybe it would get me thinking. Seriously, don't be afraid to contribute your suggestions, because there are no stupid ones.

Actually, that's not quite completely true, because telling me there might be a bug in the laser sequencer is NOT helpful, as I've been through the code TEN MILLION TIMES now, and there is NO EARTHLY REASON why my friend Bibby should disappear with a totally cool popping sound when I hit the switch while his stupid elbows and gums keep hanging out there for all the world to gawk at. So DON'T TELL ME about a possible bug, okay? Nor do I need to be reminded that America could have achieved total military dominance over its enemies more than a decade ago if only I had figured this contraption out by now. World peace, world peace, blah blah blah---this is NOT constructive criticism. And no, there is no money in the budget to construct a supplemental invisibility ray to cover just elbows and gums, and I can assure you that Colonel Strickler is NOT AMUSED by this notion. Other than that, let the ideas rip! So on the count of three, everyone start sending in those emails. I know it's been fifteen long years of trial, error, and abject failure, but I have confidence that if fresh eyes come to the table, I might be able to put the wraps on ol' Project C by close of business on Tuesday.

You know what I should think about, actually? Running the thousands of daily pages of complex trigonometric data through something other than my brother's pirated copy of Bert and Ernie Can Add Too! for Windows 98. And I'm again pondering the expansion of the pool of test subjects to include someone other than Bibby. After fifteen years of getting blasted by the invisibility ray, he's starting to get a little wobbly, he smells like doughnuts for some reason, and he keeps forgetting simple facts, like Nolan Ryan's career strikeout total, or his own last name. Which I think is also Bibby, FYI, so you'd think he'd be able to soak that up a little more easily.

Decisions Start Early

2009-06-02T20:26:00.002-04:00

Mr. Gore, you and I both know that your inauguration is meant to celebrate you and you alone, and that you have every right to do whatever you wish during it, when the eyes of the nation will be upon you. In fact, I fully applaud your choice of Louise Gluck to compose and read an inaugural poem, and your speech seems like it’s going to be a winner---I just love that bit about a new dawn. But I think your desire to sing a seven minute, nineteenth century a cappella bayou spiritual about death’s e’er encroaching hand might send out a message that’s not so easily grasped or accepted by either the party’s central base or the fringe voter who came through for you in November. I especially want to examine the lyrics ‘Oh Reaper, you been with me since I was born / I seen your face in every storm / now don’t you be takin’ me befo’ my time done come / Let me sit right he’ah and beat on my lonely drum’, which, when delivered in the soulful, unaccompanied way you intend, crouched down on one knee with hands clasped and sweating as if you’ve just spent your entire life toiling on a primitive shrimp boat, may just come off as…I don’t know, odd somehow.

So here’s what I suggest: we revert back to your original plan of you standing at the microphone in front of one hundred thousand onlookers and going through your childhood baseball card collection piece by piece. I know it came off somewhat awkward at the Democratic National Convention, but remember, this is going to be a daytime audience more open to something conceptual. One twist we could add, though it’s kind of short notice, is that we could have you guess at each card’s actual dollar worth, and then have an expert standing beside you telling you if you had guessed too high or too low. Another option, and I’m just throwing this out there, is that we get some of the boys from the House Committee on Anti-Terrorism and do some of those “If Copernicus Were Alive Today” skits that had us busting up over lunch with the ambassador from Ghana.

So, okay, there you have some options and we can go over everything tonight after Dexter. Unless you were planning on going to bed at 7 again, Mr. Gore. I know it seems better than being “totally bored,” but can you at least stay up till 8 once in a while, just for show?

Mutually Assured HandiWipes

2009-05-29T08:38:00.003-04:00

Sir, I’m not quite sure how to explain this to you….maybe it’s just better to look at the satellite photographs for yourself. Do you see right here below the treeline….it’s tough to make out, but we have confirmation from the ground that what we’re looking at is a roast beef sandwich twenty feet high and thirty-two feet wide. Which can only mean one thing: Arby’s penetrated our cover sometime last year, got a look at the giant fish stick, and fired this damn project up in one hell of a hurry. What we have to determine somehow, maybe with lower fly-overs of the area, is if the roast beef sandwich is just a deterrent like our giant fish stick, or if they intend to put it into operation somehow.

I want to take this opportunity to apologize for ever even drawing up the plans for the giant fish stick in the first place, and most of all for suggesting, insanely, that we just drop it on the lawn outside of our corporate headquarters as a “warning” to other fast food companies. Again, I’m not sure how this “warning” was supposed to develop into an actual action plan of some sort; I just thought it was time that Long John Silver’s put the industry on alert that we were, you know, not to be trifled with. And I believe I have re-iterated many times that I wasn’t certain how the giant fish stick would keep in this climate, or what possible negative effects it might have on customer perceptions. I was in way over my head; I see that now.

But back to the matter at hand. What does this mammoth roast beef sandwich mean? Just looking at it gives me chills. Considering that it cost us $40 million to make the fish stick, we’ve got to assume Arby’s spent twice as much on this thing. They spend that much constructing a towering sandwich at the same time they’re laying off five percent of the workforce….I don’t know, it just seems a little frightening. Sometimes I think what is written in prophecy might be coming true somehow.

What? Oh….well….that’s a little off-topic, but I like Paula just fine, just fine. Good worker, very pleasant. As a woman? Um….I really think we should be focusing on other things right now, especially what is written in prophecy, but yes, I guess she is quite attractive.

Really? She said that about me? She’s really okay with all the Grease collectibles? She understands that I can love them and only them until the mountains crumble into the sea? Wow. That chick’s got problems.

Please Pick Up an Orientation Folder at the Front Desk

2009-05-28T07:42:00.003-04:00

Right this way please, watch your step, the floor is a little sticky….there you go, sit anywhere in this row you like. How’s everything been so far? Not too horrible, right? Yeah, Hell is really not the worst place you can wind up, all things considered. Of course you’re always going to have your fainters---I think I just stepped over one---and the chronic bellyachers, but for the most part people just roll with the whole agonized acceptance thing and don’t make too much fuss.

Okay, I’m just going to staple your hands to the armrests real quick, the pain shouldn’t be too bad…there you go, and you can even still get at your straw to sip your Diet Pepsi during the show. The screening will last anywhere between six and eight months, depending on how often you fueled up your car in life. Essentially what you’re going to watch is single-camera unedited videotape of every instance since birth when you stopped for gas somewhere, or if not yourself, your family or friends while you waited in the car. Does that sound unpleasant? Yeah, it can get a little boring, I’m not going to lie to you. You don’t learn much watching yourself fill up your tank while grabbing a Caramello from the snack rack four thousand times. It’s not like there’s a musical soundtrack or anything either, it’s really just back-to-back-to-back episodes, kind of like the worst reality show you could ever dream up. But hey, this is Hell, we’re not exactly getting paid to show you The Incredibles in Ultra THX, am I right?

All right, I’m going to leave you now, you look nice and settled. Just go ahead and go to the bathroom right where you’re sitting, feel free to doze in and out, and your soda will be refilled whenever you’re within an hour or so of dying from thirst. I forget when feeding time is exactly, maybe every four days or so, so just wait for the occasional piece of hashloaf to drop from the ceiling.

Oh, I almost forgot, there’s about a month of trailers first, all for movies you had absolutely no interest in when you were alive, and the volume is going to be pretty cranked. Plus some commercials too, slipped in there in a blatantly irritating way. I’ll get out of your hair now, and when it’s all over sometime in November, I’ll come back, pry you out of your chair, and phase two of the Tortures of Hell can begin. You’ve worked retail before, right? Ever worked in a second tier museum selling tickets to a cheesy motion simulator ride involving the War of 1812? No? Well, get ready for the adventure!

Oh, and may I say, I always thought you were absolutely wonderful on that show, Mr. Newhart.

Benefits Included

2009-05-24T09:12:00.002-04:00

Though I don’t have a clock in here---ha, can you imagine them giving me a clock?---I can sense when the Magic Time is imminent. Sometimes when I think it’s about to come I start counting down the minutes and seconds in my head. That’s how much I love Magic Time!

Not that there aren’t an awful lot of good things about being in here. There’s time to think, re-evaluate. (For instance, I came up with a great idea for a romantic comedy that would be perfect for Daniel Craig!) There’s the peace and quiet, of course, and I’ll tell you this too, although it sounds kind of crazy: the total lack of a window or light bulb of any kind can get you re-acquainted with the miracle of your own human form. Sometimes in the pitch dark I just feel my hands or my head or my elbows and think “Wow, how perfectly made…someone up there sure knew what He was doing!”

The food? I actually don’t mind it at all. Sometimes you get some corn that’s almost perfectly boiled, not too overcooked or with ice in the middle, and two slices of store-brand white bread are dropped off every day a few hours before Magic Time---and I am not joshing when I tell you that once there was peanut butter on it!

But of course my time here revolves around the main event. If I had my druthers, I suppose I might go back in time to the moment when I severely injured those two guards by literally lifting the cafeteria table off the floor and hurling it at them while shouting "I'll suck your blood through a straw I stick in your grave!", but if it gets me those wondrous nine seconds every day (whether it’s morning or night, of course, I couldn’t tell you), I’ll take that deal for ninety days, no sweat.

Going back to the Daniel Craig movie, though, get this: he’d play a guy with a mascot job at a theme park, and he falls in love with a girl who’s a different one! How’s that for nutty??

Oh my God…is that the click of the latch I just heard? Oh yeah, OH YEAH, here we go….hello, Guard Simmons, how are you toda---

AAAAHHHH WHEEEEEEEE-HAAA!!! Yeah, nail me with that ice cold hose water! Flatten me against the wall with its awesome force! That’s right, get the feet! Get the feet! BINGOOOOOOOO!!!! WHAAA HOOOOOO!!!

Oh….oh man….that was a short one, but quality over quantity, I always say. Now I got it all----I’m lying in the dark in cold, soaking wet clothes, I have the rest of the day free, and I can fill in the rest of the cast list at my leisure. What’s JoBeth Williams doing these days? Any idea?

Desperadoes

2009-05-19T09:17:00.002-04:00

I say again: I’m very sorry that I snapped at you, Pinwheel. You know I’m usually a very calm person. But lately your conversation gets on this one stupid track, and I’m sorry, but I can’t take it anymore. I don’t want to hear from you about systems thinking or performance measurement or project implementation, and I don’t care about how much your Strategy Formulation professor supposedly likes you, because you are a CAT, you get me? You are a small white CAT, and NONE of this is ever going to amount to anything. So congratulations on taking out $44,000 in school loans, because I’m sure that in five years the CEO of Smith Barney is going to be thinking, “Hey, you know who we desperately need heading the Acquisitions team at our Boston branch? A small furry creature with no thumbs and no ability to communicate with humans except through a series of vague mewling sounds that only his beleaguered owner can understand.”

What? What did you just say? Oh….whoa. Whoa. Okay. I had no idea your gambling debts were that out of control. Did you just say two hundred thousand? Really? Oh, gee. Now I’m starting to get the big picture. Good Lord. I’m sorry. All right, here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to put plan C into effect. I don’t see that we have a whole lot of other choice at this point, frankly, because I owe about ninety grand to Benny Slam myself, thanks to Tiger’s inability to make a lousy nine foot putt.

I never told you about Plan C? Well, it’s pretty extreme, I have to say. Essentially we’re just going to put you in a wheelchair, throw a blanket over you, stick some sunglasses and a little cat hat on you, and I’m going to push you around town all day muttering to myself. When the dark cloak of night settles over the city, we’re going to find a clear spot between two bridges and just set up camp, and then the process will repeat itself the next day, and the next. We’ll have no identities, no paper trails. Sound good? So we’re just gonna need a wheelchair, a blanket, some sunglasses, and a little cat hat.

The long stick with the string that has feathers dangling from it? Um, no, Pinwheel, we better not take that with us. We can’t let any attachments slow us down---we have to be able to walk away the moment we sense the heat coming around the corner. Tell you what though, I think they have an online version of it, we can use the computers at the library once in a while to see what it’s up to. My book group meets there on Tuesdays anyway. I’m only into them for like ten thousand from the hockey playoffs, so they should be cool.

Danger Code: Orange

2009-05-17T07:40:00.002-04:00

What I’m proposing, Gerald, and I sense you’re ready to completely get on board with me here, is a simple system wherein we can both admit to our belief in the existence of sea monsters in our kitchen sink while sparing us the embarrassment of having to say it out loud. I’ve been working on this for quite some time---since I noticed the very first bit of greenish goo around the drain (definitely NOT liquid dish detergent, as you claim) and heard the odd slithering sounds in the middle of the night (the ones you hilariously insist are coming from residual water wash inside the pipes). Okay, follow me here and we can both unburden ourselves with an absolute minimum of shame. These are the steps I propose:

1) Below the monthly inventory we make on the dry erase board of stuff we need for the bathroom, I will today place a single blue check mark, which may or may not denote my belief in the presence of sea monsters in our kitchen sink---for all anyone knows, it’s just a single blue check mark to acknowledge that I have read the monthly inventory and approve of its contents and suggestions.

2) If I walk past the dry erase board on the morning of 5/20 and see a twin blue check mark beside the one I made, I will take it to mean that you have either joined me in your belief in the sea monsters or are merely confirming the accuracy of the bathroom supplies list---again, neither one of us has come forward directly about the sea monsters, protecting us from public and private ridicule, especially from Jeffrey and Sethmadesh, who I know will never join us in our concern over this matter, because they’re living in a dream world.

3) I shall circle those check marks in yellow. If that yellow circle has not been erased by the evening of 5/25, I will know that you indeed truly share my belief that we are facing an imminent sea monster crisis here in our very own home, and we will take steps accordingly to deal with this issue head-on instead of cowering from it.

If you have any procedural questions or need more information about this threat, which I am aware you are still somewhat hesitant to embrace, feel free to contact me either in my room or via email. We have a sea monster problem in our sink, Gerald; let’s deal with it before we wake up one morning inside the belly of a serpent the size of Yankee Stadium.

Thank you. As a side note, I will be tardy with the rent once again this month; not my fault, as my daily medications now include a very expensive tonic called Root of Primal Presence, which also accounts for the stench of radishes currently pervading the rec room. Be not alarmed!

Let Go and Slap It!

2009-03-03T21:17:00.004-05:00

'Bitterness' is not the word, okay? What I'm talking about is simple unfairness. How is it fair that the IRREGULAR sticker gets slapped on me but wasn't slapped on Box 4489D13, which actually had the word CHEERIOS printed on it upside down, for God's sake? So then here I go, off onto the Burkersville truck instead of Channel Heights and right onto the shelf at Dollar Bee. And let me tell ya, there ain't no coming back from the IRREGULAR sticker and the shelf at the Burkersville Dollar Bee. You want me to tell you how many months my father sat here before someone finally threw him into the dumpster out behind Old Country Buffet? Three. Three months. I swore I'd never wind up like my old man, but damn, life is vicious.

But you know what? I can rise above this. I've been listening to these self-affirmation tapes, LET GO AND SLAP IT! This dude has a 10-step program where at the end of it you can pretty much let go of anything and slap whatever's standing in front of you. First he gets you to slap small stuff, like a lamp or a jar of pickles, and then you work your way up to human beings, and then if you can achieve even higher liberation you get to slap the sides of buildings and double-decker buses and stuff like that. So I'm just going to sit right here and wear my IRREGULAR sticker and let it go and slap the can of rusty peaches beside me, then write down what I felt in my LET GO AND SLAP IT! workbook.

I wonder how much they're charging for the supposedly "regular" boxes of Cheerios at the Channel Heights Whole Foods. Like $4.19, probably. Yeah, good luck with that. For one lousy dollar I'll give you as much net weight as any box they got, and if I have a few wolf spiders in me because of the gaping hole in my side, well, I am as God made me, bub.

Don't Work to Live---Live to Work.

2008-05-22T17:36:00.001-04:00

Welcome, everyone, to the meeting. The purpose of it is basically to announce our new corporate structure. Yes, it’s true, we’ll be dividing the company in half effective June 7. While we at Russell Stover have prided ourselves on making and selling the finest chocolates in the world, delighting in the smiles of young and old alike as our traditional samplers as well as our gourmet line continue to prosper, market forces have now made us divert half our operating budget to the breeding and training of cadaver-sniffing dogs. We hope you’ll support our decision and help to train these cadaver-sniffing dogs with just as much zeal and expertise as you’ve put into making quality Russell Stover chocolates---those of you who will be moved to the cadaver-sniffing dog division, that is. Now, here’s the fun part: we’re not going to tell everyone till Monday which department you’ll find yourself in! We thought it might give everyone a morale boost to come in next week with a sense of anticipation and uncertainty over which job you’ll be devoting yourself to for the remainder of your career here---the job with the chocolates or the job with the cadaver-sniffing dogs. We also won’t be separating the divisions in the office, so you may well sit next to someone doing the opposite of what you’re doing, nor will we be separating the two production floors, because frankly, the budget will not quite allow us to do so. Thanks for everything you do, people, and have a great, safe weekend. On Monday you’ll be coming to work at a new Russell Stover! And again, if anyone has any good ideas for a new company tagline, one that touches upon both aspects of our new dual mission of making and selling chocolates and breeding and training cadaver-sniffing dogs, by all means swing them by my office high on the seventieth floor, a full fifty-seven floors above the next highest person in the company. Oh yeah, let me tell ya, that never stops being sweet.

A Line in the Sand

2008-05-19T19:51:00.002-04:00

Wow, you know what? This feels kind of good. It kind of feels like when you come out of the ocean after a long swim, or when you get laid off from a job you didn’t want anyway and you’re looking at a long summer of unemployment checks. Thank you, PowerPoint Hamlet---thank you for making it official that I’ve seen the last play of my life. Yes, PowerPoint Hamlet has pretty much cut all my ties with live theater. For years I had been afraid to make the decision myself, but yep, PowerPoint Hamlet has taken care of everything.

And now, I want to help you make the same leap. You know you can do it and you know you want to. It doesn’t take PowerPoint Hamlet to set you free of your imaginary obligations to live theater. Nobody wants to see a play just like nobody wants to go to the Smithsonian. The thing is, you can break free. Really, do you want to have to sit through PowerPoint Hamlet to close the books on your disinterest in this particular aspect of culture? Just get up tomorrow, look in the mirror, man up, and say it proud: “I will never again attend any event in which actors perform a stage production of any length or genre.” Then just see how the day looks to you after that. Tell me seriously you don’t think you’ll suddenly have more energy, more optimism, and more self-esteem.

Of course, there are those who would say that PowerPoint Hamlet had its moments. I mean, if that story must be presented in PowerPoint format, I guess I’d admit that it couldn’t be done much better. When the slide came up showing Ophelia weeping, sure, I was moved. Also I like the fact that the whole thing was put on inside a Burger King. The ability to just get up once in a while and refill your Dr. Pepper right in the middle of everything with no guilt or shame---I don’t know, it definitely added a welcome twist. The Dr. Pepper was a little on the watery side though. Ever since the company was bought by the Church of Scientology, it’s like they put in a non-carbonation rule or something. I am not looking forward to seeing what they’re gonna do to the Maple Leafs.

Suggested Donation: $2

2008-05-17T08:58:00.002-04:00

I’m sorry, what did you just ask me? “What is this place?” Okay, let me answer that question for you, toots. The Spannacher-Wesley Museum is what it is. Is that good enough for you? I know you and your pot-bellied hubby only came in here because it’s halfway between the gallery district and the restaurant district and you just want fifteen minutes of air conditioning, so now that you’re officially inside the publicly funded Spannacher-Wesley Museum, here’s the deal: you’re going to walk around a little, look at some old stuff under glass, and get the gist of both Spannacher and Wesley and their minimal significance to this one-horse town. Then, by God, there’s going to be a quiz, because I am not sitting here beside the tastefully painted oak front door to cure my baldness. Just try to get past me on your way out without being able to cough up a little hard information about Spannacher and Wesley. Your Sunday museum-tour dream of drifting by ninety percent of the exhibits with your sandals making pleasant little creaks on the wooden floor and leaving with an awkward smile for the guy at the desk on your way to Ben and Jerry’s has just been body-slammed, sis. You’re going to learn, by God. You might as well have the names Spannacher and Wesley tattooed on your spindly biceps as soon as you get out of here, they will be that ingrained in you, and don’t be surprised if you can’t get the oil-painted mug of Johnathan Switherford Shea out of your head for the rest of your life either, whoever the hell that is. This is a MUSEUM OF LOCAL HISTORY, it’s not the last few minutes of Two and a Half Men you kill off before something decent comes on, and you will USE IT TO ENRICH YOUR CULTURAL KNOWLEDGE. And guess what? Just in case you slack off or decide you might be able to juke left at the entrance to the Captain John S. Tilden Room and slip out the window in the bathroom, I’ll be shadowing you today since there’s nobody else here to marvel in the richness that was Spannacher, Wesley, and even the esteemed barrister Thorvald D. Meeks, who did something in 1871 involving a letter to some queen. Which queen? Oh, trust me, you’ll know which one before I let you go, you gawking yuppies. Now get cracking. Oh, did I mention that because I don’t care for your attitude, I’ll be whispering the words “Spannacher Wesley Spannacher Wesley Spannacher Wesley” in your ear for the duration of your hellish stay? Did I mention that? Or that I’ll be sending you the security tapes of your visit so you can replay this bountiful experience again and again in soundless black and white for your disinterested grandchildren, the last names of whom I’m sure all share the same first letter—K, right? Is it K? Is there a Kayla involved? Don’t lie to me. DON’T LIE TO ME. Just move. Move! The tour starts with this faded map of Wisconsin on the wall. Ooooh, look at the faded map! Press your noses right up against it. That’s the smell of your afternoon disappearing, sports fans.

The Tactician

2008-05-13T18:38:00.003-04:00

You look beat, Tom. That's okay, how's your arm feel? A little tired? Okay. Look, I asked you to give Jeter a couple of pitches way off the plate just to buy you some time. I have a plan, see, because I thought we might find ourselves in this situation, runners at the corners, nobody out, tie game, all but a certain loss. Now I just need you to stand here talking to me just a little longer, just keep talking like we're discussing baseball. Because at exactly 10:46, there's a seventy-thirty chance that there's going to be ten million fire ants rampaging across this diamond. That's right---ten million. That's the plan. We're going to break this thing up bigtime and regroup for an hour, two hours, however long it takes to clear the fire ants off the field.

Well, yeah, I say there's a seventy-thirty chance because I've worked with this guy before, the guy who's setting this up, and I'm not totally sure he understood my instructions because of the language gap. But I'm reasonably confident that all our problems will be temporarily solved at exactly 10:46. So like I said, just keep talking. Say anything, it doesn't matter.

Oh hell, here comes the umpire. Just one minute left! Can you sort of wince a little and stretch like your arm's bothering you? If you could do it so that he thinks you need a couple of warmup tosses, that would be perfect....oh yes, hello Sherwood, I was just leaving, we're just about done here, Tom felt something give a little in his shoulder...I'll be off the mound in fifteen seconds tops. Thanks, Sherwood. Good game, good game.

Okay, okay, here it comes, Tom....at the first sign of the ants you should probably run like hell, all right? I paid for the fastest ones they ship from Uganda.

And....there it is, 10:46. Do you see anything out in right center? Nothing? The wall's not opening, is it? Hold on, just wait....nope. Nope, nothing doing. Damn.

Hmmm. Let's give it another five seconds or so, yes? See if there's movement.

Ugh. No. I see no movement of any kind. I said 10:46, right? Yeah, on that point I know I got everything right. Shoot.

Well, I guess the communication just wasn't there this time around. That makes me a little angry, I have to say. So okay, you'll pitch on then. Sorry, that's my fault.

Wait, I think I see---no, that's not the fire ants. My mistake.

All right, so....I'm going to head back to the dugout now. Feel good? Just don't walk A-Rod, go right at him, I think. But we definitely will do the fire ant thing at some point, definitely. I just need to get on the same page with my guy. The language gap, like I said. It's tough sometimes.

Later, Tom. Go get 'em!

Ugh, Everywhere You Go in This City....

2008-05-11T17:49:00.004-04:00

Hello sir, good afternoon, can I ask you something....okay, have a nice day sir. Enjoy the game.

Hi there, miss, can I ask you a question, could you---all right, enjoy the game, miss.

Sir? Sir? Can I---have a good day, sir.

Hi, hi there, how are you, can I ask you a question, sir? Would it be possible---all right.

Ma'am, hello, can I ask you something, can you do me a favor? Hi, thanks for stopping....um, if you wouldn't mind, as you can see I'm just a common variety garden snake, kind of stuck here on the ground, but I was wondering if you could pick me up and throw me into the air toward the top of that light pole there, way up there, I can't quite make it all the way up without slipping all the way down, and if I could get up there and dangle for a while, then I could wait for just the right person to come walking along toward Gate 2 and I could drop through the air and give them the biggest shock of their lives, and I could open my mouth as I fell so if they were looking up because a friend of theirs said "Hey man, a snake which may or may not be poisonous is falling down on you from that light pole as if released from the heavens as an angry curse from God!" then they would crane their neck and see my mouth open and coming right at them and that would be the best possible fun I can imagine at the moment. But I really can't make it to the top of the pole by myself, so if you could just pick me up and give me one huge hurl, I'll try to grab hold up there. It might take a few tries, actually. Please, I slithered all the way from the woods at the edge of the season ticket holders' parking lot and I would really appreciate any help you can give me. Okay, so obviously you're going to have to put down all that stuff in your hands....go ahead, put it all down, all that crap, it'll be fine on the pavement...you know, maybe if we got that big burly guy over there to help out....why don't you go ahead and see if you can get his attention....go ahead, don't be shy, just give him a shout. Yeah, put the soda down too, honey, you can't be doing this and slurping Pepsi at the same time, okay?

Hey, where are you going? It'll only take a few seconds! It's going to work! Um....okay. Okay, no problem. Enjoy the game, ma'am. That's okay. That's fine.

Hi, sir, can you stop a minute so I can ask you---all right. No problem. Sorry to bother you. And good luck rooting for your sucky Pirates, by the way. Oh hey, I almost forgot, 1979 called just to say it won't be able to send those World Series rings forward through time to this current bunch of losers. 1979 is really sorry. Yeah, that's right, I do have an attitude problem. Hisssssss! Hisssssssssssssss, you fat idiot!!

The Schism

2008-05-10T07:47:00.005-04:00

Listen to what I'm saying to you now: there are no good options here, but the longer this whole mess drags out, the worse it's going to be for both of you. The only thing you can do here is separate yourself entirely no matter how hard it is for you---otherwise you're both going down. Is that what you want? I didn't think so. So here's the plan as I see it: first, you get yourself off the sandwich somehow by midnight tomorrow before the Monday news cycle rolls around and the press is beating down your door. It can be done, it's been done before. Second, you make a statement that you've known jelly for years and you have the utmost respect for what it's done in the past, but you can no longer stand by it in the face of what's transpired. Third, you take a year off in which no one sees you, hears from you, or even remembers what peanut butter is. And then, when no one associates you anymore with this fiasco, we get to work on finding you a new sandwich to get in on. None of this is going to be pleasant, but good Lord, maybe you could have seen a little of this coming. And by the way, when I say you have to get off the sandwich, I really mean it; leave absolutely no trace of yourself on that Wonder bread. We can't give CNN or Fox any reason to go back to it and start in with more questions.

Now, just between you and me, what happened there, for God's sake? I mean, how does something so good go so bad so fast? On Tuesday you're in a third grader's lunch bag causing no one any harm and by Friday you have the governor of New Mexico condemning both of you on 60 Minutes? How many times do---whoa whoa whoa, don't you pick up that cell phone if that's jelly calling. DON'T YOU PICK UP THAT CELL PHONE.

Fine, do what you want, I've lost interest. I'm going to sit back in my chair and dream about my ark. That's right, you've all pushed me to the point where I just sit here sometimes and fantasize about getting in a nice big wooden ark and sailing away. No animals involved, just me puttering around an ark the length of six football fields all day, floating on the open sea. This is what you've driven me to. Ark fantasies. Happy now?

Earth Day? Nah, Just Not My Thing.

2008-05-08T20:18:00.002-04:00

Hi everybody! This week the blog is giving in to the do-gooder vibe that’s currently sweeping the country by announcing a pledge drive to raise awareness of the slowly approaching maniac who even now has gotten halfway down my bedroom hallway and intends to kick my door in and strangle me with a length of copper wire! Yes, the maniac---well, not so much a maniac as just some really angry dude whose wife I slept with---is intent on seeing me dead, and only by really looking long and hard at the issue of my imminent murder and reaching into your heart for empathy and your pockets for a donation do I have any hope of overcoming this tragic situation. From now through the next minute and a half, by which time I expect to hear the crash of a heavy boot which will announce the last seconds of my life on this earth, I urge you to visit my web site and donate freely to the cause of me leaping out the window and fleeing into the night. Donations of food, water, and bus tickets are also acceptable, but what I’m really looking to do tonight is educate. Ever since I myself became aware of Reggie Kranepool’s desire to kill me (announced loudly as he broke into my living room five minutes ago), I have burned with the desire to amass an army of people who feel as deeply about the cause of my safe escape from my bedroom as I do. Are you a person who wants to look outside himself and take on this challenge, even for as little as $5? Visit the site, read about my plight, sign the guest book, patronize my loyal sponsor Nabisco, and consider yourself an informed citizen. Can you do that for a brother?

Another Day on the Stoop

2008-05-06T19:17:00.004-04:00

Go ahead and say it. I know what you’re thinking. Yeah, I’m not a “good” blues guy. I have “failed” in my attempt to be a blues guy. I seem to have the entire package, yeah---I’m blind, jaded, beaten down, black, scarred inside, poor, from East St. Louis, play blues guitar, and write blues lyrics. But because I spend all my time sitting on the steps of my building eating M & Ms instead of singing the blues, I’m an “inadequate” blues guy. You think I don’t know it? You think I don’t feel that sense of failure with every unbelievably delicious mouthful of M & Ms I take from the 64 ounce bag? Because let me tell ya, if these damn M & Ms were only five percent less fantastic, I’d be on stage with the greats night after night. But have you ever seriously eaten one of these things? Ever had a mouth so crammed with them that you can’t even smile even as you tremble at the anticipation of chewing up all that rich, crunchy chocolate? Well, maybe you have. All I can say in my defense is, I’ve made my choice. I’d just rather eat the M & Ms than use these teeth and gums to sing of loss and redemption, and I prefer that my hands play not the chords of loneliness but the sweet rhythms of the greatest snack food ever put on God’s green earth by the Mars Corporation of America. And I can’t deny that in between long, lazy summer bouts with the 64 ounce bag, I enjoy watching and studying the films of Whit Stillman, whose gentle, witty character studies of young white preppies in love appeal to me for no reason I really understand. And while we’re at it, sure, I do work full-time as an IT specialist for Oracle, specializing in server analysis and e-commerce solutions. I guess you’re gonna throw that in my blind, jaded, beaten down, black, scarred inside, poor, East St. Louis face too. Well, tell you what, I’m just not interested in the criticism anymore. I’m gonna sit right here and eat my usual pair of 64 ounce bags of M & Ms today just like I do everyday. I wish you all the best at the Heartbreak Club tonight watching Ten Pennies McGee, Five Nickels Richardson, and Dirt-Diggin’ Donnie “Dinkie Dawg” DuRoi do their thing. They’re fine fellas, I ain’t denyin’ it, it’s just that I’m more partial to sharing this evening with my good friend Roger Federer. He’s due by here any minute now, so why don’t you amscray, son. And take your political flunkies and your Secret Service and your crowd of reporters with you, if you don’t mind. I’ll be voting for Mr. McCain, thank you very much. Good day to you!

Perhaps We Just Need More Time Together

2008-05-04T18:56:00.003-04:00

Please, Doctor Frankenstein, please, I understand that this is important to you----and I want to try to help you. I have grasped the fact that there is a choice to be made, and made by 5 p.m., but please, you certainly must know that I am not in full possession of my faculties, having just been created by your hand. It’s only been seven hours since I awoke on the operating table and experienced life for the first time. As if the awe of the deluge of sights, sounds, sensations, and words hasn’t been overwhelming enough, I am also in a great amount of physical pain and am having some difficulty making the mental connections which I am positive my new mind will take for granted soon enough. Now then, once again, for the benefit of my newly minted intellect: Comcast only offers the Fox Soccer Channel or Setanta Sports as part of the sign-up special which ends today, is that correct? And as a member of the household, I will be expected to pay for half the cable bill, and so I must approve or reject the package? All right, then, doctor, yes, I will attempt to make this decision, although the spikes of agony coursing through my forehead and my spine, accompanied by some substantial internal bleeding inside my left leg from the many bolts of lightning which were so recently sent through the body you sewed together piecemeal, are clouding the reason which you must surely recognize is still in its infancy. Please tell me, if you will, which channel offers the better coverage of Italy’s Serie A league and the German Bundesliga? For if it’s about even----oh, please, doctor, I beg you, let me at least lie on my back, for it is perhaps slightly less painful to do so---then my vote is for Setanta. But, as I have stated earlier, I truly wish that your months of preparation for this immense moment of spontaneous biological creation had allowed for a couple of days of rest for me before being required to strain myself with such intellectual tasks; the very syllables you speak are causing my eardrums to throb excruciatingly, and to even focus my damaged eyes on the brochure before me makes them redden and itch like the bite of a thousand spiders, if I can even keep the left one from falling out. No, no, there’s no need to apologize; I know that the timing cannot be avoided lest the 20% off coupon mailed to the castle expire. Just, you know, for next time, go easy.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa---I don’t see the Golf Channel checked off anywhere on this package. Go ahead and tell me that’s just an embarrassing oversight and we can get on with our lives. Because if we’re not getting the Golf Channel, I assure you that I will unscrew my own head and throw my brain at you. I may be new to this world, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know it totally belongs to Tiger and the rest of us are just in the way.

Take Me Out to the...Thingy, You Know, the What's-it

2008-03-19T21:07:00.002-04:00

Ah, baseball season is here! I know most people will tell you their favorite thing about it is the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, sitting in the bleachers with a Coke on a hot summer day…not me, though. For me, it’s always been about that magical moment exactly thirty minutes after the final pitch of a night game. The sights and sounds of the thirty minute mark after the contest has ended are what renew my interest in the grand old game each and every spring. Ah, rising from my seat when the PA system simply cuts off “Ring of Fire” or "Rock the Casbah" halfway through, the traditional sign that the management appreciates everyone coming and all, but the teams are long gone and they want everyone out of there right now….waving goodnight to a random member of the grounds crew as he stands beside second base with arms crossed, frowning at my gesture of goodwill…..walking into the echoing stillness of the men’s room behind three bloated Hell’s Angels and seeing the haunted face of the sixty-seven year old Mexican janitor as he starts going from stall to stall to see the surprises that await….the skinny, bored teenager counting out his register at the hot dog concession while his balding manager empties the remains of the ketchup dispensers into the master tub, huffing and puffing from sheer obesity as he does so….the confused looks of a pair of skanky redneck twins still wandering through the concourse trying to figure out where their ride went….moving beyond the gates into the chilly night, every fifth step falling squarely on a sticky Coors stain or cotton candy wrapper, and joining eighty-five other people in their zombified shuffle toward Tuesday's last subway run….getting besieged by the plaintive pitches of moon-faced panhandlers anxious to score a few last quarters before disappearing back into the all-too-nearby slums…..the vacant gaze of the short freckled woman with the huge butt selling cheap novelty helmets sporting logos six years out of date, practically molded to her deck chair on the sidewalk and hoping there’s one last kid whiny enough to sucker Dad into coughing up twelve dollars for a fifty cent piece of plastic….seeing a group of drunk college sophomores catcalling a good-looking girl across the parking lot, then switching gears by picking a verbal fight with some dude they spot in a Red Sox cap….cramming myself in the train beside an eight year old kid whose pre-game optimism has turned into boredom, fatigue, and regret that he wore his stupid mitt in the infantile hopes of catching a foul ball….listening to the pathetic stories of past athletic prowess told by some forty year old loser trying to convince his buddy that he could have avoided a life in the public works department and made the pros had it not been for his bum knee (“I wasn’t a singles hitter either, man, I was all about power”)….stepping through my front door at 11:30 and staying up for another half hour to watch the highlights of the game on channel 9---two minutes of free, concise action as opposed to the four hour slog I just paid $35 for….and then putting my head on the pillow knowing that it was just one game of one hundred and sixty-two, about as meaningful as the single chip of salt that fell onto the kitchen floor when I removed a cold hard pretzel from my jacket and couldn’t figure out why I decided to put it there after I realized upon the first bite that it was totally inedible. I like the Brewers’ chances this year, how about you?

Give Us a Name!

2008-03-17T21:51:00.000-04:00

Mr. Goldblum, I am going to have one of our aides turn off your microphone for just a moment because there’s something I want to say to you before you go any further. I have let you speak for five uninterrupted minutes and I have allowed you to insult both myself and many of my Senate colleagues who are so graciously dedicating their valuable time and resources to helping this commission achieve its ultimate goal. And I tell you now that I cannot sit here and let you continue to defame our purpose and our very reputations. You might not understand the gravity of what we’re trying to do in this public hearing, but I assure you, sir, that the American people very much do. The Celebs Without Makeup Commission will go on with or without your presence, so I want you to decide here and now whether you want to continue your protests about our so-called irrelevance or help us in our mission. Despite your beliefs, the public has a God-given right to identify which A-list stars still look hot without the aid of appearance-altering cosmetics and which simply do not cut the mustard without their daily morning touchup. I took an oath at the beginning of these hearings to uphold the truth and the integrity of each day’s proceedings, and I am standing by that oath. Do you, sir, likewise have the integrity to come forward and identify the celebs which you know for a fact need the extra layer of gloss that only a Hollywood pro can apply in order to look their sexiest for cameras both cinematic and paparazzi-owned? Or will you and your like dare to obstruct us in our work, as you did when we called you to appear before the Feinstein Commission on Tinseltown’s Hottest Beach Bodies? I for one would like to hear you say openly that you truly do not care what our findings are, so that once and for all America will know just who NOT to turn to for insider information about these delicate and sensitive topics. You have wasted enough of our time, sir. You may be an accomplished actor, but today you are fooling no one about your very dubious loyalties.

Now then, let us go back to the facts I was trying to establish before your needless interruption. Going back to January nineteenth….you said you were “unable to exactly recall” at which angle you were standing to Ms. Locklear at the backstage party for the People’s Choice Award winners. Can you please, using the pointer before you, clarify your entrance point into the room, and tell us precisely when you first heard Mr. Romano make the comment that Ms. Locklear seemed “tired” and looked like “she’d had some work done recently”?

Conference Room 3B Is Occupied

2008-03-11T21:35:00.002-04:00

Gentlemen, first let me say welcome to you all, and thank you for coming from all over the fifty states to participate in our annual roundtable discussion. Let me jump right into the heart of matter, if I may: in the year 2007, our organization spent four hundred and twelve thousand dollars on designing and enacting plans to assassinate Eli Wallach. Nevertheless, Mr. Wallach continues to live and even thrive, appearing in such recent films as Mystic River and The Holiday. From June to December alone, we carried out three separate assassination plans, all failures, causing upwards of one million dollars in property damage and two minor injuries to neighborhood cats. This organization's membership has grown from seven to nineteen individuals, all focused on the sole task of eliminating Eli Wallach from the human population, and as this PowerPoint slide displays so damningly, our pursuit of our goal is simply not financially scalable. So what I propose, gentlemen, is simply this: given the fact that Mr. Wallach is, like, ninety, why don't we adopt for the first quarter of this year a different, less aggressive approach, and just sort of let things run their course, if you know what I mean. What I'm saying is, and I don't mean to be indelicate, is that, you know, he's kind of old. So basically, if we just stand down and re-distribute our resources a little and keep an eye on the situation, time might just...ah, how do I put this....time might take care of what we have not. Am I being terrible with this suggestion? I'm sorry if it sounds crass. Really what it comes down to is, either we can downsize and create a lot of ill will, or we can....um....well, step back and see if the natural physical processes which dictate a man's lifespan bring about the results we desire sooner rather than later.

Oh God, I can see you all totally hate me. I'm sorry, I know I'm overly blunt sometimes. I know I lack tact. I'll sit down now. Forget I ever said anything. Let me just squeeze one last thing in here: if we shaved just thirty dollars from the budget, we could afford the new edition of Scene It for use during break time at these all-day meetings. It's really cool, it comes with a DVD that you play along with, and the more you know about movies, the more---okay, yes, let's move on and let someone else speak. You're right, you're right, maybe we just need to borrow some more money, get a few more investors in here and pitch an all-out assault on Mr. Wallach for 2008. I was just thinking out loud, like I always do. Bagels and muffins are in the back of the room, by the way, so don't be shy, don't be shy. That means you too, Mr. Asner---just eat all you take, if you don't mind.

Still, the Savings, the Savings!

2008-03-09T20:43:00.002-04:00

Okay, here it is, right here….pretty much the last stop on the employee tour, I guess you’d call it. Probably not as impressive as you thought, right? Certainly not much to look at, but trust me, you want to keep the customers away from here if you ever want them to come back to Target. Basically the area of the aisle that’s haunted is this part right here, the shelves from the handtowels endcap down to where the lotion dispensers end. So it’s basically just the five feet, and the haunting is definitely localized to this part, but the last thing I want to do is give you the impression that this is anything but serious business. A customer coming down the aisle looking at the shower curtains and Epsom salts will be fine, but if they turn to their right and reach for, say, this soap dish---I’m not going to touch it, God no; just look where my finger is pointing---they could be in for a lifetime of nightmares, let me tell you. We thought about putting up a sign, but I figured it would just create a panic. Our strategy now is to just re-stock the shelves here with low-turnover merchandise so the profit bite won’t be too bad. Important tip: if you ever need a cleanup or a price check in this part of the aisle, always ask Conchita. For some reason she’s the only one here who just doesn’t care about the horrible specter that lies within the haunted shelves. She’ll reach right over and pick up that toothbrush holder or that decorative bathroom switchplate and when the ghost suddenly materializes and starts ranting and raving about killing us all, she’ll just shake her head and cuss under her breath in Spanish and keep on mopping. The customers, though---no matter how steely or unflappable they seem, do your damnedest to steer them clear, okay? Even people who have no particular knowledge of Walter Payton’s storied career in professional football claim they just can’t get the awful image of his vengeful ghost’s cruelly laughing face out of their minds. The last thing this store needs is a lawsuit, what with the Sears in Forestville Plaza getting re-modeled and a Kohl’s coming in not four miles away.

So that’s pretty much it in a nutshell. Any questions about the break room? I saw you admiring the vending machine. If you think you only imagined the Oreo Cakesters that are in there, well, believe your eyes, pal. Just one of the little perks you can expect with perfect attendance and a refusal to entertain any ridiculous union talk. Those Cakesters, man, I swear, they’re like the Godfather II of snack foods. No, wait----I guess Double Stufs were Godfather II. The Cakesters would be Godfather III without the retarded parts where the women were on the screen.

Hard Law

2008-03-07T11:47:00.003-05:00

From: Jim Rhodes, Assistant District Attorney, State of New York
To: Arthur Bloomsbury, Chief Prosecutor, State of New York

Hi Arthur,

The ballistics results came back this morning, and the fact that they’re so damn convincing makes what we have to face all the more aggravating. The rounds perfectly match up with the weapon recovered from the crime scene, and our CSI man in Atlanta says that the pattern of the blood spray on the sofa even suggests that your theory of the distance the perps stood from the victims is correct. Plus we have two more witnesses ready to come forward about how the victims were involved for years in two separate crime rings involved in illegal media distribution and widespread copyright violations---the rumors of a music piracy “mill” are more than just rumors after all. When all these things are taken into consideration, it’s a total slam dunk case against the defendants….but we’re left with the incontrovertible fact that although they had a strong motive to kill and there’s a mountain of crime scene evidence and eyewitness testimony stacked against them, the Monkees have repeatedly stated in their theme song that they are simply too busy singing to bring anybody down. This takes away opportunity and establishes too strong an alibi to go up against; those lyrics are sung before each and every episode of the show, so a jury will simply never believe otherwise. The long and the short of it is, they may be monkeying around, but in the face of their repeated insistence that they just couldn’t possibly have time to commit these heinous murders, I see no choice but to recommend we drop the case against them. I'm sorry.

The good news is, I hear that the new thing in law enforcement is to charge some impoverished black dude with any unsolved crime on the books, so how about we give that a whirl?

See you Monday!
Jim

Getting Better With Age

2008-03-05T18:51:00.002-05:00

The 2008 Outer Limits Award for Most Outer-Limits-ish Final Speech By a Character On an Old Outer Limits Episode have been announced! The runners-up were:

“It was our own hubris, Jim, our own hubris as human beings, that led us to make that terrible choice---and we shall never forget the consequences!” by Military Guy #1 in The Thing With the Big Finger, 12/20/1962

“Could it be, Jim, that we were deceiving ourselves all along by looking for solutions in technology instead of mankind’s heart---that dark but yearning machine which runs not on batteries, but memories and love?” by Cliff Roberston-looking Man in Suit in Scream, My Darling, For the Earth Shall Soon Blow Up

“We thought what we were doing would make things better and bring peace to Earth---and instead we must realize that there are no shortcuts to understanding the mysterious, inscrutable ways of mankind!” by Scientist Dude #3 in The Auto-Pilot That Cared, 3/17/63

“Who among us believed that what was done could lead to such horror, when it was only beauty that we desired---but perhaps we should have realized that there were no shortcuts to understanding the mysterious, inscrutable ways of the aliens!” by Woman with Really Sixties Hair in An Eye No Alien Could Gouge, 4/21/60

And the winner is:

“It was we as humans---yes, we---who should have been responsible for hitting button A7 at the right moment. All along, it was we, not they, who held the answer. And it was not they, but we, who are ultimately liable in unlocking the keys to the ways of the unknowable. But we blew it---blew it with our damnable searching for shortcuts!” by Eight Year Old Kid on Bicycle in Going, Going, Going….Robot! 10/30/61

Thanks to all who participated---every one of you is a winner!

A Mentor Speaks

2008-03-03T20:36:00.002-05:00

Is it expensive, this thing I do? Of course it’s expensive. Excellence doesn’t come cheap in this world, and business excellence is especially costly. I figure I drop thirty grand a year on this maneuver, easy, but let me tell you, you can’t put a price on the effect. Five years ago I was just like you, clinging sadly to hopelessly outdated business tips like the one I just watched you put into practice down on the third floor. Don’t get me wrong, you aced the first part of it---that bit of insight about the #7 green streamers being no better than the #3 reds was top-flight smack talk---and you left them impressed all right, walking off like that without another word, letting them watch you go in admiration. A near-perfect execution of the classic leave-‘em-wanting-more ploy. But until you’ve walked off into a shroud of mist, you haven’t really walked off, and I don’t care how much money I have to dole out, the staff of Lidmarket Party Paper Limited is going to watch me walk off into a shroud of mist after every single meeting, hallway exchange, and water cooler encounter until the day they bury my bones beneath the Toshiba printer in the conference room. Did you see the way I walked off into a shroud of mist after I delivered those sales figures during the Zang's Confetti Zone conference call? Darla’s mouth may have been absolutely agape at my silent, confident exit, but without that wet, almost sensual mist enveloping me, I would have been just another shlump who happened to get off one good line and was only headed down the hall toward the can like everyone else. It was the mist, man, the mist. I’ve been spending Tuesday nights tinkering with the new machine I leased, trying to make it a little quieter---I’ll grant you that the whirring and clanking of the gears lessens the effect a little, and losers like Dibbit Moyes are apt to laugh if you give the slightest indication you've heard the noise. There’s also an English Moors setting on this thing which I’ve been dying to try out; I’ve had it set on Morning in San Francisco since the Pembleford Ribbons ‘n’ Bows meeting---you know, the one where Davis asked me if I was bringing the Easter collage project under budget and I totally devastated him with that Excel spreadsheet and then just turned and walked away. I could have used a little more mist that time, maybe, but people got the point and the awe factor definitely kicked in before the mist dispersed and it just got kind of moist in here. I swear to God, you haven’t disappeared with an impressive air of mystery until you’ve disappeared with an impressive air of mystery generated by the sweet, reliable engine core of the Enswirler 650. That’s right, pal, it’s the same machine they used to generate the mist for the night scenes in Troll 2. So do yourself a favor, man, throw away that Dale Carnegie book and your copy of The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People and scrape together $800 for a down payment on one of these babies. You start disappearing into, say, two shrouds of medium-density mist a week in this office, you’re looking at a VP slot within three years. Oh, I know, I know, Effective Exits Monthly claims that for the middle manager, disappearing into the strobe-lit blaring of techno music packs more business punch for the buck, but to me, that’s pure overkill. I go classy everywhere I work, man. Ask me sometime about some of the image stuff I pulled off at Arthur Treacher's. They’re still talking about me back there. Used to call me The Rubber Inferno for reasons I never quite understood, but I was known, dude. And that’s what the crazy game of business is all about.

Hey, have you heard about this NetFlix thing? What is that, anyway? They send you a movie and you have to take it to a recycling center when you’re done, right? Yeah, like I have time to drive all around Wisconsin trying to find a recycling center. God, these tree huggers tick me off. But I really do want to see season six of Falcon Crest at some point. It’s been a while, but I seem to recall some scene where some chick throws something at some dude and he has to duck. How crazy is that?

The Passion of the Carbs

2008-02-29T18:20:00.002-05:00

Thank you, Father Jentz, thank you for pulling me aside, because I agree that we should discuss this matter in private like civilized men and not disturb the pancake supper. Okay, okay, here’s why I’m perfectly entitled to partake of the offerings tonight even though I've already eaten at two previous pancake suppers for the Newly Saved in the last month: you have simply been remiss in defining the term “Newly Saved” for members of your congregation. If you recall, I first accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior on the seventeenth of January---I have it written down on this Safeway receipt right here; I remember it because I also bought Tang that day, as noted---but I had asked you to kindly rescind that acceptance because I felt ill-equipped to be saved before the long holiday weekend. Do you remember me asking you to push that back because I was going to Atlantic City? Yes, yes, and you might also recall that I was given special dispensation to attend the pancake supper before offering myself to the Lord because they were doing some spraying in my building and I was going to have to stay with my sister before going to Atlantic City and it was really the only chance I had to eat the pancakes. So we’re agreed that I was not yet fully ‘saved’ going into pancake dinner #2, right? And you’ll remember I went to that one as well because you told me I was technically newly saved since the twentieth and you forgot to print my name on the newly saved list for the January nineteenth service. Hey, your fault, not mine. And then after the second pancake dinner, you remember what happened, right? Remember we had that talk on the third of February and I said I maybe still felt more comfortable as a Druid, and then I saw you at the liquor store the next morning and I changed my mind and said I felt okay about being saved? Of course you do. So really, this is my first delicious pancake buffet supper since being “Newly Saved.” I mean, I would hate for you to think I’m just trying to scam you for free pancakes, so here’s what I’ll do, I’ll just load up my plate a couple of times and sit over there in the narthex and I won’t even talk to anyone. And then I’ll skedaddle out of here and Bam, with the last mouthful of Mrs. Swinnerton’s gynormously fantastic scrambled eggs I’ll be officially newly saved and won’t come to anymore introductory suppers and we can get cracking on this Jesus thing, because let me tell you, I am ALL about Christ from now on. I am like a piety vending machine, seriously, push any button and I’ll hook you up with some Scripture from memory. And while I have you here, let me toss something out to you: what about having different kinds of syrups for the next Newly Saved pancake supper? I've seen the collection plate when it gets passed around; we can sure as hell come up with enough scratch to get some boysenberry action in this joint. Here’s what I’m seeing: me alleviating your stress by taking over this whole deal from top to bottom, doing the organizing, printing the flyers, setting the menu, pouring the orange juice, and just generally being here every month to make sure things go off like clockwork. What do you say, J-man? Are you in or out?

Call Me Snake Eyes---I Really Don't Mind.

2008-02-27T06:12:00.004-05:00

I'll tell you, being a model at this level of the industry is absolutely exhausting, which is why I suppose it’s my longevity that I’m more proud of than anything else. It’s hard to imagine I did my first shoot at age eight, and now tomorrow I’ll be doing a shoot with my own son. And I know he’s going to be good, too. Back when I was the child on the early Battleship box, the business was different---we just wanted to do quality work, which meant following the two As: 1) Arrive on time, and 2) Appear wildly delighted that the dice and/or spinner just gave you a result favorable enough to cause you to throw your arms up in the air. That was modeling in a nutshell. Following those rules got me on the boxes of Chutes and Ladders, Stratego, and SuperSport Soccer all in the same year, and I never looked back. Nowadays, though, it’s about “attitude,” whatever that means. Over the last eleven years I’ve modeled for thirty-nine different board game boxes (including the 25th anniversary re-issue of Cops ‘n’ Robbers ‘n’ Franks ‘n’ Beans, easily the most grueling shoot of my career) and on every one I displayed the exact same expression: vapid parental pride as my hired offspring rolled a seven and became freakishly excited. Sometimes, if the photographer was adventurous, I was allowed to reach a hand out to the model playing my son or daughter and place a gentle hand on their shoulder. And that was it. That bought me a two bedroom place off Texarkana Street for me and Janey and the sweet little Ford Focus you see parked in the driveway. Now, though, all the photographers want you to be a little edgy on the boxes, a little angry. They want you to silently express dissatisfaction with society and an inner malaise that no session of Mall Madness can alleviate. Some of them are actually having the models express frustration over having landed on a bad space instead of showing glee that the game is going well and the whole family is having a wonderful time. Plus you can forget about having a genial grandparent shown on the box, sitting at the table, finally included in a family activity. The demographics have squeezed them out entirely, which is really a shame, because these shoots can get so chaotic that you really need veteran experience in the room. Where did all this cynicism come from, I wonder? Last month we took three days in the studio to do the box for Monkeys On My Sternum and the kid was told to scowl and cross his arms as he spun the spinner and I was asked to look off into the distance bitterly, which the producer claimed was a “more realistic depiction of today’s suburban disenfranchisement.” Meanwhile the little girl who is usually just told to watch appreciatively as if she’s waiting for her turn was given a cell phone and instructed to talk into it while holding her free hand over her ear to screen out the noise. And an elderly grandparent was brought in all right---but they had the woman plugged into an I.V. and sitting off in one corner in front of the TV, eyes half-open, totally unaware of her surroundings. Hey, I’m all for hyper-realism---I love the Rush Hour movies as much as the next guy---but aren’t we trying to sell a little happiness here? And please, what’s with this multi-cultural thing? Why am I, a white dude, depicted as having a family which includes a Maori girl and an Asian uncle?

I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a little angry because my three-year string of sleeping with every one of the models playing my wife came to such an abrupt end. I told you the time for the hair weave was last October. I told you.

It's the Little Things

2008-02-25T07:44:00.002-05:00

Yes, Mr. Pinkershin, yes….I admit it, I really dropped the ball on this one. If you’ve got blame to unload, my shoulders are more than willing to carry the burden in this case. However, because I know you have vision and daring, I’m going to throw something at you here, something which a less advanced intelligence might not comprehend as being a possible solution to our little problem. Ready? Okay. Fact: You told me to hire a contractor to make and install a neon sign to hang over your new clinic, a sign which was to read, simply, MOUNT HOLYGREEN URGENT CARE. Fact: The sign which was installed this morning over the entrance to the facility instead reads MOUNT HOLYGREEN URGENT CAFE. Fact: This creates a bit of a predicament. I understand perfectly that if a citizen of Milwaukee is shot, stabbed, or in dire need of appendix removal, the sign may cause him or her to lose precious seconds as they come to believe that we are not equipped to deal with their dilemma. Furthermore, it goes without saying that we cannot have young couples intending to kill time before Juno starts coming in here looking for a tall almond chai and a bagel and instead finding a waiting room full of people with bleeding feet or arrows in their eyes. But instead of firing me on the spot for having a hand in creating this awkward moment, what if there were another option---perhaps a more profitable one? Have you ever thought that medicine, while certainly an honorable calling, is somehow not as satisfying as offering a sea of hungry unpublished novelists a place to eat raspberry scones baked fresh on the premises daily? Don’t you think it’s time teenagers in the tenth grade had another place to come eat bananas and feta wraps while accessing free wireless internet? Which would you honestly rather look at all day: x-rays or lists of coffee specials printed each and every morning on my own home computer (I have Word 2007 and a truly impressive clip art database, FYI)? Is it just possible that this “titanic embarrassment” is actually Miss Opportunity in disguise? Could this situation indeed be directly analagous to the one which Mr. Martin Scorsese found himself in so many years ago when, upon completing a brilliant script called Taxi River, a gripping depiction of a single mother's determination to row across the Everglades, he found himself flummoxed when a confused printer added an errant D to the title page, thus giving the Oscar-winning director an even better idea to present to investors?

I notice that you now seem to have pounded me on the head with a large skillet or frying pan. Can I throw one more idea your way, which is to break my fall with a coat or cushion of some sort to minimize the ensuing damage to my cranium? Is there any chance before you veto this notion that I can offer you a couple of articles clipped from recent issues of Modern Medicine suggesting that this type of action can greatly alleviate the pain of such a rapid, unexpected descent to a tile surface? I’m sorry….is that a “no” or are you gesturing that you’ll get back to me as soon as you get off the phone? With you it's tough to tell sometimes.

Enguarde!

2008-02-22T12:31:00.001-05:00

Yes, yes, Count Mauvignon, I do accept the challenge you have put before me. I absolutely and unequivocably do respond to your absurd request for a duel---I say absurd because usually when such a call goes forward, it is issued by a man rather than a sniveling worm such as yourself! And so I say to you here and now, before all these good people, that we will duel at dawn in Potter’s Field, and duel to the death we shall to settle the matter with which you have offended both my honor and my intelligence! And I further add a single caveat to your most foolhardy challenge: I may need to borrow a sword from you.

Yes, Count---see how I sneer at the very expression of the word, for I doubt even the authenticity of your lineage---I happen to be short a sword at the moment, so in order to drive a silver point through your gloating chest and put an end to your odious insults for the good of mankind, I’ll have to ask if you can possibly lend me one of yours. Which one in particular interests me not at all, for I assure you that my skills with the rapier extend to even the lowliest cutlass, and I can ensure that your end comes quickly and cleanly, but yeah, if you could see your way clear to bringing an extra along when you show up tomorrow, that would truly be aces. Normally I’m not this absent-minded---despite your ridiculous pretensions to consistently denigrate my brilliance and acumen in affairs of both business and the heart---but I let Prince Favian walk off with my pearl-handled friend just the other day, and despite his oath to return said weapon after its use as a prop during his theatrical stint in Whither the Wanton Wainscot, good luck finding him. Perhaps during one of your many ale-drenched swoons through the most revolting taverns and whorehouses in Tuscany tonight, you may run into the Prince---are you not the closest of scurrilous compatriots? If you see him, please do ask my fair acquaintance to bring back the aforementioned sword so I can take your life in two battings of my eyelashes! But if you don’t see him, seriously, any chance I could bum a sword off you tomorrow, just for fifteen minutes or however long the duel lasts? I’ll even clean it. See, it’s just that if you can’t lend me one, I don’t know where I’m going to get one on such short notice. So damn your eyes, I say, and I shall see you on the morrow---and I shall see you dead in a thrice!

Oh, you know what else, I can’t be there till like ten or so. I got a part time job taking gondola reservations and my boss is kind of touchy. So there’s that too, you dundering follop! Heed my warnings and count your life’s blessings, for soon that life will come to a merciful end!

Hey, where’s everyone headed? To the puppet show? Where exactly is that? In the square? Excellent. Count Mauvignon, is it okay if I follow you so I don’t get lost?

Ancient Downtime

2008-02-20T19:04:00.002-05:00

Well, Idomeneus, you tell me then: when is it a good time to bring this topic up? Because frankly, you’ve been dodging it ever since we crossed the river Pindus. Now here we are, locked inside this gigantic wooden horse, waiting to surprise our enemies, and we’ve got a good two hours to kill and no games of chance on us. So why should we not talk about this? All I’m saying is, try to dry the flasks fully before you put them into the cupboard at night. It’s no fun picking up a flask and starting to fill it with sweet sweet wine and realizing there’s a few beads of water rolling around in there. It’s just gross somehow.

I don’t understand, how am I embarrassing you? Why is this not suitable talk for inside the Trojan Horse? I know this mission is vital to Greece’s defense. I know we’re not just out here to give Virgil something to write about. But there’s something else that’s important in this world, and that’s common courtesy. I’m fairly positive that every man in this rickety gizmo would gladly lie down and offer his spleen to the enemy rather than come home, looking forward to nothing more than a nice tankard or flagon or chalice of nectar after a hard day’s work, and see a little line of spitty-looking water dribble out when he holds the thing up to make sure there are no asps crawling around inside.

IT’S JUST NASTY, that’s why! I don’t care that all of human history is looking towards us at this moment on our day of legend. I WANT NICE DRY FLASKS IN MY HOUSE. Look, dorko, I’m paying five more drachmas in rent than you are every month, and I have to put up with your silly girlfriend staying over all the time and kicking the wall in her sleep with her big retarded foot so I can’t get some decent shuteye before a big battle, so I think I’ll just keep right on talking if you don’t mind.

Oh, sure, blame my castigations on boredom. Of course I’m bored. This is stupid. Why is everyone being so quiet? Is there a reason we can’t pass the time by playing Guess the Feared and Renowned Immortal God Who Doth Reside in the Stars Above Us By Posing Questions Twenty? I’m not in the mood to sit around listening to Diomedes’ teeth making that irritating whistling sound, I'll tell you that much. (Dude, I know we’re living a couple thousand years in the past and all, but there’s a few people here and there giving primitive dentistry a shot nowadays; you should have one of them check that out. Of course, they’re all outside where it’s sunny instead of being locked up in the dark like mushrooms.)

What? You have GOT to be kidding me. We’re not eating until AFTER the attack? Oh, thanks for telling me before I got in this glorified piñata, dillweed!

The Dreams of Youth

2008-02-18T21:06:00.001-05:00

Oh, I know it’s weird, trust me. It’s got to be one of the weirdest thoughts I’ve ever had in my sixteen years on this earth, and I know I’ve had a few doozys in my day. I mean, I just can’t keep it out of my head for some reason. I wake up in the morning just like I have every morning since school let out for the summer, ride my bike down the block, open up the shop for Mr. Pinelli, and then the thought hits me all over again, and I just can’t rid of it for the rest of the day. It doesn’t matter how many hoagies, grinders, subs, calzones, sandwiches, fries, and sodas I make that day, how busy we are, how tired I get, it’s always there: the absolute conviction that I, Sammy Rugglesfield, soon to be a junior at Tall Oats High School, will one day be forced into exile by my own heir.

Believe me, I’ve tried talking to my parents about it already. They don’t seem all that interested. Like at dinner the other night. I was happy at first because we were having sloppy joes, but then the thought hit me again, and I said out loud, “Mom, Dad, I’m not sure why, but I’ve become completely haunted by the feeling that I will one day be forced into exile by my own heir.” They just looked at me and asked me if I was keeping up with my science project for the fair, and if I wanted to dry the dishes or put them away that night (Tuesdays is Choice Night, FYI.) Then when me and Allie were at the mall on Saturday (we went to see Cloverfield and it was SO retarded), I told her at Sbarro’s that as far as I was concerned, it seemed an utter certainty that fate was to deal me the wicked blow of one day being forced into exile by my own heir, and she was like, “I thought you were going to be a veterinarian. What happened to that?”

I just can’t make anyone seem to understand how clear my destiny seems to me. My friend Casper, the one who only has one ear because of that thing that happened, kind of gets it, I think. When I told him the whole deal, he nodded and said that ever since he was seven, he just absolutely knew that in his mid-twenties he was going to be killed by a hard foul ball at a mid-season Toronto Blue Jays game. In fact, he’s already dropped out of school because he doesn’t much see the point of getting educated. He had his folks’ permission to do it, too. They’re more or less on board with his premonition. Jeez, why can’t my parents be that awesome?

So anyway, yeah. That’s what I’ve been up to, more or less. And playing a lot of Wii Bowling. Once in a while I get this odd feeling that before the summer is over, I’m going to wind up discovering someone named Miss Eliza and her blackguard of an illicit lover Johann in a compromising position during the Feast of St. Albans, whatever the heck that might be, after which I’ll mourn the loss of the two hundred guineas I lent that cad to purchase oxen in Strasbourg. Seems pretty whacked, I know, but it is what it is. You got any Pez on you?

You Talked...and the Blog Listened!

2007-11-10T07:12:00.000-05:00

We've pored over your responses to his blog and discovered that the one thing you want more than anything else is for the blog to simply cease! And so it shall for a short time while we regroup out of respect for your wishes. Yes, according to your explicitly-communicated desires, there will be nothing here at all for a brief period! Democracy works! See you in December!

Guest Blogger: A Maple Leaf in Autumn

2007-11-07T04:38:00.000-05:00

A maple leaf in autumn here with my thoughts about the ongoing presidential election. Note to the Democratic candidates: since when did it become fashionable to divert the public's attention away from the real issues facing this country in order to simply trash an opponent in the media? It seems that every----whoa, I'm sorry, just a second, let's just let this wind gust do its thing here...okay, settling, settling....very nice, okay, I'm good. But to focus on Barack Obama for a moment, it grows increasingly disturbing that---- oh, Christ, here we go, I'm sorry, let me just ride this next breeze out for a minute. Okay, tumbling, tumbling...I'm really sorry about this, it's going to be just a few more seconds. I'm sure I'll be able to focus once I brush against these last two trash cans....there we go. No big deal. Wait....Jesus, this is actually a bigger one than I thought. Ah crap, I'm going all the way across the damn street, I just know it. Drifting, drifting....I do apologize, you've got to give me maybe fifteen more seconds. All right, we are officially good to go unless I get caught in this little crosswind going by this guy's pant leg....no, I'm set. I'm set. We can go back to discussing Obama, the always over-hyped, deceptively cynical choice of HOLY GOD, WHAT JUST HAPPENED? WHY AM I TWENTY FEET IN THE AIR? WAS THAT A FREAKING TRACTOR TRAILER THAT JUST WENT BY? ISN'T THIS SUPPOSED TO BE A RESIDENTIAL STREET? WHAT THE HELL IS HE EVEN DOING HERE? BOOT UP THE TEN YEAR OLD COMPUTER YOU BOUGHT AT GOODWILL AS AN ANNIVERSARY GIFT FOR YOUR WIFE AND USE YOUR DIAL-UP MODEM TO LEARN ABOUT MAPQUEST, YOU MORON. I'm going to be a while, do you want to get back to me about this? What I need is to get wedged somewhere and I'll be able to get my thoughts together. I'm probably going to settle in that big field over there and that pretty much guarantees I'll be all over the damn place all afternoon. OKAY, I COULD DEFINITELY DO WITHOUT THE SIDESWIPING BY THE SKINNY DUDE'S BICYCLE TIRE. NEWS FLASH, ICHABOD: YOUR LITTLE BLACK PANTS DO NOT MAKE YOU LANCE ARMSTRONG, SO YOU CAN SLOW DOWN FOR THAT STOP SIGN. NOBODY MINDS THAT YOU'RE JUST SOME SOFTWARE GEEK, YOU DON'T HAVE TO TRY TO BE TOUR-DE-FRANCE-MAN ON SUNDAYS BEFORE YOU HIT WHOLE FOODS FOR PORTOBELLO MUSHROOMS AND VITAMIN WATER. AND NO, YOU WILL NOT BE MEETING ANY WOMEN THERE. YES, THEY'RE IN EVERY AISLE, BUT THEY'LL BE TALKING TO YOU WHEN EXACTLY, DINGUS?

Man, I'm in a seriously bad mood today. Trial keeps getting postponed. I just don't know what the prosecution is waiting for. Those cattle aren't getting any deader, you know what I mean?

Curious Dealings With the Feminine Kind

2007-11-03T08:44:00.000-04:00

Yeah, it’s weird. I’m not sure what keeps happening with Pippagail. The same exact episode repeated itself again on Thursday. After dinner we sat down on the sofa and I had my little speech memorized about how we seemed to be growing apart because she’s allowing the pressures of her job to stress her out and forget about what’s really important, which is the bond that the two of us share, but instead all that came out when I opened my mouth was

BITCH MAKE ME WAFFLES

I just can’t tell you why that came out and not the part about the growing apart and the job stresses and the bond. It was pretty much an exact repeat of September and the deep talk we were supposed to have about our finances, and the fact that we would have to start doing some serious budgeting in order to be able to afford that vacation to Paris we had always dreamed about. We were sitting in front of the computer and I had literally booted up the budgeting software I’d bought from Staples, and instead of saying, “Honey, I want you to take you through this so that we can better get the things we want with the money we have,” out came

BITCH MAKE ME WAFFLES

So again, I’m at a loss. This is the seventh time this has happened, and frankly, I keep getting louder and more forceful when I say to Pippagail

BITCH MAKE ME WAFFLES

I can’t help but think I’m failing somehow to move our relationship forward every time my good intentions are wiped out with my last-second departure from the pre-arranged conversation. All I have to show for my efforts are two broken noses and six nights sleeping over at my brother’s house. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Maybe I have that disease, that what-do-you-call-it, the thing where winter brings you down a little bit. Because, you know, it gets dark early and the lack of light does something. That could be what it is. Or I could eat more grapes. All I know is that I truly do not possess the inner fortitude at this time to alter my behavior through natural means. Kind of like my secret effigy-burning phase two years ago. Man, it just felt so sweet to burn an effigy when absolutely no one was looking. That feeling that I didn't need to be surrounded by others to enjoy it....it’s tough to describe. It made alcoholism seem so pedestrian somehow, you know?

A Pause for Reflection

2007-10-31T19:32:00.000-04:00

Now that I’ve broken the all-time strikeout record, yes, I do feel a sense of relief. It’s been a long, hard haul, and I’ve been out here every day in the heat and the cold, through every ache and pain, no matter what else was going on in the world. Do I see myself retiring? Well, it’s not really up to me, is it. Look, here’s the deal: I don’t pitch for records, though number 3,549 has been in the back of my mind for years. There are those who will claim that you can screen those kinds of thoughts out completely, but I don’t really believe them. And I don’t pitch for money, obviously, or fame. I pitch for a much simpler reason: because the kid who owns me keeps putting balls in my mechanical arm, setting the speed on SEMI-FAST, and then pressing ACTIVATE.

I won’t even really respond to suggestions that my record is tarnished somewhat because I’ve struck out the same kid for eleven years. The way I look at it, to strike someone out from the age of seven to eighteen is a real accomplishment. And I don’t see why it matters that he’s not very good. I mean, he pretty much knows exactly what’s coming, but I still keep blowing him away. Seriously, if he set me on CURVE more often, I’d be up to five thousand strikeouts by now. I don’t mean to sound boastful, but that’s just the way it is. And I’ll remind you that more than one hundred of my strikeouts came against the Glick kid from down the road between 1998 and 2000 when he was in his physical prime. I’ll grant you that notching eleven Ks against that elderly dude who visits from time to time hasn’t been the most amazing achievement, but it’s still honest work and it doesn’t fatigue me any less to mow down a seventy year-old. My arm has to throw according to the setting it’s on. I wouldn't even know how to let up if I wanted to.

Sure, there’s a good chance I’ll have to give up the ghost when the kid goes off to college in the fall and starts his classes at Swarthmore. Maybe I’ll add a few more strikeouts when he’s visiting during Thanksgiving or something. But like I say, it’s not about accumulating statistics; it’s always been about being the best pitcher I can be.

Nice kid. I have nothing against him. It’s always been a purely athletic rivalry. I hear he’s going to major in sociology. Yeah, there’s a good move.

When Logic Strikes

2007-10-29T20:41:00.000-04:00

Listen, listen, listen….just listen. Because you’re missing my point completely, people. Just break it down to the bare facts and you should be able to see where I’m coming from. One: we are Wilkes-Barre’s most renowned all-volunteer community theater group. That’s not immodesty; that’s a cold hard fact. The Register’s three and a half-star review of Noises Off did not write itself. Two: despite our success and the undeniable buzz over our upcoming staging of Murder on the Orient Express, subscriptions are down ten percent, from twenty to eighteen this year. Three: through an incredibly unique confluence of one-of-a-kind factors, I have been offered what I think you would all agree is an amazing price on a used, all-wooden, thirty-six foot catapult. Now, take a moment and put these three facts together, adding a dose of progressive thinking, and try to deny the immutable truth that with the writing of a single check, we would be the only community theater group in this town in possession of a working catapult. Before you open your mouths again to repeat your tired arguments, let me say again that finding a use for the catapult is not the issue at hand. First we must take action; then we can figure out how to make the catapult work for us. And don’t tell me it would have “no purpose.” I refuse to believe that six intelligent people, a group which includes a bank manager and a high school science teacher, will never be able to come up with a plan to marry a rock-sturdy catapult with the perfect maximum-cast-of-ten drama presentation. I mean, do I need to show you the picture again? Have you noted the sheer size of the thing? And it’s functional, everyone. It works. I’ve seen a video. And if it ever breaks, my brother thinks he can even fix it. So, long story short, we, The Princely Players of Wilkes-Barre, have less than twenty hours to invest no more than fifty percent of our treasury in the most extraordinary prop and/or marketing tool we will ever know. If ten o’clock tomorrow comes and I have not placed a call to the name written on the back of this matchbook with a promise of four hundred American dollars to be delivered no later than Tuesday as payment in full, there will be no tractor trailer on I-81 next week bringing us a catapult. It will simply be gone, with no opportunity ever to get it back. There is even a chance, albeit remote, that some other community theater group---perhaps a direct competitor for our fan base’s attentions----could wind up with the device in question. Instead of us using it to completely re-invent Agnes of God, the Birch Street Amateur Actors League or maybe the St. Martin’s Seniors Theatrical Society could conceivably wind up working it into Arsenic and Old Lace or even their annual winter production of The Anne Frank Story. Then where would we be, people? How stupid would we look? Again, it is immaterial at this juncture that plays of modest budgets involving catapults are rare, or that it won’t currently fit inside the building. This is why God gave the people in this room such extraordinary imaginations. We are pillars of the creative community, and as such, we will find a profitable use for this catapult which both makes for provocative theater and honors all time-tested stage traditions. On this issue, I see no more room for debate. Now then, who here has access to a phone so we can get this ball rolling?

Eh, It Happens.

2007-10-25T22:25:00.000-04:00

TO: Employees of Google – Production Department
FROM: Terence M., VP of Quality Control
SUBJECT: bug

To everyone involved in the ongoing bug fix:

I don’t want to see a single one of you in cafeterias 5, 7, or 8 until the bug solution has been found. I am dead serious about this. I want you going over every line of code ever written in the history of network computing and I don’t want your eyelids to touch each other once until you’re done. No one is to even get up from your chair unless your appendix is bursting through your left nostril. Another 120 million searches today lost and another thousand headlines in newspapers across America. We are the TOP STORY ON CNN, PEOPLE, so NO ONE leaves this damn office until THIS BUG IS FIXED. I see NO REASON for this nightmare to continue into a third day. If, at five this afternoon, I type “Baltimore Orioles” or “fix my Chevy” or “best date movie” OR EVEN “RAUNCHY SLIMY GOAT SEX” INTO GOOGLE AND I GET A LINE OF TEXT BACK THAT SAYS “Did you mean ‘Hal Linden’?” I WILL BURN DOWN THIS ENTIRE COMPLEX. SOMEONE PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MAKE OUR SEARCH ENGINE STOP ASKING PEOPLE ALL OVER THE WORLD IF THEY MEANT HAL LINDEN. OUR ADVERTISERS ARE BAILING OUT ALL AROUND US AND OUR NAME HAS BECOME A LAUGHINGSTOCK AND THE ONLY PERSON ON EARTH WHO DOESN’T THINK THIS COMPANY IS GOING TO GO UNDER BY SATURDAY IS THE ONE LOSER IN BUTTNECK, IDAHO WHO IS ACTUALLY DOING A SEARCH ON HAL LINDEN. WE ALL LOVED BARNEY MILLER, PEOPLE, BUT IF I SEE THE PHRASE “Did you mean ‘Hal Linden’?” ONE MORE TIME ON A GOOGLE SCREEN, I WILL CALL ON SATAN HIMSELF TO SUCK YOUR SOULS THROUGH A KRAZY STRAW. I JUST TRIED TO USE OUR MULTI-BILLION DOLLAR SEARCH ENGINE TO RESEARCH HOW TO MOW DOWN EVERY OVERPRICED TECHNICIAN IN THE BUILDING WITH A RUSSIAN SUBMACHINE GUN AND IT ASKED ME “Did you mean ‘Hal Linden’?” AND I’M TEMPTED TO SAY YES, I DID MEAN HAL LINDEN, BECAUSE ONLY HIS STERN BUT WARM-HEARTED PERSONA CAN POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND THE DEPTHS OF THE ETERNAL WRETCHED PAIN I AM EXPERIENCING AT THIS MOMENT BECAUSE OF YOU PRINGLES-MUNCHING, SUPER MARIO-PLAYING RETARDS!!!

P.S. The winner of the pumpkin decorating contest is Sarah Hardy.

I've Discovered Cocaine!

2007-10-22T19:02:00.000-04:00

Wowwwwwwwwww, did I ever just discover something super-spectacular! You may know it as cocaine, but as far as I’m concerned, its name should be Genie in a Bottle, because it made all my wishes come true yesterday! I cannot believe that all of you were holding out on me for so long and not letting me in on this stupendous treat. If we all weren’t such great friends, I’d be really miffed. You, Ralph, you scamp, you did coke in the eighties---nice job keeping me away from it all these years! But the secret is out and I am all over it. And Paula---didn’t your brother get seriously into the stuff a few years ago? Let me know if you hear from him again, because he and I have oodles to talk about! Man, what a delight cocaine is! I’m still trying to find a flaw. In fact, while the experience is still fresh in my mind, let me quantify my happiness with this once-in-a-lifetime product:

Price: A. More than reasonable.
Intake: A-. An easy inhale and I was on my way!
Experience: A+. I felt like I was on top of the world for six straight hours, like anything was possible. I had more energy than I’ve had in years and everything seemed exciting and new!
Cleanup: B+. A little leftover residue on the keyboard of the pipe organ almost made Father Donovan stop his sermon and ask me what was going on, but I managed to get almost all of it into my paper clip tray so he just kept talking and it wasn’t wasted.
Overall grade: A big old A!!

Again, I simply could not be more satisfied with my cocaine experience, and I’m really looking forward to ingesting some more this weekend---if not sooner! So I bet you're asking: would I recommend cocaine to a friend? Hey, that’s like asking if I would recommend finding a million dollars on the street to a friend. The answer is: Duh!

Seriously, I Really Did Have a Job Once

2007-10-19T19:58:00.000-04:00

TEN ACRONYMS I WROTE DOWN AS I THOUGHT OF THEM THAT SEEM COOL AND WHICH I HOPE WILL CORRESPOND TO ACTUAL STUFF SOMEDAY, LIKE GOVERNMENT AGENCIES OR EVEN SECRET SPY THINGS

1) S. H. L. O. R. A. P.
2) N. I. F. N. O. R. F.
3) H. E. L. L. H. E. A. D.
4) D. O. O. O. O. O. D.
5) S. K. E. E. K. S. & S. K. A. Z. N. I. K. S.
6) V. L. U. R. P.
7) S. C. O. O. P. E. R. S.
8) B. O. I. N. G. G. G.
9) M. A. D. D.
10) B. O. O. B. Y. M. A. N.

If They Could Save Time in a Bottle

2007-10-17T20:05:00.000-04:00

MEMO TO ALL EMPLOYEES OF WEIGHT WATCHERS MAIN OFFICE OF GREEN BAY:

I am aware that our leave guidelines seem a little strict upon first glance, but this is just a reminder that if you are not feeling well, please, please do not come to work. Every full time employee is allotted seven sick days per year and we urge you to take them. There is no point in coming into the office and either infecting another staff member or being unproductive. Susan from Public Relations was sneezing repeatedly in the kitchen today and we don't need everyone getting a cold. Meanwhile, Glen from Enrollment doesn't seem to be shaking the flu and he has been frustratingly lethargic in meetings. Finally, I was walking past Jerry's cubicle this morning and saw that he came into work today as nothing more than a hipbone. Regardless of the events which led to his current state, I think we can all agree that if you're nothing but a hipbone, you're not going to get much done and should take sick leave. While I admire Jerry's dedication, it takes time to recover from being reduced by illness or misadventure to being nothing more than a hipbone, and this is time better spent at home. This edict goes for all serious conditions, whether it be an employee engulfed in from head to toe in fire, as happened last month with Betsy from Billing, or one who has already been given last rites by a priest (Stan, we're glad you beat total organ failure, but next time, just rest up a little more before coming back). Also, there is no need to phone in late for a meeting if you are literally in the process of being stabbed seven times by a mugger (Thomas G.) or to call and ask someone to cover your desk because your car is in actual mid-spin from being sideswiped by a tractor trailer a split second before (Jennifer B.). Wait for these situations to resolve themselves, go to the hospital, and THEN contact your supervisor. And if your heart suddenly stops for eight full seconds during lung surgery, Paula S., that is not the time to dial into the network to make sure your Out of Office message is extended; get better and worry about that later. Oh, and here's a good rule of thumb, Gavin G.: if you find yourself trapped under water for ANY reason again and oxygen is rapidly running out, put thoughts of falling behind on updating the sales spreadsheet out of your head just long enough to get back to the surface; I don't need my Blackberry vibrating with a message from you about how you'll be a little late uploading the sheet to the server when you should be focusing on scratching and clawing your way to the nearest source of air. Long story short, if you wake up and you're just a HIPBONE, for God's sake, think of something else besides the admittedly strict leave guidelines and get back into bed. Thank you for your attention.

P.S. Doughnuts in the kitchen, big fat honking sugary death-bringers, so have at it.

The Wedge and I

2007-10-15T13:10:00.000-04:00

Would I ever give up my job guarding the big green wedge? Oh no, absolutely f***ing not. I’ve come to love the job intensely, and to feel I’m really making a difference. When Lars Nilbitz first saw me guarding the big green wedge at his group show at the El Paso Museum of Contemporary Art and praised me so effusively for keeping that eight year-old kid behind the black piece of tape on the floor, I had a feeling my life was about to change. I guarded Mr. Nilbitz’s big green wedge, along with Madeleine Vank’s Sculpture of the Letter L As It Weeps For a Memory and Per Oapt’s Angry Spaghetti Stain, for three weeks, and it was the wedge that drew the longest stares and tested my skills as a museum security guard the most. Nobody ever touched that f***ing wedge on my shift, and that’s exactly why Mr. Nilbitz hired me to follow it from El Paso to Abilene to East Fort Worth to Texarkana, always working the room where it hangs. And believe me, people want to get close to the f***ing thing. Many of them have never seen a big green f***ing triangular plaster and wood wedge hanging on the wall of a museum before without so much as a title card to tell people what it’s called, and a lot of people seem really upset that it’s there. Hence the need for my services.

Do I sometimes hate the big green f***ing wedge for getting so much attention from human beings when I would give up everything I own to have a single friend? Sure, sometimes. Do I despise standing in front of it eight hours a day, six days a week, never once being able to figure out what the point of it is? Absolutely. But how many f***ing big green triangular plaster and wood wedges are in the world today? What if this is the only one of its size (twenty-two feet by eighteen feet) out there? How am I going to feel if someone defaces the wedge, or God forbid, steals it? So you see what I’m saying. It’s all about duty. When my Friday shift is over, the wedge will be taken down and moved via trailer to the new Art Corridor at Broward County Community College, and I’ll go with it. Sure, the small blue pineapple with a dagger in it and the glass foot that some deaf French woman made are going too, and I’ll have to make sure nobody tries to swipe those f***ing things either, but to me it’ll always be about the wedge. Sometimes I have dreams where I’m floating out to sea as I lie on top of it, perfectly content. Other times I have dreams where it’s on fire and it’s crushing me, crushing me, scorching my flesh, squeezing the life out of me with its infernal weight (383 pounds), squashing my soul and everything in it until I feel an almost sexual surge of power course through me and I rip it to shreds with my f***ing teeth, which bleed and bleed---but I don’t even feel it. Anyway, it’s been a fun two years, and that’s basically why I’m sitting in front of you today applying for a job as Secret Serviceman. I like to think the President is the ultimate big green f***ing wedge. I should tell you that I actually was put on administrative leave from watching the wedge when I shot and killed a woman who made a threatening gesture towards it, but I really think that just shows I’m ready to take swift action to protect the stuff I’m supposed to. So, should I mention now that I’ll need a week off in November for some very risky brain surgery, or should I fill out the application first?