The first version the (long) short story offered here was written in 2004. Originally called “The Battle of Insanity” (to prove my prowess as a thinker of terrible titles), the story earned me $250 in a contest sponsored by UW-Oshkosh. I was also granted an award certificate for something along the lines of Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence at a ceremony on campus. About a hundred other students who excelled in fields more useful and profitable than short-story writing were also acknowledged at this ceremony.
This story was written in one torturous week, finished hours before the deadline, and I recall a profound sense of loathsome annoyance throughout the process. The relative success of the piece came as a pleasant shock. “Battle” was printed in The Wisconsin Review and read by half of its 12 subscribers, and when I expanded on the story for a screen-writing class months later, the feedback was (mostly) positive.
I decided to do a rewrite because I wasn't happy with the way so many of the sentences were constructed; hackneyed and cumbersome are words that apply. The prose has therefore been gutted, torn apart and reassembled until the shame I felt was less crippling. The plot, characters, tone, and setting have been preserved, for good or ill.
“Salinger Tells the Truth” will be posted in three segments—the Beginning, Middle, and End, to use the esoteric jargon known only to professionals like me. In laywoman's terms—and I use that term not in the interest of gender equality but because we all know that women will have a harder time understanding this—read part one first, part two second, and part three third. This is the “End” of my introduction. I'm sorry part three got so patronizing and insensitive. You know I how I depend on you, reader; I'm so needy for your love and approval. I'll never behave like this again.
Now go make me a chicken potpie, Goddammit.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Salinger Tells the Truth part one
The sun is bowing behind the steep walls of commerce that line State Street in Madison. A man dressed in shabby clothing named Jeffrey Salinger explores the sidewalk in frantic angst, crawling on all fours. His nose close to the pavement, he's been blathering incoherently for hours. His bizarre behavior tends to redirect timid pedestrians to the other side of the road, where a grimy man named Kickbush flashes a stained-teeth smile through a store window.
“I could see all the way to Australia if it wasn't for this damn sidewalk!”
Salinger pounds his fist against the pavement.
“Sacrilegious didjeri-douche-bags got the nerve to celebrate Christmas during the summer. Why do the construction workers even build these obstructions? What are the Ausies hiding in their kangaroo pouches?”
He suddenly stops fidgeting. His eyes seem to hatch an epiphany. Meanwhile, a stray terrier approaches Salinger, sniffing with curiosity.
“Wait. Construction workers post orange signs that read 'Men at Work.' Men at Work—an '80s pop group...from Australia. It all makes sense now. I've got to warn somebody!”
Startled by this outcry, the terrier yelps in Salinger's face. The dog is promptly slapped across the snout.
“Not while I'm conspiring!” Salinger barks.
The terrier's skittish demeanor turns stoic as he slowly wipes his wounded nose, gazes down at the fresh blood on his paw, and then pivots his head left to right, glaring intensely.
Just then a battery-powered alarm clock sounds-off wildly, not far from Salinger and the terrier. The time is five o'clock. The clamor frightens the dog into a dead sprint down the block. Salinger rises to his feet and dusts off his gashed green pants.
“Wow! Thanks for the tremendous performance,” he calls to the departing terrier. “That was intense; I'm talking rabid Old Yeller intense.”
Across the street, Kickbush leaves his post behind the counter of his gun shop, called AK-47 Heaven, and waddles over to greet Salinger.
“Helluva job, son. You've earned your peanuts today. Heh!”
“Thanks, Mr. Kickbush.”
“That's Colonel Kickbush, Sali.* Despite those military indictments, the only real dishonorable discharge was the one I unloaded into the judge's Lexus after the trial. Heh!”
He swats Salinger on the shoulder of his tattered jacket.
“Right. Colonel Kickbush,” Salinger says. “My mistake. Listen, I'd love to chat—“
“Really? 'Cause I've been awful lonesome since the wife left me and I shot that smart-ass parakeet. Thought it was hot shit 'cause it knew the whole alphabet...”
“No. I mean to say, although I'd love to chat, I can't do it, because I really should be leaving soon. I was too low on gas, so I had to take the bus this morning.”
“Oh. Well...say no more.”
Kickbush reaches his stubby fingers into his pants pocket, struggling every inch in the tight slit between his flabby thighs and faded jeans. In time he extracts his thick leather wallet with a determined grunt.
“Phew,” Kickbush laughs. “Must be what it's like to give birth.”
Salinger chuckles politely. Kickbush opens his wallet and thumbs through the bills.
“You know, Sali, since you crazied-up this side of the street, my business has increased by 30-percent.”
“30-percent? Huh. That's impressive.”
“Yup. You got to understand, this is America. Sheer whim is the fifth most common reason why people buy guns.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Number one is protection, followed by hunting, and then blind hatred of foreigners at number three.”
*Pronounced “Sally.” “What's the fourth reason?”
“It's, um...compensation for a small penis,” Kickbush says tentatively.
Salinger nods calmly while his counterpart fidgets and scratches his thinning hair.
“Any-hoo, back to sheer whim,” Kickbush says. “Here's the scenario: Mr. And Mrs. Consumer are window-shopping on State Street when suddenly they're confronted by some poor, hopeless basket-case—that's you—so they flee across the street, catch a glimpse of something deadly and shiny through the front window, they have a quick fantasy about killin' a deranged yahoo like you, and rat-ta-tat-tat, I'm up three-hundred bones.”
“Nice,” Salinger says, rather quietly. “Well, I just hope the places on this side of the street aren't hurt too badly by my antics.”
“Bah. To hell with these soulless money-grubbers. We're doing society a favor by hurting their business.”
Salinger turns around and gazes morosely at the sign displayed above the nearest building. It reads: The Boys & Girls Club.
“Well, I don't know about soulless money-grubbers...”
“Hey, don't kid yourself,” Kickbush says. “You ever see one of those little bastards beg for quarters to play an arcade game at a pizza party? Next thing you know, they're pining for GI Joe's and flu shots. And guess who pays for all of that.”
With a righteous grunt, he finally hands Salinger a sweaty wad of cash.
“But hell...” Kickbush continues, “Maybe they're not all bad. I slipped you something extra for that daughter of yours. To be pissed away on eyeliner and blush, no doubt. Heh.”
“Na, I doubt it. She's only seven.”
“Well, hell, my girl wore that gunk at about that age, and she turned out just fine.”
He reaches for a magazine tucked between his ass and blue jeans and displays it for Salinger.
“Matter of fact, she's on page 45 of her daddy's favorite rag, the Right to Bare Arms and Cleavage. She's pointing a .44 magnum at a burning Mexican flag and she's got a grenade danglin' from her tittie-cup. Very tasteful. Makes for good oglin' material on the bus.”
He offers the magazine to Salinger, who declines. Salinger starts to walk away.
“No thanks. Now, I really should be going.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. Lousy public transit fascists are really cracking down with their anti-fondling laws and whatnot...” Kickbush laments.
“So long,” Salinger calls, jogging off.
He runs for the nearest bus stop. Along the way, he passes a shabbily dressed man licking a lamp post and pondering its flavor. Salinger shakes his head, disapproving.
“Amateur,” he mutters, not breaking stride.
A green neon sign that reads Pipefitter's hums just beneath the bedroom window of Emily Salinger. Two neon pot leaves flank the bright sign. Salinger is in the midst of tucking his daughter into bed, but he is distracted by an unrelenting and obnoxious knock on the wooden door below. Agitated, he pries open the window at the foot of Emily's bed.
“Come on! Open up,” a voice pleads.
The plea is coming from a bearded man wearing a tube top cop outfit.
Salinger is momentarily puzzled, but he soon processes the situation.
“Read the sign!”
“Sign? What sign?” the bearded man asks.
He is nudged by his friend, a bald man wearing a black leather leotard, who points to a sign in the first-floor window. It reads: Not to be confused with the nearby gay bar of the same name.
“Whoopsy,” the tube top cop says.
“Yeah, sorry, our mistake!” his friend calls to Salinger.
Salinger shrugs, indicating that the apology has been accepted.
As the two men walk away, the tube top cop says to his friend: “Well, I guess that explains the pot leaves.”
Salinger closes the window and hangs a stray blanket in place of an actual curtain.
“That's better. Sorry about that,” he says.
Emily shrugs.
“It wasn't your fault.”
He smirks complacently. It's a tamer version of the more dashing smirk found on a poster above the headboard of Emily's bed. It's a movie poster of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Salinger's face is superimposed on Harrison Ford's body.
“Tell me another one,” she says.
Salinger grins slightly, but shakes his head no.
“Sorry, Em. No can do. It's past ten and you've got school in the morning.”
“Who cares? We take two naps before lunch, anyway. Just one more. Pleeeaaassseee.”
She giggles and thumps giddily on the springs of her mattress. Salinger reconsiders.
“All right, all right,” he says with a pretense of exhaustion, “Just one more and then it's lights out.”
His daughter claps her hands with the quickness of a butterfly flapping its wings. She leans forward with anticipation.
“Okay, let's see...Let me think. Um...Pat Sajack,” he says at last, snapping his fingers.
“The Wheel of Fortune guy is gay? Get out!”
Emily gasps and clutches her stuffed Sponge-Bob toy against her chest.
Salinger nods, smirking like a man who knows all, pleased to see the wide-eyed wonderment in his daughter's eyes.
“Wow, I guess I had a hunch about him, but...Hey, what about the new host of The Family Feud? Is he gay?”
“You'll have to wait until tomorrow night for the answer to that question.”
She groans and plops the back of her head onto the pillow.
“It's a simple yes or no question, daddy. It would only take two seconds to answer. Five seconds if you wanted to make it suspenseful.”
“Well, I've got to be to bed in less than two seconds. Daddy's got to be on the set by nine tomorrow morning.”
“When can I finally see one of your movies?”
Inches from her face, Salinger freezes.
“Well,” he says, gathering himself, “Daddy's movies are mostly R-rated and therefore unsuitable for girls your age.”
“You can't shelter me from violence forever; I go to a public school.”
Salinger scratches his right side-burn nervously.
“Well, in addition to that, there's also adult situations and brief nudity.”
Emily opens her mouth to speak, but her father interjects.
“Please. Don't respond to that. Good night, sweetie.”
He kisses her forehead and hurries out of her bedroom. On his way out he turns off the light switch.
In the cramped hallway now, Salinger hears the telephone ring. Unable to locate the receiver, Salinger digs through a laundry basket and removes every cushion from the couch before finding it hidden behind a yellow recliner. He picks off a hairy wad of taffy from the earpiece and then answers the phone on the ninth ring.
“Hello?”
He sniffs the wad of taffy, cringes, and tosses it over his shoulder.
A voice with a German-accent lets out a weary groan.
“Nine rings, Salinger. Nine fucking rings. I suggest you keep your telephone atop your rolling papers so you never forget its location.”
“Who is this?”
“Promptness never was one of your more commendable attributes. Your lack of promptness tested my patience moments ago, and your lack of promptness for the Renegade audition nearly cost you a role on the show all those years ago. Instead, it was my superior acting skills that cost you the part on the show and subsequently buried your fledgling career.”
Salinger's brow furrows. He quickly shakes his head in disbelief.
“Sven Brinkerhaus?”
“Yes. This is the part where I would ordinarily clap my hands slowly, with haughty ridicule, but unfortunately, my hands are currently busy caressing your ex-wife's firm buttocks.”
“How...how did you find me?”
“Well, if you must know, Jeffrey, I found you through mere happenstance. In hope of rekindling my transcendent collaboration with Renegade leading man Lorenzo Llamas, I sought to determine his whereabouts. I learned from VH1's Where Are They Now? Program that he now resides in Madison. It seems he's working on behalf of a powerful Christian Conservative group, masquerading as a crazy street person in front of a gay bar in order hinder their lascivious business...”
Meanwhile, not far from Salinger's apartment, a din of boisterous hollering, as well as Queen's “Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” emanate from a brick building. The pink neon sign on the side of the building reads “Pipefitter's.” Two pink neon pipes bookend the sign. Near the entrance, a muscular man with a long brown ponytail, clad in torn-jeans and a stained t-shirt, half-heartedly heckles a man in a phony cop uniform.
“Dude,” Lorenzo says, “I'm, like, totally hearing the voice of Jesus in my head right now. He's telling me that you're all going to hell. Is that crazy or what?”
Paying no mind to this homophobe for hire, the gay man enters the bar. Lorenzo hangs his head, stung by his failure.
“Bummer.”
Lorenzo is nudged by a teenager with stumpy dreadlocks wearing a Phish t-shirt.
“Hey bro, these guys sell killer bongs, right?”
“Read the sign.”
With that said, Lorenzo turns his attention to another one of Pipefitter's potential patrons. In vain he tries to convey a voodoo hex by wiggling his fingers at the man, encircling him with bouncy limberness as he does so. At the same time, the stoner reads the sign and mutters something to his friend as the two depart.
“Oh. That explains the dick-shaped, pink neon pipes, I guess.”
Back in Salinger's apartment, Brinkerhaus continues his haughty rambling on the other end of the phone line.
“...So I packed my luggage for Madison in search of the wayward yin to my yang. But when I arrived at the wrong Pipefitter's establishment, well, I stumbled across your address.”
Salinger clutches and yanks his shaggy brown hair.
“You sick bastard! You know where I live?”
His ear pressed tensely against the receiver, Salinger hears a dismissive snort from Brinkerhaus.
“Jeffrey, your anxiety is excessive. You've mistaken my Colonel Klink rancor with the hateful villainy of Mein Fuhrer. Rest assured, your daughter is in no peril. I merely wish to destroy your pitiful career...for the second time.”
After seconds of tense silence, Salinger raises his voice.
“Brinkerhaus?”
There is no reply. It becomes evident that Brinkerhaus has hung up the phone. This does nothing to subdue the flabbergasted rage of Jeffrey Salinger.
“Brinkerhaus? You...Euro-trash, pretentious psycho...Answer me Goddammit! Brinkerhaus? Brinkerhaus?!”
“Daddy! What are you screaming for?”
Emily stands at the threshold of her bedroom, frowning and rubbing her eyes. With beads of sweat running down his crimson-colored forehead, a flustered Salinger forces an unconvincing smile.
“Oh. Hi, Em. I was just...singing 'Brick House,' that old Commodores tune...” He glances at the phone in his trembling hand and continues. “...To the, uh, phone sex lady. Look—it's not important. Just go back to bed, sweetie. I'll be quiet.”
With grave disapproval, Emily shakes her head and shuts her bedroom door. Her father collapses onto the nearest couch, his chest heaving, his nerves badly jangled.
“I could see all the way to Australia if it wasn't for this damn sidewalk!”
Salinger pounds his fist against the pavement.
“Sacrilegious didjeri-douche-bags got the nerve to celebrate Christmas during the summer. Why do the construction workers even build these obstructions? What are the Ausies hiding in their kangaroo pouches?”
He suddenly stops fidgeting. His eyes seem to hatch an epiphany. Meanwhile, a stray terrier approaches Salinger, sniffing with curiosity.
“Wait. Construction workers post orange signs that read 'Men at Work.' Men at Work—an '80s pop group...from Australia. It all makes sense now. I've got to warn somebody!”
Startled by this outcry, the terrier yelps in Salinger's face. The dog is promptly slapped across the snout.
“Not while I'm conspiring!” Salinger barks.
The terrier's skittish demeanor turns stoic as he slowly wipes his wounded nose, gazes down at the fresh blood on his paw, and then pivots his head left to right, glaring intensely.
Just then a battery-powered alarm clock sounds-off wildly, not far from Salinger and the terrier. The time is five o'clock. The clamor frightens the dog into a dead sprint down the block. Salinger rises to his feet and dusts off his gashed green pants.
“Wow! Thanks for the tremendous performance,” he calls to the departing terrier. “That was intense; I'm talking rabid Old Yeller intense.”
Across the street, Kickbush leaves his post behind the counter of his gun shop, called AK-47 Heaven, and waddles over to greet Salinger.
“Helluva job, son. You've earned your peanuts today. Heh!”
“Thanks, Mr. Kickbush.”
“That's Colonel Kickbush, Sali.* Despite those military indictments, the only real dishonorable discharge was the one I unloaded into the judge's Lexus after the trial. Heh!”
He swats Salinger on the shoulder of his tattered jacket.
“Right. Colonel Kickbush,” Salinger says. “My mistake. Listen, I'd love to chat—“
“Really? 'Cause I've been awful lonesome since the wife left me and I shot that smart-ass parakeet. Thought it was hot shit 'cause it knew the whole alphabet...”
“No. I mean to say, although I'd love to chat, I can't do it, because I really should be leaving soon. I was too low on gas, so I had to take the bus this morning.”
“Oh. Well...say no more.”
Kickbush reaches his stubby fingers into his pants pocket, struggling every inch in the tight slit between his flabby thighs and faded jeans. In time he extracts his thick leather wallet with a determined grunt.
“Phew,” Kickbush laughs. “Must be what it's like to give birth.”
Salinger chuckles politely. Kickbush opens his wallet and thumbs through the bills.
“You know, Sali, since you crazied-up this side of the street, my business has increased by 30-percent.”
“30-percent? Huh. That's impressive.”
“Yup. You got to understand, this is America. Sheer whim is the fifth most common reason why people buy guns.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Number one is protection, followed by hunting, and then blind hatred of foreigners at number three.”
*Pronounced “Sally.” “What's the fourth reason?”
“It's, um...compensation for a small penis,” Kickbush says tentatively.
Salinger nods calmly while his counterpart fidgets and scratches his thinning hair.
“Any-hoo, back to sheer whim,” Kickbush says. “Here's the scenario: Mr. And Mrs. Consumer are window-shopping on State Street when suddenly they're confronted by some poor, hopeless basket-case—that's you—so they flee across the street, catch a glimpse of something deadly and shiny through the front window, they have a quick fantasy about killin' a deranged yahoo like you, and rat-ta-tat-tat, I'm up three-hundred bones.”
“Nice,” Salinger says, rather quietly. “Well, I just hope the places on this side of the street aren't hurt too badly by my antics.”
“Bah. To hell with these soulless money-grubbers. We're doing society a favor by hurting their business.”
Salinger turns around and gazes morosely at the sign displayed above the nearest building. It reads: The Boys & Girls Club.
“Well, I don't know about soulless money-grubbers...”
“Hey, don't kid yourself,” Kickbush says. “You ever see one of those little bastards beg for quarters to play an arcade game at a pizza party? Next thing you know, they're pining for GI Joe's and flu shots. And guess who pays for all of that.”
With a righteous grunt, he finally hands Salinger a sweaty wad of cash.
“But hell...” Kickbush continues, “Maybe they're not all bad. I slipped you something extra for that daughter of yours. To be pissed away on eyeliner and blush, no doubt. Heh.”
“Na, I doubt it. She's only seven.”
“Well, hell, my girl wore that gunk at about that age, and she turned out just fine.”
He reaches for a magazine tucked between his ass and blue jeans and displays it for Salinger.
“Matter of fact, she's on page 45 of her daddy's favorite rag, the Right to Bare Arms and Cleavage. She's pointing a .44 magnum at a burning Mexican flag and she's got a grenade danglin' from her tittie-cup. Very tasteful. Makes for good oglin' material on the bus.”
He offers the magazine to Salinger, who declines. Salinger starts to walk away.
“No thanks. Now, I really should be going.”
“Yeah, I hear ya. Lousy public transit fascists are really cracking down with their anti-fondling laws and whatnot...” Kickbush laments.
“So long,” Salinger calls, jogging off.
He runs for the nearest bus stop. Along the way, he passes a shabbily dressed man licking a lamp post and pondering its flavor. Salinger shakes his head, disapproving.
“Amateur,” he mutters, not breaking stride.
A green neon sign that reads Pipefitter's hums just beneath the bedroom window of Emily Salinger. Two neon pot leaves flank the bright sign. Salinger is in the midst of tucking his daughter into bed, but he is distracted by an unrelenting and obnoxious knock on the wooden door below. Agitated, he pries open the window at the foot of Emily's bed.
“Come on! Open up,” a voice pleads.
The plea is coming from a bearded man wearing a tube top cop outfit.
Salinger is momentarily puzzled, but he soon processes the situation.
“Read the sign!”
“Sign? What sign?” the bearded man asks.
He is nudged by his friend, a bald man wearing a black leather leotard, who points to a sign in the first-floor window. It reads: Not to be confused with the nearby gay bar of the same name.
“Whoopsy,” the tube top cop says.
“Yeah, sorry, our mistake!” his friend calls to Salinger.
Salinger shrugs, indicating that the apology has been accepted.
As the two men walk away, the tube top cop says to his friend: “Well, I guess that explains the pot leaves.”
Salinger closes the window and hangs a stray blanket in place of an actual curtain.
“That's better. Sorry about that,” he says.
Emily shrugs.
“It wasn't your fault.”
He smirks complacently. It's a tamer version of the more dashing smirk found on a poster above the headboard of Emily's bed. It's a movie poster of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Salinger's face is superimposed on Harrison Ford's body.
“Tell me another one,” she says.
Salinger grins slightly, but shakes his head no.
“Sorry, Em. No can do. It's past ten and you've got school in the morning.”
“Who cares? We take two naps before lunch, anyway. Just one more. Pleeeaaassseee.”
She giggles and thumps giddily on the springs of her mattress. Salinger reconsiders.
“All right, all right,” he says with a pretense of exhaustion, “Just one more and then it's lights out.”
His daughter claps her hands with the quickness of a butterfly flapping its wings. She leans forward with anticipation.
“Okay, let's see...Let me think. Um...Pat Sajack,” he says at last, snapping his fingers.
“The Wheel of Fortune guy is gay? Get out!”
Emily gasps and clutches her stuffed Sponge-Bob toy against her chest.
Salinger nods, smirking like a man who knows all, pleased to see the wide-eyed wonderment in his daughter's eyes.
“Wow, I guess I had a hunch about him, but...Hey, what about the new host of The Family Feud? Is he gay?”
“You'll have to wait until tomorrow night for the answer to that question.”
She groans and plops the back of her head onto the pillow.
“It's a simple yes or no question, daddy. It would only take two seconds to answer. Five seconds if you wanted to make it suspenseful.”
“Well, I've got to be to bed in less than two seconds. Daddy's got to be on the set by nine tomorrow morning.”
“When can I finally see one of your movies?”
Inches from her face, Salinger freezes.
“Well,” he says, gathering himself, “Daddy's movies are mostly R-rated and therefore unsuitable for girls your age.”
“You can't shelter me from violence forever; I go to a public school.”
Salinger scratches his right side-burn nervously.
“Well, in addition to that, there's also adult situations and brief nudity.”
Emily opens her mouth to speak, but her father interjects.
“Please. Don't respond to that. Good night, sweetie.”
He kisses her forehead and hurries out of her bedroom. On his way out he turns off the light switch.
In the cramped hallway now, Salinger hears the telephone ring. Unable to locate the receiver, Salinger digs through a laundry basket and removes every cushion from the couch before finding it hidden behind a yellow recliner. He picks off a hairy wad of taffy from the earpiece and then answers the phone on the ninth ring.
“Hello?”
He sniffs the wad of taffy, cringes, and tosses it over his shoulder.
A voice with a German-accent lets out a weary groan.
“Nine rings, Salinger. Nine fucking rings. I suggest you keep your telephone atop your rolling papers so you never forget its location.”
“Who is this?”
“Promptness never was one of your more commendable attributes. Your lack of promptness tested my patience moments ago, and your lack of promptness for the Renegade audition nearly cost you a role on the show all those years ago. Instead, it was my superior acting skills that cost you the part on the show and subsequently buried your fledgling career.”
Salinger's brow furrows. He quickly shakes his head in disbelief.
“Sven Brinkerhaus?”
“Yes. This is the part where I would ordinarily clap my hands slowly, with haughty ridicule, but unfortunately, my hands are currently busy caressing your ex-wife's firm buttocks.”
“How...how did you find me?”
“Well, if you must know, Jeffrey, I found you through mere happenstance. In hope of rekindling my transcendent collaboration with Renegade leading man Lorenzo Llamas, I sought to determine his whereabouts. I learned from VH1's Where Are They Now? Program that he now resides in Madison. It seems he's working on behalf of a powerful Christian Conservative group, masquerading as a crazy street person in front of a gay bar in order hinder their lascivious business...”
Meanwhile, not far from Salinger's apartment, a din of boisterous hollering, as well as Queen's “Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” emanate from a brick building. The pink neon sign on the side of the building reads “Pipefitter's.” Two pink neon pipes bookend the sign. Near the entrance, a muscular man with a long brown ponytail, clad in torn-jeans and a stained t-shirt, half-heartedly heckles a man in a phony cop uniform.
“Dude,” Lorenzo says, “I'm, like, totally hearing the voice of Jesus in my head right now. He's telling me that you're all going to hell. Is that crazy or what?”
Paying no mind to this homophobe for hire, the gay man enters the bar. Lorenzo hangs his head, stung by his failure.
“Bummer.”
Lorenzo is nudged by a teenager with stumpy dreadlocks wearing a Phish t-shirt.
“Hey bro, these guys sell killer bongs, right?”
“Read the sign.”
With that said, Lorenzo turns his attention to another one of Pipefitter's potential patrons. In vain he tries to convey a voodoo hex by wiggling his fingers at the man, encircling him with bouncy limberness as he does so. At the same time, the stoner reads the sign and mutters something to his friend as the two depart.
“Oh. That explains the dick-shaped, pink neon pipes, I guess.”
Back in Salinger's apartment, Brinkerhaus continues his haughty rambling on the other end of the phone line.
“...So I packed my luggage for Madison in search of the wayward yin to my yang. But when I arrived at the wrong Pipefitter's establishment, well, I stumbled across your address.”
Salinger clutches and yanks his shaggy brown hair.
“You sick bastard! You know where I live?”
His ear pressed tensely against the receiver, Salinger hears a dismissive snort from Brinkerhaus.
“Jeffrey, your anxiety is excessive. You've mistaken my Colonel Klink rancor with the hateful villainy of Mein Fuhrer. Rest assured, your daughter is in no peril. I merely wish to destroy your pitiful career...for the second time.”
After seconds of tense silence, Salinger raises his voice.
“Brinkerhaus?”
There is no reply. It becomes evident that Brinkerhaus has hung up the phone. This does nothing to subdue the flabbergasted rage of Jeffrey Salinger.
“Brinkerhaus? You...Euro-trash, pretentious psycho...Answer me Goddammit! Brinkerhaus? Brinkerhaus?!”
“Daddy! What are you screaming for?”
Emily stands at the threshold of her bedroom, frowning and rubbing her eyes. With beads of sweat running down his crimson-colored forehead, a flustered Salinger forces an unconvincing smile.
“Oh. Hi, Em. I was just...singing 'Brick House,' that old Commodores tune...” He glances at the phone in his trembling hand and continues. “...To the, uh, phone sex lady. Look—it's not important. Just go back to bed, sweetie. I'll be quiet.”
With grave disapproval, Emily shakes her head and shuts her bedroom door. Her father collapses onto the nearest couch, his chest heaving, his nerves badly jangled.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Plight of the Bigot's Fantasy Football Team
When readers take satirical writing too literally, they tend to feel contempt for the author. It's all a misunderstanding. Don't confuse my beliefs with the beliefs of a character I created for the sake of a comedy column. Mark Twain was an intrepid abolitionist, and yet he frequently used an epithet more insulting than “Ninja” in his work; more “Ninja” bombs are dropped in “Huck Finn” than in NWA's first album. And let this be the last time I compare myself to Mark Twain.
On the adapted for cable TV version of “Leprechaun in the Hood,” it may be worth noting, the term that Mark Twain and NWA are so fond of is dubbed over by the word “Ninja.” For example: “Did you know that NWA stands for 'Ninjas with Attitude'?”
Hello. I'm a devout white supremacist. As such, I believe that Larry Bird is the greatest basketball player of all time, and to ensure that my opinion never changes, I smoke a crap-ton of crystal-meth in order to vanquish from my memory the likes of at least 53 slam-dunkin' Ninjas.
My first-born son, Rudy Gordon Lumwick III, learned how to crawl in aisle 5 of a Wal-mart, coaxed on by a trail of Cheeto's what led from the gun display all the way to the checkout line where my sweet Aryan wife was tittie-feeding our seventh or eight bundle of White Joy, Dally Mae or Danica Molly...or maybe it was our new pup Lady M-80.
And ever since that scrawny spook got elected president and started winning Swedish awards for turning this once great country into a land of Commie freeloaders, I've converted my garage into an independent nation, where I'm free to smear shoe polish on the faces of my little cousins and reenact inside a wrestling ring I built with the hands of Mexican laborers the Hulkster's brutal victory over that cross-eyed Ninja Zeus from the film classic “No Holds Barred.” May the Confederacy of Lumwick's Garage reign supreme until Jeb Bush is elected president in 2012.
For reasons I do not understand, burning crosses tends to burn bridges with the common, white-guilt afflicted American, but at the very least, in the humane interest of the Superior Race, I beg you to turn a compassionate ear to the desperate plea I am about to express.
Like millions of other true-blooded Americans, I am a Fantasy Football enthusiast. Hell, to be matter-of-fact with you, Fantasy Football gives me more joy than seeing two homeless black guys wrestle over a day-old bagel (a sight I enjoyed mightily while visiting Brooklyn during one of my legendary Hate-Benders). When I think of Fantasy Football during sex with my dumpling Aryan bride Dolly Susie, I blow my load, right then and there, and curse the likes of Peyton Manning and Wes Welker for popping into my head while I got's a boner. Not all is right with my Fantasy team, that's for sure, and lately my boys have been giving me more grief than joy.
As a White Supremacist, I'll be damned if I'm going to draft any stinkin' Ninjas. I'm part of a REAL Fantasy League, not one of them Negro Fantasy Leagues. My team is pure! And if that means passing up on every single thousand-yard running back since John Riggens in the mid-1980s, then so be it! I'd sooner draft 4th string Broncos running back Peyton Hillis than one of these gang-bangin', Mouseketeer-raping Ninjas like Adrian Peterson or Michael Turner.
Which segues pretty well into a furious gripe I have with the Head Coach of the Denver Broncos, Josh McDaniels. For the benefit of the White Race, and almost as importantly, my Fantasy Football team, Coach McDaniels has got to realize that it ain't enough to simply have a roster-spot for a proud and dying breed, the white running back; you've got to give that egg-skinned son-of-a-bitch some playing time, too. I don't care if he's got more fumbles lost than touchdowns in his short career; the fact remains that he is a White Man! As a White Man who has at least carried the football in the pros, he is precious part of a near-extinct minority that has been subjected to the sort of discrimination that civil rights yahoos like Marty King once spoke out against.
Josh McDaniels, by starting a couple of darky hoodlums over one of America's most precious resources, the white running-back, you have betrayed the greatest race known to man. I'm also chargin' you with consent to ass-backwards-racism that benefits the black athlete's savage monopoly of the running-back profession. You're a spineless sell-out, McDaniels!
It ain't very trendy for a white man to complain about inside-out racism, but y'all gotta hear me out on this. Whenever an NFL team has a vacancy at Head Coach because a bunch of Ninjas conspired to sabotage the hard work of a white man in charge, the team is required to interview “minority” candidates for the open position. Slit-eyed Orientals, towel-headed Arabs, polar bear-sodomizin' Eskimos, worthless astronauts, and Ninjas included. It's the NFL's version of that tyrannous Affirmative Action policy.
The effects of topsy-turvy racism have been so profound that black Head Coaches now outnumber white running-backs in the NFL. And Goddammit, that just ain't fair. There's no policy in place to help the white running-back; they're being weeded out of football because of racial favoritism, which colored folk always done complained to the world was wrong.
In light of this discrimination, white RBs should be granted a handicap on the field of glory. In a perfect world, to make the playing field more racially equitable, two of the eleven defenders should be forced to have their arms and legs shackled in chains whenever a white running-back enters the game. If that seems harsh, my first instinct is to shout “Fuck you, Ninja-lover!” but in the interest of compromise lemme offer a more humane alternative. How 'bout this: Pure honky brutes like Peyton Hillis and John Riggins, heroically un-retired at the mature age of 60, should be allowed to wear steel-spiked shoulder pads. And as a last resort compromise, lemme run this by you: Half the black running-backs in the league should be forced to undergo the same intensive plastic surgery what turned Michael Jackson's skin the ashen shade of Fat Elvis' taint.
Once converted to the pure race, formerly black RBs will be forced to stop dancing in perfect time with music, write a 2,000 word report on the righteous message of the film “Birth of a Nation,” and cease all raping of Disney Mouseketeers.
The fate of my Fantasy Football team hinges on White Activists (Racists) such as myself pressuring the NFL to provide preferential treatment to the endangered species that is the white running-back. People, I have endured 9 Fantasy Football seasons without a single victory because the NFL says it's okay to persecute the white running-back. And every time I lose, I force my Aryan wife Dolly Susie to paint herself in black-face and then I hit her with a steel folding chair. I'm not a violent man and I love the living horse-shit out of my wife, but sometimes a man just has to abuse his wife 'cause his Fantasy Football team is an abomination.
But if you've made it this far into my plea, I'm preaching to the choir on that matter. So, if you love Fantasy Football like I do, and also, you hate black people, follow my lead: Send a vicious e-mail to the Commissioner of the National Football League on behalf of all the WRBs who are being savagely discriminated against—for reasons as fickle as superior speed, size, strength, agility, athleticism, charisma, toughness, and leadership. United by the profound bond of White Supremacy, we can turn around the sorry program of my All-White Fantasy Football team.
Please take action, my White brothers. The John Lynch Mob is in desperate need of its first win.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
No Mercy for a Nerdy Idea
Few questions that end in ambiguous dot-dot-dots are more intriguing than “Who would win in a fight between...?” For my money, the only other such question to rival this brain-stimulator is “Who would you rather engage in coitus with...?” * But if you think about it, the first question is more valid because the answer represents the objective rather than subjective truth. There can only be one winner in a fight. The victor is unequivocally the man left towering over the limp body of his foolish challenger.
Conversely, the question of whom you'd rather have sex with is subjective. Believe it or not, some men would rather bone** Judge Judy than Beyoncé, and because the question begs for personal preference, not indisputable truth, those who disagree may call us crazy, but they've got no right to say we are wrong. Being part of the minority doesn't necessarily mean that you're wrong.
Keeping that in mind, the answer to the question of who would win in a fight between Mr. A and Dr. B is invaluable because it represents a small piece of the puzzle to that immense cosmic mystery: The Absolute Truth. (And by the way, Mr. A would score a decisive, bloody victory over Dr. B because Dr. B's instinct is to heal wounds rather than inflict them.)
Unfortunately, it is not always possible to arrange a brutal duel between two people when humanity wonders which one would win in a fight. Schedule conflicts arise. Jackie Chan wants to cripple Hulk Hogan, but because of his hectic schedule, Chan is only available to fight on Thursdays between the hours of six and nine pm. But Thursday is bowling night for the Hulkster. What a drag! Mankind may never know who would prevail in this battle because Hollywood producers can't resist paying Jackie Chan oodles of cash to star in action-comedy debacles and, to the Hulkster, bowling night is as sacred as saying prayers, eating vitamins, and leg-dropping the rats who gnaw on the tattered clothing of bright-eyed orphans.
There are other obstacles in the pursuit of hypothetical fight winners. Some people simply refuse to jab, head-butt, or roundhouse kick their fellow man. Many terms have been lobbied about to describe such people. Pacifists. Hippies. Quakers. The Swiss. Chickenshits. What ever you wish to call them, it can't be disputed that every time a sentence has begun with the words “Who would win in a fight between Gandhi and...”, it has always ended with a deflated “Oh, wait...never mind.”
In addition to his chickenshit status, Gandhi is also dead. Death appears to be an insurmountable barrier in determining the winner of a hypothetical fight. But not everyone is content with posthumous pacifism. The main reason why evil empire-founding Walt Disney and Hall-of-Fame slugger Ted Williams wanted their brains cryogenically frozen was to ensure that someday their brains would be transplanted into pickle jars fused to massive robotic bodies with titanium claws. But alas, at this point in history, fusing brains stored inside pickle jars to massive robotic bodies remains but a glorious pipe dream.
All too often two fictitious characters from different narratives present tantalizing match-ups. Who wouldn't want to see Mr. Fantastic punch Stretch Armstrong square in the jaw from six blocks away? Or the Chief Keabler Elf tear his feisty chompers into the Achilles' heel of the Lucky Charms Leprechaun as he has done to so many chocolate cream-filled cookie sandwiches that bare his own likeness? But because none of the aforementioned characters have ever laid claim to a pulse, determining the winner of the Brawny Paper Towel Man vs. Mr. Clean is as futile as a curling iron in the possession of the latter.
With all these points in mind, it's tempting to write-off modern science as a colossal failure. But thankfully, through the innovation of outdated, mid-90s technology, I have devised a way to conclude the winner in any fight once thought infeasible because of the hurdles presented by pacifists, the deceased, and the fictitious.
The blue-print for this groundbreaking device were devised by the slanty-eyed geniuses of Nintendo in 1995 in the form of a video game console coined the Nintendo 64. Five years after the invention of the 64, Nintendo released a pro-wrestling game to the delight of their redneck/ stoner comedy writer demographic: “WWF: No Mercy.”
I won't bother you by rattling off some of the wrestlers that are showcased in this game, but it is sufficed to say that 40% of them are dead, one of them killed his wife and child while in the insane throes of 'roid rage, and 80% of them have drop-kicked a moving bumper car in order to prove their manhood. It hardly matters. What matters is that the game boasts a Create-a-Wrestler feature that allows the player to duplicate the likeness, physical attributes, and tendencies of anyone worth watching in a fight—Tommy Chong, Attila the Hun, and Popeye included.
As the proud owner of a Nintendo 64, a copy of “No Mercy,” and an inquisitive mind, I have devoted far too many hours of free time to creating Nintendo replicates for the purpose of determining, once and for all, their ass-kicking prowess. In truth, I have merely scratched the surface of fascinating fight match-ups and quite probably omitted the two people you would most like to exchange fisticuffs inside the squared circle. If this is the case, don't be afraid to take action by purchasing your very own Nintendo 64, copy of “No Mercy,” and inquisitive mind. Do it, because it feels awfully lonely being the only person willing to engage in a nerdy experiment of this magnitude.
Chuck “The White Gorilla” Cecil vs. “40-Year-Old Man” Mike Gundy
Who They Are: In 1994, Chuck Cecil's barbaric zeal on the football field prompted Sports Illustrated to print a cover-story that posed the question, “Too Vicious for the NFL?” As a merciless safety for the Green Bay Packers, Cecil made a career out of delivering raw collisions with his patented (and illegal) spear tackle. The White Gorilla played on some woeful teams, none of which were led by the incomparable Brett Favre, but regardless, the only man ever to call him a Pussy now relies on the production of his own saliva to power his electric wheelchair.
As for Mike Gundy, the head coach of the Oklahoma State Cowboys, he gained recognition on YouTube for his righteous tirade against a local sports reporter who belittled Gundy's starting quarterback, a kid who, despite his poor performance in games, “does things the right way.” The loyal stand Gundy took for his player quickly degenerated into the kind of feverish bombast one would expect from the (aforementioned) Hulkster barking garbage to his upcoming opponent on “WWF Superstars,” circa 1990. The infamous press conference, and the unveiling of Gundy's feisty persona, were a boon for attracting fresh athletes to OSU's football program.
Why They Should Fight: As Defensive Coordinator of the Titans, the team is at present time winless at 0-6, due in large part to their struggles on defense. Gundy needs to validate his claim that he is indeed a Man by doing more substantial than vilifying a female sports reporter. Both outspoken pigskin brutes have something to prove.
And the Winner Is...: Chuck “The White Gorilla” Cecil.
Cecil's penchant for leading his onslaught head-first becomes evident in the opening seconds of the match as he bashes Gundy's cranium with a head-butt. The assault harks back to the safety's playing days, when he was known to induce concussions and penalty flags by driving his helmet deep into the petrified skulls of countless wide receivers who to run slants across the middle of the field. Gundy quickly counters with a series of knee-lifts to Cecil's broad chest, followed by a back-breaker.
After knocking being knocked to the canvas by a Cecil side-suplex, Gundy rises to one knee gingerly and then thrusts a fiendish punch at Cecil's junk. Cecil cunningly blocks it by in thrusting his crotch into Gundy's fist, evidently neutralizing the damage. (Note to self: I'll have to try this in real life, because somehow it really works!) Gundy's morale plummets after the failed five-finger assassination of Cecil's manhood. A sidewalk slam, and then Cecil splits Gundy's forehead, out of which spews Cowboy-Orange blood, with another head-butt. Cecil then attains revenge for Gundy's failed cock-knock by raising the coach's legs in the air, spreading them, and diving his skull head-first into Gundy's crotch. Cecil's finishing move is a Flying Head-butt from the top-rope, depriving Gundy of his declaration of manhood, proving him to be a hypocrite, and hereby allowing reporters of “garbage” newspapers to “Go after a kid who does things the right way.”
Beatrice Kiddo, The Bride vs. Brock Sampson, the Swedish Murder Machine
Who They Are: The scorned Bride from the “Kill Bill” films vowed vengeance against the assassins (and former colleagues) responsible for leaving her for dead at her wedding rehearsal. Her homicidal vendetta extended beyond the five fiends on her list of people to kill, she looked damn good in a yellow jumpsuit, and she proved proved she was too fierce and resilient to be buried alive. Brock Sampson is the brutish bodyguard of the Venture Family on an Adult Swim cartoon that pays twisted homage to comic book-infused adventure chronicles such as “Johnny Quest.” With arms the size of bazookas, curly blond hair the length of a heavy metal bassist, and a laid-back baritone provided by Elaine's boyfriend David Putty on “Seinfeld,” Sampson is the kind of man who finds profound wisdom in Led Zeppelin mandolin ballads, though his pulse is mainly impelled by the band's primal scream, thunderous drums, and wailing guitar riffs that adhere to pursuits such as conquering loose vixens and fracturing collarbones with hammer-punches.
Why They Should Fight: Both fictitious heroes have gained notoriety as prodigious slayers of henchmen. In one of the goriest, most eye-popping showdowns ever captured on film, the Bride butchered virtually every last member of the Crazy-88s with her hallowed Hatori Honzo Samurai sword. Concerning Sampson, fans of the sublimely dorky “Venture Bros.” cartoon series can attest to the Swedish Murder Machine's undefeated record against the lowly servants of super-villains. His most impressive feat as the brawny protector of Dr. Venture and his sons? In the capture of evil forces, a hand-cuffed Sampson once coaxed a henchman into giving him a cavity search. When the henchman obliged, Sampson clenched his ass muscles with such force that he crushed and ensnared the henchman's hand inside his anal cavity. Sampson then swiveled his hips with deft ferocity, transforming his unwitting foe into an appendage of flailing body mass that knocked out the henchman's cronies. And astoundingly, the ruse and the attack that ensued didn't seem all that gay.
And the Winner Is...: Brock Sampson.
A one-on-one duel of the ilk I am documenting here exists in its purest form when both parties are deprived of weapons. This is unfortunate news for The Bride, who relies on her Samurai Sword just as cunning telemarketers rely on the lonesome elderly to sell battery-powered back-scratchers. With this in mind, and giving up 150 lbs. in body weight, The Bride opens the bout by attempting a deadly—yet desperate—maneuver: The Five-Point-Palm Exploding Heart Technique. Sampson swiftly swats her thrusting hand to the side, however, and leans in for a brutal head-butt that induces in The Bride an early dizzy spell. Sampson follows this up with a pile-driver, then grabs the legs of the prostrate-lying Bride, tucks her feet underneath his armpits, and punishes her lower back with a Boston Crab. Excessive description of The Bride being savagely beaten would just be heartbreaking, because she's such a lovable and inspiring character. The Bride retaliates with a few feeble head-scissor take-overs, but she never gains control in this fight. Brock Sampson pins her on the heels of a triple power-bomb combo.
Walker, Texas Ranger, Al-Qaida Stranger vs. Abraham “The Great Emanc-Impaler” Lincoln
Who They Are: In the overwhelmingly dumb history of television, one man has gone to greater lengths to prove that once you eliminate the sex and drugs from a weekly program, you create an immense amount of space for gratuitous violence. The name on his birth certificate reads “Walker, Texas Ranger.” In a delightful hypocrisy, the Hallmark Channel, a beacon of watered-down wholesomeness, airs re-runs of “Walker, Texas Ranger,” a steaming pile of red-state-approved shit exalted by rednecks and the fearful elderly alike for its unapologetic ultra-violence waged against dope dealers, orphan-beaters, and un-repenting masturbators. And if I have to provide some background info about our 16th president, you obviously weren't paying attention during 5th grade history class, and I encourage you to read a blog that is more informative than the one I contribute to.
Why They Should Fight: It's the battle of Red States-Present vs. Red States-Past, modern Republicans who oppose Affirmative Action the way black people oppose silence in a movie theater versus the Republicans who outlawed slavery with the Emancipation Proclamation, a bill that derailed the inequitable economy of the Solid South.
And the Winner Is: Walker, Texas Ranger, Al-Qaida Strangler.
This is easily the most competitive bout of the three that I'm reporting on, but (assuming you've made it this far) I have to level with you: I've reached my Nerd Threshold. I suddenly have this creeping paranoia that if I finish another description of a fight simulation in an outdated video game I will never see another vagina for as long as I live. This column may prove its merit solely because it provides physical proof of my very liberal Nerd Threshold. I'm impressed, and yet I want to strangle myself, too. What have we learned? I'll tell you what we've learned, Short-Bus: Never sell or dispose of your old video games, because someday they might inspire you to write a column that you kind of regret.
* Nobody ever phrases the question in those exact words, but readers of this blog have grown accustomed to my high standards of near-puritanical tact and decency.
** Okay, never mind.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Everybody Be Cool and Listen Up!
Hey everybody, I need you to listen up! Could everybody just be cool for a second? I’ve got something important to say. Excuse me, everybody in the hysterical prayer circle, I’m talking to you. Please…zip it.
Okay, my name is Hal Galboni and I’m an ex-cop. Now, I know some of you might have read about my termination in the newspapers. If so, all I would like to say in my defense is that some retarded children are excellent liars. That’s it.
Ma’am, please. What’s done is done and somebody needs to take control of this situation. It’s dangerous out there.
Now, the first thing we need to do is get our heads straight and separate myth from fact.
Myth: Evil space aliens exist. So, you can just breathe easy on that one.
Fact: Zombies, vampires, prehistoric man-eating creatures from another dimension, and vicious birds like the kind featured in the Hitchcock movie “The Birds,” are in fact real.
Hey, calm down everybody! We’re just going over the facts here.
It turns out that zombies, vampires, the prehistoric things, and even the god-damn Hitchcock birds are as real as the blood splattered on old Mrs. Valentine’s new blouse. These four sects of hellish monsters have inexplicably formed an alliance whose sole purpose is the extermination of the human race.
God-damn it! Will you please stop crying, Mrs. Valentine? Somebody give her some whiskey, get her boozed-up.
As I was saying: Many of you have lost loved ones to the demonic monsters, literally seen them torn limb-from-limb by a prehistoric thing, or pecked in the face repeatedly by a Hitchcock bird, what-have-you. That is a horror that I can only hope not to imagine because, thankfully, all my loved ones live someplace far, far away.
Anyway, listen: If you happen to be one of the unfortunate souls who witnessed a loved one, or several loved ones, brutally killed by a creature that should not exist in a world created by a supposedly perfect being, the only remedy for you is vengeance. People, we need to launch a counter-attack. A murdered loved one whom you fail to avenge has every right to be disappointed in you when you meet again in Heaven, or possibly Hell.
Whoa, whoa! Hush up, prayer circle. Vengeance first, repentance later. Jesus, there’s nothing like a little mention of the afterlife to get the religious nuts worked into a frenzy. There’ll be plenty of time for praying after we’ve slaughtered a couple hundred of those ghoulish motherfuckers. Praying might save your soul, but it won’t save your ass.
All right, then. Back to the counter-attack plan. I think there’s a reason why all 14 of us fled the city to get away from those beasts and gathered inside this old fireworks stand by the highway. Hell, maybe God planned it this way. He might be looking down at us now, saying, “Okay. There’s my team of ass-kickers. They’re gonna defeat the demon creatures and then get to making babies to rebuild civilization, for it is my will.”
And do you know what else? God blessed us with some weapons here. I have in my right hand an M-80 firecracker. In my left hand, a Roman Candle. We’ve got two boxes full of ammunition, too. Also, I have six lighters in my possession because I’ve been getting high constantly ever since I realized the end of the world is looming.
The time has come for the group to divide into two sects. Those of you who want to shoot Roman Candles alongside of me, you can come on up here and give your leader a high-five. The rest of you can just go right ahead praying to the same God that did this to us (no offense) or continue waiting for the grief counselor somebody called to finally show up. But keep in mind, on the odd chance the grief counselor is still alive, the man has got to have a very hectic work schedule.
Hey, that’s what I’m talking about. Yes! (High-five!) The lone wolf is alone no longer. You too? Excellent. (High-five!) The rebellion’s army is growing. Here, have a couple tokes on me, guys.
Ahem. Well, it appears that sides have been chosen. I’d like to thank and congratulate you guys for being my soldiers. Both of you.
Okay men, here’s the thing to keep in mind: the enemy has dents in its armor. Vampires are nocturnal creatures. They sleep during the day. Do you two realize what that means? It means that during daylight hours we only have to contest with the zombies, the prehistoric things, and the Hitchcock birds. During the daytime, it’s basically like three-on-three. You versus the zombies, other guy here can handle the prehistoric things, and, by process of elimination, I’ll be plugging my trusty Roman Candles up the asses of the Hitchcock birds.
We have about eight hours until daylight. In the mean time, we need to carve up a bunch of wooden stakes. We can use the scrap lumber in the storage room and the Swiss Army blade Frank the bus driver used to slit his own throat. We’ll make our way over to the Wal-mart three miles from here, stock up on guns and supplies, maybe even play “Guitar Hero” in the electronics department, just to take the edge off. And hey, speaking of taking the edge off, hand me back that…
Oh, shit. Shhh! Everybody hush up. Something’s out there. Jesus, what kind of a monstrosity are we dealing with here? Zombie, mutated pterodactyl, or Hitchcock bird? Either way, I’m going to blow its fuckin’ head off. With a Roman Candle.
Hey, you! Open the door, will ya? This wick is burning like hell.
The power of Christ owns you like a bitch!
Schhhhooook!
Oh, shit. Shit! Does anyone have some aloe lotion to rub on his skin? Yikes. Hey, don’t yell at me. I could hardly see a thing through the thick mist. How was I supposed to know the monster outside was really the stupid grief counselor?
Okay, my name is Hal Galboni and I’m an ex-cop. Now, I know some of you might have read about my termination in the newspapers. If so, all I would like to say in my defense is that some retarded children are excellent liars. That’s it.
Ma’am, please. What’s done is done and somebody needs to take control of this situation. It’s dangerous out there.
Now, the first thing we need to do is get our heads straight and separate myth from fact.
Myth: Evil space aliens exist. So, you can just breathe easy on that one.
Fact: Zombies, vampires, prehistoric man-eating creatures from another dimension, and vicious birds like the kind featured in the Hitchcock movie “The Birds,” are in fact real.
Hey, calm down everybody! We’re just going over the facts here.
It turns out that zombies, vampires, the prehistoric things, and even the god-damn Hitchcock birds are as real as the blood splattered on old Mrs. Valentine’s new blouse. These four sects of hellish monsters have inexplicably formed an alliance whose sole purpose is the extermination of the human race.
God-damn it! Will you please stop crying, Mrs. Valentine? Somebody give her some whiskey, get her boozed-up.
As I was saying: Many of you have lost loved ones to the demonic monsters, literally seen them torn limb-from-limb by a prehistoric thing, or pecked in the face repeatedly by a Hitchcock bird, what-have-you. That is a horror that I can only hope not to imagine because, thankfully, all my loved ones live someplace far, far away.
Anyway, listen: If you happen to be one of the unfortunate souls who witnessed a loved one, or several loved ones, brutally killed by a creature that should not exist in a world created by a supposedly perfect being, the only remedy for you is vengeance. People, we need to launch a counter-attack. A murdered loved one whom you fail to avenge has every right to be disappointed in you when you meet again in Heaven, or possibly Hell.
Whoa, whoa! Hush up, prayer circle. Vengeance first, repentance later. Jesus, there’s nothing like a little mention of the afterlife to get the religious nuts worked into a frenzy. There’ll be plenty of time for praying after we’ve slaughtered a couple hundred of those ghoulish motherfuckers. Praying might save your soul, but it won’t save your ass.
All right, then. Back to the counter-attack plan. I think there’s a reason why all 14 of us fled the city to get away from those beasts and gathered inside this old fireworks stand by the highway. Hell, maybe God planned it this way. He might be looking down at us now, saying, “Okay. There’s my team of ass-kickers. They’re gonna defeat the demon creatures and then get to making babies to rebuild civilization, for it is my will.”
And do you know what else? God blessed us with some weapons here. I have in my right hand an M-80 firecracker. In my left hand, a Roman Candle. We’ve got two boxes full of ammunition, too. Also, I have six lighters in my possession because I’ve been getting high constantly ever since I realized the end of the world is looming.
The time has come for the group to divide into two sects. Those of you who want to shoot Roman Candles alongside of me, you can come on up here and give your leader a high-five. The rest of you can just go right ahead praying to the same God that did this to us (no offense) or continue waiting for the grief counselor somebody called to finally show up. But keep in mind, on the odd chance the grief counselor is still alive, the man has got to have a very hectic work schedule.
Hey, that’s what I’m talking about. Yes! (High-five!) The lone wolf is alone no longer. You too? Excellent. (High-five!) The rebellion’s army is growing. Here, have a couple tokes on me, guys.
Ahem. Well, it appears that sides have been chosen. I’d like to thank and congratulate you guys for being my soldiers. Both of you.
Okay men, here’s the thing to keep in mind: the enemy has dents in its armor. Vampires are nocturnal creatures. They sleep during the day. Do you two realize what that means? It means that during daylight hours we only have to contest with the zombies, the prehistoric things, and the Hitchcock birds. During the daytime, it’s basically like three-on-three. You versus the zombies, other guy here can handle the prehistoric things, and, by process of elimination, I’ll be plugging my trusty Roman Candles up the asses of the Hitchcock birds.
We have about eight hours until daylight. In the mean time, we need to carve up a bunch of wooden stakes. We can use the scrap lumber in the storage room and the Swiss Army blade Frank the bus driver used to slit his own throat. We’ll make our way over to the Wal-mart three miles from here, stock up on guns and supplies, maybe even play “Guitar Hero” in the electronics department, just to take the edge off. And hey, speaking of taking the edge off, hand me back that…
Oh, shit. Shhh! Everybody hush up. Something’s out there. Jesus, what kind of a monstrosity are we dealing with here? Zombie, mutated pterodactyl, or Hitchcock bird? Either way, I’m going to blow its fuckin’ head off. With a Roman Candle.
Hey, you! Open the door, will ya? This wick is burning like hell.
The power of Christ owns you like a bitch!
Schhhhooook!
Oh, shit. Shit! Does anyone have some aloe lotion to rub on his skin? Yikes. Hey, don’t yell at me. I could hardly see a thing through the thick mist. How was I supposed to know the monster outside was really the stupid grief counselor?
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Siamese Twins and OCD
At the risk of playing a very tiny violin, I’d like to state that living with a mental disorder is a relentless pain in the ass. The mind-over-matter battle that everyone grapples with is heightened for my pill-popping peers and I, but it’s important to judge one’s plight with a sense of relativity.
Whenever I’m toiling in a neurotic and depressive funk and I’m asked the question, “Hey Nick, how’s it going?” I have devised a foolproof reply to fall back on. The phrase is truthful and it also spares me the stigma of a wet blanket. I tell my “How’s it going?” inquisitor: “I’m just glad I wasn’t born with a Siamese twin."
In comparison to Siamese twins, we’ve all got it relatively easy. My heart goes out to all the physical oddities of the world. As a mental oddity, folks are oblivious abnormalities until they engage me in a conversation about a bizarre topic such as Siamese twins. Siamese twins are externally strange, and they can’t simply shell out $40 a bottle to make things very slightly better, the pitiful saps. On one level I empathize, but on another level, I indulge in a fair amount of comparative gratitude. The next time I find myself checking and rechecking my CD wallets to make sure that all bands are arranged in alphabetical order, I’ll take consolation in the fact that I am not conjoined to another human being. Conversely, I doubt a Siamese twin would think to himself, “Oh, sure, since birth I’ve been unable to walk through a doorway without shuffling sideways in accordance with that chatterbox Lefty, but at least I’m not fussy about alphabetizing my CD catalog. Phew! That’s a load off.” In the poker game of genetics, Siamese twins were dealt a seven-deuce off-suit.
The most awful case of cosmic injustice I can fathom is that of Siamese twins being sent to hell after death. Can you imagine the twins’ protest? “What a load of crap, God. Give us a break. Do you have any idea what it’s like to SHARE A PENIS for 60 soul-crushing years? Is hell really necessary? For YOUR sake, why don’t you just reincarnate us as Siamese freaking twins?!”
And I know it’s a tangent, but what happens when one Siamese twin merits entry into heaven while the other is banished to hell? That’s got to be a very awkward goodbye for the good twin.
“Well, what do you want me to do, Sal? Tell God, ‘Thanks, but no thanks’? Aw, quit guilt-tripping me. I can’t help the fact that I was born on the right side and so you had to drive us everywhere, and one time you lost control of the wheel and plowed into a lemonade stand and killed four kids, which ultimately incurred the damnation of God. Cut me some slack, Sal! You’re going to be meeting one of Ozzy’s guitar players down there. We frickin’ LOVED Ozzy! If anything, I should be jealous of YOU, not the other way around.”
And I know it’s another tangent, but here’s a puzzling scenario: A set of Siamese twins that share a liver are riding in a car. The twin riding shotgun chugs a full bottle of Bacardi while his brother operates the vehicle. The driver hasn’t drank a drop of alcohol, but because of the conjoined liver, he becomes too impaired to drive. Swerving uncontrollably, he rams their Volvo into a jungle gym, killing two children. Which of the twins is morally responsible for the drunk-driving accident: The driver who wasn’t drinking, or the drinker who wasn’t driving? It’s quite a conundrum, but if you ask me, neither twin is morally responsible. Those hypothetical children were asking for it. They should have known it’s dangerous to play on the jungle gym.
Siamese twins provide a lot of comedic material, but so do obsessive-compulsives. One of my favorite ironies involves obsessive-compulsive semi-celebrity Mark Summers. He is best known as the former host of “Double Dare,” a game show founded on the notion that nothing is more fun than getting dowsed in green slime. A germ-o-phobe hosted the DIRTIEST program of all time. How desperately did Mark Summers need that job? Or maybe the gig was part of his therapy treatment. Perhaps Mark Summers’ therapist also served as his agent.
“Okay, Mark, to help conquer your fear of germs, and to earn a cushy paycheck in the process, you’re going to witness teenagers shoving their hands up a giant prop nose filled with snot-resembling jelly. And don’t wince or shudder while you’re hosting, sissy. You’ve got to encourage those youngsters to dig deeper and grab that red flag. It’s trial by fire, Marky, for two-hundred-grand a year. You won’t get this type of treatment hosting ‘Jeopardy,’ I’ll tell you that much.”
Watching reruns of “Double Dare,” it’s funny to see a chocolate pudding-splattered teenager embrace Mark with a celebratory hug. To a mind prone to ghastly embellishments, this is about as unpleasant as being rolled up in a carpet face-to-face with a carnie who wears a road-kill necktie.
I hate to offer ideas to reality TV producers (because they are superficial lowlifes out to strangle cultural dignity and original thought), but without question I would watch an episode of “Fear Factor for Obsessive-Compulsives,” if only because I came up with the idea. Rather than balancing on a telephone wire while humping a hornets’ nest, contestants in the obsessive-compulsive version would put their courage to the test by…(dramatic pause for suspense) STEPPING ON A CRACK IN THE SIDEWALK! How many mothers’ backs will be broken? Tune in Friday night to find out. Instead of choking down a fried walrus colon stuffed with termites, O.C. Contestants would be goaded into eating a corn chip that a stranger had breathed on.
I would dominate “Fear Factor for Obsessive-Compulsives.” Not only could I step on a crack in the sidewalk with confidence, I could do it while eating a corn chip that a stranger had breathed on. Perhaps that sounds boastful, but it’s a guarantee. The only events that would give me trouble are the “Crowded Elevator Challenge” and the “Flirt with a Girl without Coming Across as Desperate Challenge.”
Billy Bob Thornton would kick my ass in those events.
Whenever I’m toiling in a neurotic and depressive funk and I’m asked the question, “Hey Nick, how’s it going?” I have devised a foolproof reply to fall back on. The phrase is truthful and it also spares me the stigma of a wet blanket. I tell my “How’s it going?” inquisitor: “I’m just glad I wasn’t born with a Siamese twin."
In comparison to Siamese twins, we’ve all got it relatively easy. My heart goes out to all the physical oddities of the world. As a mental oddity, folks are oblivious abnormalities until they engage me in a conversation about a bizarre topic such as Siamese twins. Siamese twins are externally strange, and they can’t simply shell out $40 a bottle to make things very slightly better, the pitiful saps. On one level I empathize, but on another level, I indulge in a fair amount of comparative gratitude. The next time I find myself checking and rechecking my CD wallets to make sure that all bands are arranged in alphabetical order, I’ll take consolation in the fact that I am not conjoined to another human being. Conversely, I doubt a Siamese twin would think to himself, “Oh, sure, since birth I’ve been unable to walk through a doorway without shuffling sideways in accordance with that chatterbox Lefty, but at least I’m not fussy about alphabetizing my CD catalog. Phew! That’s a load off.” In the poker game of genetics, Siamese twins were dealt a seven-deuce off-suit.
The most awful case of cosmic injustice I can fathom is that of Siamese twins being sent to hell after death. Can you imagine the twins’ protest? “What a load of crap, God. Give us a break. Do you have any idea what it’s like to SHARE A PENIS for 60 soul-crushing years? Is hell really necessary? For YOUR sake, why don’t you just reincarnate us as Siamese freaking twins?!”
And I know it’s a tangent, but what happens when one Siamese twin merits entry into heaven while the other is banished to hell? That’s got to be a very awkward goodbye for the good twin.
“Well, what do you want me to do, Sal? Tell God, ‘Thanks, but no thanks’? Aw, quit guilt-tripping me. I can’t help the fact that I was born on the right side and so you had to drive us everywhere, and one time you lost control of the wheel and plowed into a lemonade stand and killed four kids, which ultimately incurred the damnation of God. Cut me some slack, Sal! You’re going to be meeting one of Ozzy’s guitar players down there. We frickin’ LOVED Ozzy! If anything, I should be jealous of YOU, not the other way around.”
And I know it’s another tangent, but here’s a puzzling scenario: A set of Siamese twins that share a liver are riding in a car. The twin riding shotgun chugs a full bottle of Bacardi while his brother operates the vehicle. The driver hasn’t drank a drop of alcohol, but because of the conjoined liver, he becomes too impaired to drive. Swerving uncontrollably, he rams their Volvo into a jungle gym, killing two children. Which of the twins is morally responsible for the drunk-driving accident: The driver who wasn’t drinking, or the drinker who wasn’t driving? It’s quite a conundrum, but if you ask me, neither twin is morally responsible. Those hypothetical children were asking for it. They should have known it’s dangerous to play on the jungle gym.
Siamese twins provide a lot of comedic material, but so do obsessive-compulsives. One of my favorite ironies involves obsessive-compulsive semi-celebrity Mark Summers. He is best known as the former host of “Double Dare,” a game show founded on the notion that nothing is more fun than getting dowsed in green slime. A germ-o-phobe hosted the DIRTIEST program of all time. How desperately did Mark Summers need that job? Or maybe the gig was part of his therapy treatment. Perhaps Mark Summers’ therapist also served as his agent.
“Okay, Mark, to help conquer your fear of germs, and to earn a cushy paycheck in the process, you’re going to witness teenagers shoving their hands up a giant prop nose filled with snot-resembling jelly. And don’t wince or shudder while you’re hosting, sissy. You’ve got to encourage those youngsters to dig deeper and grab that red flag. It’s trial by fire, Marky, for two-hundred-grand a year. You won’t get this type of treatment hosting ‘Jeopardy,’ I’ll tell you that much.”
Watching reruns of “Double Dare,” it’s funny to see a chocolate pudding-splattered teenager embrace Mark with a celebratory hug. To a mind prone to ghastly embellishments, this is about as unpleasant as being rolled up in a carpet face-to-face with a carnie who wears a road-kill necktie.
I hate to offer ideas to reality TV producers (because they are superficial lowlifes out to strangle cultural dignity and original thought), but without question I would watch an episode of “Fear Factor for Obsessive-Compulsives,” if only because I came up with the idea. Rather than balancing on a telephone wire while humping a hornets’ nest, contestants in the obsessive-compulsive version would put their courage to the test by…(dramatic pause for suspense) STEPPING ON A CRACK IN THE SIDEWALK! How many mothers’ backs will be broken? Tune in Friday night to find out. Instead of choking down a fried walrus colon stuffed with termites, O.C. Contestants would be goaded into eating a corn chip that a stranger had breathed on.
I would dominate “Fear Factor for Obsessive-Compulsives.” Not only could I step on a crack in the sidewalk with confidence, I could do it while eating a corn chip that a stranger had breathed on. Perhaps that sounds boastful, but it’s a guarantee. The only events that would give me trouble are the “Crowded Elevator Challenge” and the “Flirt with a Girl without Coming Across as Desperate Challenge.”
Billy Bob Thornton would kick my ass in those events.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
A False Opener Followed by Additional Nonsense
If you're interested, and I hope you are, I also write columns for a humor site by the name of twelvepackistan.com . Truth be known, I'm not even sure if this showstopper will be posted there. Sometimes my offerings surpass the word-count they're looking for, and other times the uppity fuckers pass on essays like "Vampire Fight" and "Hair of the Pubic Variety" for reasons my ego will not permit me to understand. This next one is a reworked version of a column I wrote for the Advance-Titan. On a final italic note: I joke about a wide array of strange bull-honkey, but in all honesty, I would love to play a cock-fight-themed video game.
In the nation of Twelvepackistan, we, the contributors, put a high premium on fulfilling the needs of our various demographics. We try to be sensitive to the sensibilities of certain sects of our readership. In a recent column that asserted Led Zeppelin's supremacy in a battle royale of the greatest bands in rock history, Greg took a dismissive swipe at the prog-rock group Styx. Regardless of how you feel about lame and pompously contrived bullshit like “Mr. Roboto,” it cannot be disputed that Greg's terse remarks served to anger and alienate the nerd demographic of this once proud humor web-site. Greg's exclusion of both REO Speedwagon and Starship in the discussion of superlative rock bands further inspired the ire of Twelvepackistan's nerd demographic.
Styx supporters, please, stop waving those plastic light-sabers around, pretending the thin air you're swiping through is Greg's jugular vein. There's no need to gnash your teeth and utter the words “Vile Fiend!” while beating your bony fists against the bean-bag you've been sleeping on ever since that pet iguana of yours squirted diarrhea all over the love-seat. Nick is here to mollify all the indignant nerds who were offended by Greg's anti-Styx stance.
In an act of comic contrition, my aim is to propose some guidelines for a cockfight-themed video game. Nerds everywhere are in agreement: It would be sweet if such a game really existed. Unfortunately, I lack the rampant acne, hunchback posture, and wet-cardboard-smelling body odor known to all video game designers, so I don't have the wherewithal to actually create this game. But I've got faith that one of our readers does, and we're glad to have you on board for this one, poindexter. Feel free to run with the basic blueprints to “Pulverizing Pollos.”
Here is a list of clever character names: Pepi, the Peruvian Peck Technician; Miguel, the Mucho Gusto Rooster; Sir Winston Cluckworth the Fourth, Cock-Master Nine-Thousand; Chachi, the Chicano Chicken; the Wingspan Caravan; Jose Ray, the Half-Pint Pinto Powerhouse; the El Guapo Bopper; and Kenny “The Kentucky-Fried Southern Pride” McBride.
Let's move on to the attack commands. There are four basic attacks: the Jugular Jab, the Beak Bludgeon, the Drunken Tracheotomy, and of course the...
Whoa, what's this? Sorry for the holdup in hilarity, reader, but I just received a telegram. Hmmm. The word “Urgent” is scrawled on the envelope. Damn, I'd better read this. Feel free to get a snack or scratch your genitals, okay? This will only take a minute.
All right, I made short work of that saliva seal. Now I'm reaching inside the envelope and unfolding the letter. (Editor's note: This is Bush League.) Interesting. It's a letter from my fictitious aunt Olla. I haven't heard from her in quite a while.
Oh, God. (Gulp.) No, no, no. Why? My fictitious Uncle Orpheus, he's...DEAD. No! Why do bad things happen to alcoholic uncles? I'm going to shout at the heavens. God, you unfathomable cosmic prankster, why didn't you take my goldfish instead?! It's not like I feed him on a regular basis, anyway. Oh—the plight of it all!
Okay, pull yourself together, man. You're neck-deep in a dynamite column that simply wandered off-track due to an unforeseeable tragedy. Don't let the reader see you cry. Never let the reader see you cry.
(Exasperated sigh.) Sorry, Styx fans, the “Pulverizing Pollos” ditty will have to be postponed. Right now I've got to grieve the only way I know how: by writing an uproarious obituary.
Styx supporters, please, stop waving those plastic light-sabers around, pretending the thin air you're swiping through is Greg's jugular vein. There's no need to gnash your teeth and utter the words “Vile Fiend!” while beating your bony fists against the bean-bag you've been sleeping on ever since that pet iguana of yours squirted diarrhea all over the love-seat. Nick is here to mollify all the indignant nerds who were offended by Greg's anti-Styx stance.
In an act of comic contrition, my aim is to propose some guidelines for a cockfight-themed video game. Nerds everywhere are in agreement: It would be sweet if such a game really existed. Unfortunately, I lack the rampant acne, hunchback posture, and wet-cardboard-smelling body odor known to all video game designers, so I don't have the wherewithal to actually create this game. But I've got faith that one of our readers does, and we're glad to have you on board for this one, poindexter. Feel free to run with the basic blueprints to “Pulverizing Pollos.”
Here is a list of clever character names: Pepi, the Peruvian Peck Technician; Miguel, the Mucho Gusto Rooster; Sir Winston Cluckworth the Fourth, Cock-Master Nine-Thousand; Chachi, the Chicano Chicken; the Wingspan Caravan; Jose Ray, the Half-Pint Pinto Powerhouse; the El Guapo Bopper; and Kenny “The Kentucky-Fried Southern Pride” McBride.
Let's move on to the attack commands. There are four basic attacks: the Jugular Jab, the Beak Bludgeon, the Drunken Tracheotomy, and of course the...
Whoa, what's this? Sorry for the holdup in hilarity, reader, but I just received a telegram. Hmmm. The word “Urgent” is scrawled on the envelope. Damn, I'd better read this. Feel free to get a snack or scratch your genitals, okay? This will only take a minute.
All right, I made short work of that saliva seal. Now I'm reaching inside the envelope and unfolding the letter. (Editor's note: This is Bush League.) Interesting. It's a letter from my fictitious aunt Olla. I haven't heard from her in quite a while.
Oh, God. (Gulp.) No, no, no. Why? My fictitious Uncle Orpheus, he's...DEAD. No! Why do bad things happen to alcoholic uncles? I'm going to shout at the heavens. God, you unfathomable cosmic prankster, why didn't you take my goldfish instead?! It's not like I feed him on a regular basis, anyway. Oh—the plight of it all!
Okay, pull yourself together, man. You're neck-deep in a dynamite column that simply wandered off-track due to an unforeseeable tragedy. Don't let the reader see you cry. Never let the reader see you cry.
(Exasperated sigh.) Sorry, Styx fans, the “Pulverizing Pollos” ditty will have to be postponed. Right now I've got to grieve the only way I know how: by writing an uproarious obituary.
This one is dedicated to my Uncle Orpheus. He could sometimes act like a decent man, but that was usually done as a ruse to dupe the elderly into signing up for one of his pyramid schemes.
His proud shock of frizzy blond hair never faded to gray because he dunked his head in bleach water to sober up each and every morning. He was a gaseous man, bloated with life, who lost two fingers in Vietnam while proving to his fellow soldiers that he could indeed slam dunk the height of the whirring blades on the chopper that transported his unit. He had a palate for Cheese Wiz and schnapps, and he died before he even got the chance to exist.
Uncle Orpheus was an unpredictable vagabond whose travels were driven by an insatiable wanderlust as well as warrants for his arrest in various counties, states, and countries. Back in 2002, he crusaded across Europe in a minivan. He coined his campaign “Y'all Sound Gay When You Speak Your Native Language!” To this day it is recognized as the least effective and most offensive crusade for a global vernacular.
Up until five paragraphs ago, I had planned to spend the next few months with him in Australia. He always said it took money to buy booze, especially in excess. Excess for Uncle Orpheus required a six-figure income to support his habit. For that reason he was not content with an ordinary job. No, he was a dreamer who flirted with Lady Greatness only to have his libido subdued and crushed by three shots of schnapps at bar-close time.
His ambition Down Under was to found the Koala Bear Wrestling Federation. Ausies are fairly sophisticated and far too uppity to indulge in idiotic “sports” such as pro-wrestling. Grown men feigning violence in colorful tights? It's bloody ridiculous, they say. In Australia, they leave the sports entertainment to the koalas...only the violence is very real.
My job was to be costume designer for the koalas. Just like our country's humanoid grapplers, wrestling koalas are required to wear gaudy ensembles. Now, to some of my skeptical readers, I'm sure the notion of a koala clad in a purple Speedo with skull-and-crossbones stitched onto the crotch seems absurd. To those gripers my response is, “Would you prefer a NAKED koala? Gross!”
Had Uncle Orpheus not choked on a doobie made from parasite-ridden Eucalyptus leaves, he would have been in charge of marketing and training in the KBWF. As Head Trainer of the koala bears, he intended to convert a gentle species of herbivores into malicious brawlers capable of wielding steel chairs for entertainment purposes.
His untimely death has devastated my job prospects. As any economist will tell you, the job market for Koala Bear Speedo Designer is dire in America. My only recourse may be to set up a pyramid scheme that tricks the elderly into blowing their retirement money on Hummel figurines for autistic blind children.
But let's not dwell on that. In times of mourning, it is essential to recall the good things a departed loved-one has imparted on your life.
Case in point: The family reunion a few years ago. Uncle Orpheus showed up with his jaw wired shut. The previous week he had fractured his jaw after trying to “unscrew a pesky bottle of champagne” with his clenched teeth. What's even worse, he wasn't even holding a bottle of bubbly at the time; it was a damn bowling pin and he was too wasted off his ass to realize the difference. With his jaw wired shut, he couldn't partake in festivities such as Grandma's Beer Bong Challenge and Uncle Orville's Racial Slur Bonanza. He became envious of everyone in attendance and ordered me to dump out his bag of mushy “astronaut food” and replace it with some schnapps. He intended to consume it little by little through a straw, but I refused to accommodate.
At this point an indignant rage consumed Uncle Orpheus. He grabbed a nearby Scattegories die and hurled it at my head. I ducked just in time. The die flew over my head and cracked against my grandma's right temple. The feisty old woman's response was to chug a large quantity of German Potato Salad, which has a Popeye/ spinach effect on her. She charged Uncle Orpheus with a Jenga box packed with blocks and pummeled the hell out of him.
“I sunk your battleship, son!” grandma slurred. Her timely line didn't make much sense, but we all shared a hearty laugh, anyway.
And that is what I try to remember most about my semi-beloved fictitious uncle: the laughter. Upon your cremation, I vow to spread your ashes across the vast cyberspace of Twelvepackistan...unless Greg deems this column unfunny or too long, in which case, you're shit out of luck.
Oh, and by the way, for the sake of closure, the final attack command for “Pulverizing Pollos” is the Feather Duster.
His proud shock of frizzy blond hair never faded to gray because he dunked his head in bleach water to sober up each and every morning. He was a gaseous man, bloated with life, who lost two fingers in Vietnam while proving to his fellow soldiers that he could indeed slam dunk the height of the whirring blades on the chopper that transported his unit. He had a palate for Cheese Wiz and schnapps, and he died before he even got the chance to exist.
Uncle Orpheus was an unpredictable vagabond whose travels were driven by an insatiable wanderlust as well as warrants for his arrest in various counties, states, and countries. Back in 2002, he crusaded across Europe in a minivan. He coined his campaign “Y'all Sound Gay When You Speak Your Native Language!” To this day it is recognized as the least effective and most offensive crusade for a global vernacular.
Up until five paragraphs ago, I had planned to spend the next few months with him in Australia. He always said it took money to buy booze, especially in excess. Excess for Uncle Orpheus required a six-figure income to support his habit. For that reason he was not content with an ordinary job. No, he was a dreamer who flirted with Lady Greatness only to have his libido subdued and crushed by three shots of schnapps at bar-close time.
His ambition Down Under was to found the Koala Bear Wrestling Federation. Ausies are fairly sophisticated and far too uppity to indulge in idiotic “sports” such as pro-wrestling. Grown men feigning violence in colorful tights? It's bloody ridiculous, they say. In Australia, they leave the sports entertainment to the koalas...only the violence is very real.
My job was to be costume designer for the koalas. Just like our country's humanoid grapplers, wrestling koalas are required to wear gaudy ensembles. Now, to some of my skeptical readers, I'm sure the notion of a koala clad in a purple Speedo with skull-and-crossbones stitched onto the crotch seems absurd. To those gripers my response is, “Would you prefer a NAKED koala? Gross!”
Had Uncle Orpheus not choked on a doobie made from parasite-ridden Eucalyptus leaves, he would have been in charge of marketing and training in the KBWF. As Head Trainer of the koala bears, he intended to convert a gentle species of herbivores into malicious brawlers capable of wielding steel chairs for entertainment purposes.
His untimely death has devastated my job prospects. As any economist will tell you, the job market for Koala Bear Speedo Designer is dire in America. My only recourse may be to set up a pyramid scheme that tricks the elderly into blowing their retirement money on Hummel figurines for autistic blind children.
But let's not dwell on that. In times of mourning, it is essential to recall the good things a departed loved-one has imparted on your life.
Case in point: The family reunion a few years ago. Uncle Orpheus showed up with his jaw wired shut. The previous week he had fractured his jaw after trying to “unscrew a pesky bottle of champagne” with his clenched teeth. What's even worse, he wasn't even holding a bottle of bubbly at the time; it was a damn bowling pin and he was too wasted off his ass to realize the difference. With his jaw wired shut, he couldn't partake in festivities such as Grandma's Beer Bong Challenge and Uncle Orville's Racial Slur Bonanza. He became envious of everyone in attendance and ordered me to dump out his bag of mushy “astronaut food” and replace it with some schnapps. He intended to consume it little by little through a straw, but I refused to accommodate.
At this point an indignant rage consumed Uncle Orpheus. He grabbed a nearby Scattegories die and hurled it at my head. I ducked just in time. The die flew over my head and cracked against my grandma's right temple. The feisty old woman's response was to chug a large quantity of German Potato Salad, which has a Popeye/ spinach effect on her. She charged Uncle Orpheus with a Jenga box packed with blocks and pummeled the hell out of him.
“I sunk your battleship, son!” grandma slurred. Her timely line didn't make much sense, but we all shared a hearty laugh, anyway.
And that is what I try to remember most about my semi-beloved fictitious uncle: the laughter. Upon your cremation, I vow to spread your ashes across the vast cyberspace of Twelvepackistan...unless Greg deems this column unfunny or too long, in which case, you're shit out of luck.
Oh, and by the way, for the sake of closure, the final attack command for “Pulverizing Pollos” is the Feather Duster.
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