Jokes Instead of a Column

Occasionally I run out of ideas. When this happens, a damn shame occurs because comedy writing is what I typically do to force my mind's focus to stray from the fear of disappointing everyone I love, stepping on cracks in the pavement, and pterodactyl attacks—oh, God, in the Real World, the damn pterodactyl attacks are endless.

Although at this time I have not been able to come up with a cohesive column about a single subject in the 1,000-word range, I do have a slew of topically unrelated jokes to spew forth at your consent.

Think of this as a series of nonlinear stand-up jokes, minus the audio and any trace of visual flair (excluding this awesome font-style.) That's not so bad, is it?

If life is really all just a dream, think of how many times you've unknowingly peed the bed.
Whenever an athlete who wears the number '69' engages in mutual oral sex, it's got to mean a little extra something.

The following are bad ideas for bumper stickers:1.“My kid shot your honor student three times in the chest.”2.“I brake for child pornographers!”3.“Share the road with pedophiles on unicycles!”4.“I you can read this, you're not from Alabama.”5.“Follow me to where I hide the bodies!”

My secret to happiness? I owe it all to that pillow I own with the phrase “Hooray for Love” sewn in the fabric. It's just that easy, people.

Why do the Spanish feel the need to attach gender to inanimate objects? The Spanish live in absurd fantasy world where the computer menstruates and the hammers obsess about baseball to keep from prematurely ejaculating.

You don't see too many deaf third-base coaches in baseball, do you? That's because every time the coach signs to himself, “Damn, this polyester uniform really chafes my nuts,” the batter thinks the hit-and-run is on.

Sometimes when I'm eyeballing a gorgeous girl in a Maxim spread, I wonder if she's secretly got a Siamese Twin that was airbrushed out of the shot. Because, as I've heard from many women, they can do some pretty amazing stuff with that airbrush technology.

I was at the grocery store the other day and by the entrance I saw one of those funneled coin dispensers with a sign above it that read, “Your donations will help to feed animals at the local petting zoo.” I gladly donated all the change in my wallet. Let me tell you, it's a great feeling to know that some adorable little bunny is going to choke on your quarters.

My grandma is in the throes of severe Alzheimer's, which isn't a funny concept on the surface, but I'll tell you this: Watching baseball on ESPN is more entertaining when someone in the room keeps getting shocked and spooked by a computer rendering of the strike zone called the K-zone. I can't help but grin wickedly whenever she asks, “Did that man just swing his bat through a magic window?” No grandma, magic windows don't yet exist, God bless your heart.

Instead of that long-winded and cautionary Surgeon General's warning on the side of a box of cigarettes, I think a more persuasive disclaimer would be: “There's no cool way to wheeze, Nick.”

I was very disappointed by the contents of a compilation CD called “Monster Ballads.” It was filled with melodramatic '80s shit and there were ZERO songs that lamented the woes of monsters such as Freddy Krueger, The Wolfman, and former vice-president “Dead-eye” Dick Chaney.

In the event of a zombie uprising, the best mode of transportation is a snowplow. And don't give me that monster truck bullshit; everyone knows those things have terrible gas mileage. I've put a lot of thought into this, so just trust me on this one.

Unlike women, most men don't mind using blankets to cover up their windows. If there were no women on the face of the earth, blanket sales would skyrocket and curtain sales would plummet. And I shan't consider the setback the tampon industry would endure.

GPS Navigation Systems are an idiotic scam. Everyone should know that a plate of German Potato Salad can't be relied on to provide you with directions to your uncle's cottage on the lake.

In the future, bathroom walls will be equipped with spell-check devices. This will prove to be invaluable when you consider that so many men misspell the word “masturbate.”

I used to be enamored with a girl who told me that even though she thinks she might love me, she didn't want to give me a hug. That's when I realized I was chasing a lost cause. “I might love you but I don't want to hug you?” That's the same agreement I have with my dad.

One thing I love about having a comedic outlet which literally dozens of people will read is that I can use comedy to deliver comeuppance to anonymous assholes that have wronged me savagely in the past. For instance: Knock, knock. Who's there, you ask? Jesse Soto. Jesse Soto who? Jesse Soto is a burrito-fucking lowlife piece of shit. He knows why.

No one with a wise mind has ever claimed that life is easy, but sometimes, on serene summer twilights, when the charcoal embers in the grill slowly become extinguished like the gleam in the eyes of tuckered-out toddlers, and a flock of graceful doves fly straight overhead, I just think to myself: “Am I gonna get shit on?”

A Translation of Zooey's Meows

A few years ago I wrote a column for my college newspaper entitled “Professor Radington.” That was the name I christened a plastic robot I found discarded beside a heap of curbside trash in Wrigleyville, following hours of PBR-chugging with my friends in Chicago. Moments after lugging the Professor into my friend's apartment, I was grasping hold of his plastic claws, spinning in a circle, his stumpy frame in rotation around mine in the way that a planet orbits its Sun. P-Rad's novelty did not wear off when I sobered-up in the morning. He made the trip with us back to Oshkosh and I decided that, in addition to serving as a bizarre decoration and apartment mascot, I was going to pay him tribute with a humor column.

The idea for the piece was that I was eagerly awaiting fatherhood (which wasn't the truth), but I wanted to be sure I could meet the daunting challenge before undertaking such a major responsibility. And so I tired my hand at dog ownership, with poor results, and consequently lowered my standards down to comatosed dogs, houseplants, and finally, after all these endeavors had failed in one way or another, plastic robots. Dogs, coma dogs, houseplants, and plastic robots—that was the chain of ownership in Bullshitland. In the column, I did prove to be a worthy father for P-Rad. Inanimate objects are safe in my care. As for creatures with a heartbeat, I am less adept at meeting their needs.

Oddly enough, for several years I really did own a pet, a (semi-) legitimate stepping stone on the path to fatherhood. It never occurred to me to apply this life experience to an absurd column that proposed a hierarchy of care-taking that ranged from plastic robots to children. On this scale, aquatic frogs rank somewhere between houseplants and coma-dogs.

My frog, named Kermit, with little creativity, survived for about eight years, provided ten minutes of entertainment in that time, received virtually no affection (mainly because human touch could be damaging to this breed of frogs), and required sporadic maintenance. I came to acquire Kermit when I was eleven years old. For Christmas in 1994, besides Chicago Cubs attire and Super Nintendo games, with brash ambition, I asked for a dog. Deep down, I knew it was a forlorn wish since my dad has a disdain for pets. As kids, we were allowed to keep goldfish, because they were quiet, cheap, and dispensable, but any creature with four legs was simply out of the question. My dad reasoned that six life forms under one roof was sufficient. The Olig household was kept in a state of sterility—all walls were painted white, as if vibrant colors would incite neuroses and thuggery, the Oldies station played at a barely audible volume, providing familiar background noise while my dad filled out his crossword puzzle, and my parents generally believed it was foolish and impractical to feed yet another irresponsible stain-creator.

The reason why Kermit was excluded in my column about Professor Radington is that I hardly considered him a pet; he was more of a living, breathing afterthought. Once a day I had to scoop two crusty food pellets into his tank. Once a month I had to provide him fresh water to swim around in, dumping him into a smaller container temporarily until the change was made. In his twilight years, Kermit croaked in loud repetition throughout the night and became a real nuisance. Apparently, the lesson my parents were trying to teach me by giving me Kermit for Christmas was this: Pets are a pain the ass, son, and they're not worth the trouble.

For the month of July in 2009 I sublet an apartment in Chicago's Logan Square neighborhood. I shared a two-bedroom place with Anna, a thoughtful and cute earthy girl without pretensions who had recently graduated from the Roosevelt Acting Academy. She was becoming a strong-willed, independent adult, which is a very serious business, and so she liked to keep a box of crayons, a sheet of drawing paper, and a hash-pipe nearby whenever possible, as sort of a reward to the struggle. She owned unicorn's head attached to stick that the make-believe rider could straddle, which she kept on the back porch, leaning against the glass table where we placed our ashtrays and drinks. I named the unicorn Rhonda, a name Anna loathed and rejected, though she never offered an acceptable alternative. Rhonda was to Anna what Professor Radington was to me. Anna's kitten, whom she had owned for eight months, had ran away not long before I moved into the apartment, and perhaps Rhonda the unicorn filled the void in some capacity—in that hollow, unsatisfying way unique to inanimate objects.

The second night I stayed at the apartment, we were offered a responsibility steeper than caring for a unicorn's head on a stick. Anna and I inherited a cat named Zooey from our neighbor Matt, who wasn't going to be our neighbor for very much longer because he was in the process of moving out. Matt and Anna had lived next door to each other for about a year but had never really extended cordial handshakes across the back porch that separated their apartments. They agreed that was a shame following two hours of conversation, seated in squawking lawn chairs and smoking cigarettes amidst the dimly lit fringe of tomorrow.

Matt was a successful entrepreneur in the computer sales business until he quit the cushy yet hectic job a few years ago. After a lengthy stint of hibernating without a job, he was now working as a pizza deliveryman. His odd career change wasn't precipitated by the Great Depression Remix, as one might expect. Matt claimed he had accomplished all of his professional goals and helped his parents out of a financial bind and simply wanted to ask, “What's next?”

He was a dead-ringer for actor Jeff Goldbloom, only Matt is more slender and his hair is brown rather than black. Not only did Matt bare a strong resemblance to the star of “Jurassic Park” and “Independence Day,” the two also shared mannerisms, the same intellectual ticks and thoughtful vocalized pauses. Matt's likeness to Goldbloom was especially striking when, at my humble request, he logged onto my computer in hope of figuring out why my laptop couldn't access the Internet. Hunched over the keyboard with his glasses reflecting the glow from the screen, he murmured jargon about troubleshooting, gigabytes, hard-drives, flying toasters, and Flux-Capacitors with the same scientific focus that Dr. Goldbloom displayed when he hacked into the mainframe of the alien mothership to disable the invaders' force fields. *

As stated before, Matt had recently landed a job at a pizzeria. One advantage delivering pizzas has over selling computers is that the deliveryman is entitled to brim home his share of unsold pizzas. In making his appeal to us, his slices of pepperoni proved to be excellent bargaining chips. For similar reasons, this is why a man must buy an expensive dinner for his girlfriend before offering her an engagement ring: It's much harder to say no to someone when they have recently fed you. People with empty stomachs soon get cranky and ill-tempered and are therefore less willing to accept a proposal—whether it be for marriage or the ownership of a cat.

While some cats meow in a playful, almost serene fashion, Zooey's meows were always petulant and accusatory. Because, unlike my roommate, I'm a man just like her beloved owner of 11 years, Zooey preferred to sleep in my bedroom. To be more accurate, she wasn't really inclined to sleep in my bedroom, at least not between the hours of two and six in the morning. Instead, she pestered me with plaintive meows while I fitfully tried to sleep. I would throttle my pillow and writhe underneath the covers for hours until she either shut up or I forced her to sleep in Anna's bedroom. Since Zooey is the first cat I've ever taken care of, you might expect me to be slow to learn the nuances of her distinct vernacular, but this is not the case. In the twilight hours of the very first night Zooey roamed about my bedroom meowing cantankerously, I gained a comprehensive understanding of her language.

Listed below I have documented translations for an array of Zooey's meows.

Meow #1: Where the hell is my rightful owner?
#2: You're certainly not my rightful owner, and for posing as such, you have gained a vicious foe.
#3: It's too windy outside, and it's all your fault.
#4: I've got a gripe with the chef around here: Where the fuck did you get the idea that Friskies' Classic Pate garnished with a dozen hungry ants is a treat for my pallet? You've got an ant infestation in your kitchen because you're a failure.
#5: It's funny—even though I'm repelled by your touch, I still get annoyed whenever you stop petting me. Ha—what a Catch-22!
#6: How thoughtful! Thank you for petting my silky fur moments after scratching that fiery itch you've got inside your rectum. Your hygiene is commendable, my good man.
#7: Well, which liquid has been filled in my dish this time? Oh my, be still my feline heart, what an considerate and creative choice: It's water! Boy, I never get tired of lapping the same flavorless, lukewarm fluid everyday. My eager taste buds will soon be born anew. Rejuvenated! And it's all thanks to you, old sport, for providing my thirsting tongue with such a bland liquid. (6 and 7 are examples of deadpan kitty sarcasm.)
#8: Once my opposable thumbs grow in, I'll be glad to grab the little shovel and scoop my turds out of the litter box into the garbage can. Oh, wait, it's going to take thousands of years of evolutionary development for that to happen. Hmm...well, in the meantime, if it's not too much trouble, could you be a dear and put down the Super Nintendo controller for two fucking minutes to clean the crusty clumps of shit out of my litter box?! (6-8 are examples of sinister kitty sarcasm.)
#9: “Transformers,” “GI Joe,” Christ, even “He-Man” back in the '80s, all those cartoon shows have been made into movies. Why hasn't anybody produced a movie based on the “Thundercats”? I'll tell you why: Because your dopey generation has lousy taste. You don't appreciate the “Thundercats” because you can't accept the fact that cats are superior to mankind, He-mankind, and even the god-damn transforming robots. Jesus, I can't begin to tell you how inspiring it was to see a cat strut around on two legs, thrusting a sword into the air, its chiseled pectoral muscles glistening in the sun.
#10: There are too many Mexicans in this neighborhood. And for that, Nicholas, the blame falls squarely on your shoulders.

Zooey's meows were more than just wails of discontent, they were salty indictments. Her disapproval relented at last in the wee hours of the morning when, having nagged herself drowsy, she finally succumbed to the consoling strokes and blanket fortress I provided for her. To Zooey, falling asleep meant the surrender of a bitter and indignant battle against everything that was wrong in her world.

I no longer live in that apartment in Logan Square with Anna, which is too bad because Zooey warmed up to me incrementally as the weeks went by. Sadly, my departure from Chicago probably worsened the poor cat's abandonment issues. In the spirit of wrapping up these columns by traveling full-circle, it should be noted that I have recently become reunited with Professor Radington. The downside of this reunion is that P-Rad is in storage along with a lot of my other clutter in my parents' basement. I'm trying to be optimistic about the situation. Typically parents' basements are where dreams go to die. I assure you, my dreams are merely in a severe coma.

For the time being I can be likened to a fluffy bag of marshmallows stored in a darkened kitchen cupboard, not useful but peaceful, existing, acutely aware that all marshmallows eventually get toasted.

On Comedy Central the other night I watched Greg Giraldo's stand-up special. He explained that his income wasn't hindered by the Great Depression Remix because he preferred to invest his money in strippers and tequila rather than stocks. The quote that he offered to give me solace is as follows: “Now is a pretty good time to be a fuck-up. The expectations are so low.” As long as these woefully bleak times linger, blending in with the fuck-ups will be all too easy.

* This paragraph offers proof that I am more knowledgeable about film trivia, which is virtually useless information, than computer maintenance, which is helpful information, especially because I am so reliant on computers. It is very telling that I classified a fairly simple term such as hard-drive as jargon. If you're looking for somebody to pay homage to Doc Brown from “Back to the Future” by screaming “ONE-POINT-TWENTY-ONE JIGOWATTS!” while climaxing, then I'm your man. But I'm not the guy to consult when your computer takes a shit for reasons beyond your comprehension.

The High School Reunion

“The High School Reunion”
Characters:
Russell Stanke: Underachieving yet womanizing redneck, expert angler, late 20s
Chad Deiner: Prominent lawyer, same age
Bruce Jenson: Successful advertising executive, same age
Diane Worthy: Famous actress, same age

Drinks in hand, Chad mimes munching on hors d'oeuvres when he is approached from behind by Bruce. Both are dressed formally. “The Thong Song” plays softly in the background but fades out once the dialog begins.

Bruce: Holy Shit-snappers! Chad, is that you?

Chad: Bruce? My God, it's been ten years since we graduated high school and you look almost exactly the same.

Bruce: You too, bro—aside from the receding hairline, of course.

Chad: Ouch! Taking shots below the belt right away, are you? Well, it's a real comfort to know you're still a ball-breaker after all these years. Hell, I've grown so accustomed to getting my ass kissed by all the underlings at my law firm the last few years. Thanks for telling it like it is, you cold-hearted prick.

Bruce: I keep it real, just like our main man Coolio. (Singing) Slide, slide, slippity-slide/ When you're living in the city it's do or die. We dug that song! Remember bumping that jam in my parents' Dodge Dynasty, puffing out of that piece I crafted in wood shop class the day we had a substitute?

Chad: Dude, that thing hit like a champ! God, it really doesn't feel like all that long ago...

Bruce: I know; it's such a head-trip. The other day I was shot-gunning a can of Blatz right before an important meeting with some new clients and I thought to myself, “This reminds me of ditching 7th hour Chemistry to get my Blatz on with my buddy Chad. I mean, it feels like high school was only yesterday, for God's sake.

Diane enters the scene, gazing about uncertainly.

Chad: Diane? No way—I can't believe you made it. It's awesome to see you.

Bruce: Hey, it's Miss Topless on the Cover of Maxim herself! You have no idea how many props I got around the office when I told everybody I went to high school with you.

Diane: Hi, Chad. Hi...Bruce. Wow, the crew from eighth-hour algebra has reunited. Good times. So...what are you two doing to pay the pay bills these days?

Chad: Well, I graduated from law school a few years ago. Since then I've been working at a law firm, and it might interest you to know that a couple months ago I became a partner at Crocker, Pitt, Marshall, and Deiner.

Bruce: Quit hogging the spotlight, bro. You're not the only one living the dream. I'm an advertising executive. I just made a cool hundred-grand by writing a catchy jingle for Anal-Aid hemorrhoid cream.(Singing) Anal-aid, Anal-aid, it's the greatest cream, ever made.Ring any bells?

Chad: Wow. You wrote that jingle?

Bruce: Shit yeah, I did. Damn near drove myself bonkers trying to come up with a word that rhymes with “aid.” But three months into the struggle—BAM—it finally hit me like a ton of bricks.

Chad: Sweet. And Diane, for the latest updates on your career, all we have to do is tune into an episode of “Access Hollywood.”

Bruce: “Summer Camp Confidential” was the bomb, Diane! You played that mousy chick who gets contact-lenses and then learns how to be all hot and stuff. How did you learn to act like someone who wears glasses? You must have done a shit-ton of research.

Diane: Oh, it wasn't quite as challenging as it looked, Bruce. Well, I hope this doesn't sound haughty, but it's good to know that not everyone here is intimidated by my success.

Bruce: Yeah, Fife High School's class of '99 has got it going on! Not a failure in the bunch.
Russell Stanke enters the scene, wearing a torn tuxedo shirt that reveals his tattooed biceps. He is brandishing a massive walleye that is still dripping water.

Russell: Hey fuckers, check out this fish I done just caught. It's twenty pounds if it's an ounce!

Bruce: Oh, God. It's Russell Stanke. The biggest redneck in Lawn Dart County. Did he even graduate?

Russell: Took six weeks of bustin' my hump in summer school, but I done learned me my times-table and all umpteen of them planets. Now get out of my way. This pretty lady has gotta get a load of this walleye.

Diane: Wow. That certainly is...big, Russell. Pungent, too.

Chad: Pungent? Jesus, that's putting it mildly. If swamps had assholes, they would smell like that fish.

Russell: Don't sass me, lawyer boy. You might've taken me for ev'ry penny I got with your fruity court case, but redemption is mine. This here walleye prob'ly weighs quadruple-times that schemin' Ivy League noggin of yours.

Diane: What is he talking about?

Chad: Stanke was running an illegal daredevil stunt show that starred a bunch of junior high kids. One of the boys—

Russell: Once a boy decides he wants to become a daredevil, he turns into a man. And men got the right to make their own damn decisions.

Chad: Don't interrupt me, Stanke. One of the boys split his head open trying to back-flip over a septic tank on his bike in the town junkyard. The kid's parents sued Russell for reckless endangerment. We won the case.

Russell: You won the battle, but I won the war, college. If you can't catch a fish what's bigger than mine 'fore the end of this shindig, then I'm the better man.

Bruce: (Scoffs) That logic is totally fucked, Stanke.

Russell: And you. Six months ago you was visitin' home for Christmas when I spotted you outside Sheldon's Liquor Store. You was tryin' to smoke some reefer out of an empty can of Sparx, and done told you, “Hey man, you gotta poke a carb into the that bad boy.” So I got out my Swiss Army Knife and we got to talkin', and you says for the life of you, you can't think of no words that rhyme with “Aid.” Couple hours and bowls later, it comes to me: “Made.” Now yesterday when I switch on the TV I see you done stole my word-idea for that fancy butt cream.

Bruce: You can't prove a thing, Stanke!

Russell: Maybe so, but I know the truth, sure as I know this walleye put up one helluva fight, enough to snap your pansy wrists in half if you was trying to catch it.

Chad: Enough about the fish, Stanke. You know, I've caught some pretty big walleyes, too. And you know what else? I'm a lawyer!

Diane: Boys! Please. I didn't fly home all the way from Los Angeles to listen to childish arguments. Be civil. We only get to see each other like this once every ten years, and this will be my final appearance if you keep it up with this clash of egos nonsense. Now. Russell, aside from the walleye you've recently caught, which is indeed impressive, what are you doing with your life?

Russell: 'Fore the recession that all the minorities brought on, I was a part-time dune buggy repairman. When dune buggies got too ritzy-like for the locals, I ran a daredevil extravaganza for young men at the junkyard, but we all know what happened with that. Now I spend my time impressin' ladies and embarrassin' chumps with the fish I catch. And business is damn good.

Diane: I see. And what kind of bait did you use to catch this prodigious walleye?

Chad: Come on, Diane. Don't indulge him.

Diane: I'll do whatever I please, Chad. Russell has done something remarkable with brute strength, determination, and guile. He's interesting to me. He doesn't just sit in a chair behind a desk in an office all-day long.

Russell: Well, since you asked, I done used night crawlers that was almost as juicy as them pretty lips of yours, sugar.

Diane: (Giggles) Oh, Russell. Behave yourself.

Chad: Diane, for Christ's sake, this hick just compared your lips to slimy worms that get impaled by hooks. He's disgusting!

Bruce: Yeah, no shit. Catching huge walleyes? Is that what trips your trigger? Really? 'Cause I guess the six-figure salary I rake in every year doesn't mean squat, then.

Chad: Right. And what about becoming the youngest partner in the 80-year history of one of the most prestigious law firms in the South? I suppose that doesn't matter, either, since I didn't show up to a formal event hoisting up the smelly carcass of an animal I just killed.

Bruce: Hey, bro, let's go fishing.

Chad: That's a great idea. First we go to Dunham's to buy some rods, then it's off to the bait shop, then Gallagher's Pond. Then we'll see who's the most successful guy at this reunion.

Bruce: Damn right. We'll be back around midnight, Diane, with a couple of twenty-five pound walleyes!

Snarling with determination, the two men stomp their way offstage.

Diane: Don't they realize that late in the evening is the absolute worst time to go fishing?

Russell: Na. But don't fret 'bout them loser, beautiful. Now how 'bout you and me mosey on out of here, grill up this tasty beast, and get down to stokin' some hot coals by the fireside?

Diane: Russell Stanke, you complete me.