Originally printed in the Advance-Titan, this is an oldie, as evidenced by the reference to Donald Rumsfeld as the current Secretary of Defense. Do I need to get with the times? No, I simply need to write more original material.
Halloween season is upon us, which means spooky tales of apparitions and bloodsuckers will be told with greater regularity and deeper resonance. As far as I’m concerned, the prospect of spending a night in a haunted house is about one-hundredth as terrifying as never obtaining Social Security—living until the age of 110 and working fulltime until 108.
Ghosts don’t scare me and I’ll tell you why: you never read about a ghost hijacking a plane and crashing it into a building. Ghosts are melodramatic and harmless. When’s the last time you heard of a ghost bombing an abortion clinic or kidnapping a local girl?
While visiting the supposedly haunted house of a friend a few years back, I wandered from room to room belligerently taunting the ghosts, trying to ferret out the elusive spirits with insults. For twenty minutes or so, I walked around talking shit to thin air, but my teasing didn’t cause any paranormal retaliation. Finally, while pacing back and forth in the laundry room, obnoxiously muttering about how much it must suck to be trapped in limbo between mortality and the afterlife, my shoelaces were somehow untied with a forceful tug.
Did that instance frighten me into feeling stern reverence for ghosts? Hell no! Having untied shoelaces is a minor inconvenience; it’s not scary in the slightest. I can just picture that rascally ghoul rubbing his hands diabolically, sneering and, saying to himself, “Heh. That ought to show him.” What’s next? Is this sissified spirit going to flick my ear or steal one of my chocolate chip cookies? (Sarcastic shudder.)
Those of you who are deathly terrified of ghosts can’t deny that actual LIVING people are responsible for an overwhelming majority of the world’s wars, genocides, murders, rapes, stabbings, suicide bombings, hate crimes, thefts, child molestations, vicious beatings, vehicular manslaughters, arsons, callous insults, tittie twisters, closing-elevator-door snubs, vandalisms, plagiarisms, jay-walkings and “Now That’s What I Call Music!” It’s the living that freak me out. If you’re looking for a horrifying Halloween outfit, leave your Casper sheet at home and dress up like North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il or Ryan Seacrest.
Enough about ghosts; they don’t deserve an entire column’s worth of material. Let’s move on to vampires. Something about vampires just doesn’t add up to me. Given the fact that they don’t appear in reflective surfaces, isn’t it strange that they’re all so primly groomed and presentable? Without a mirror to use for reference, you’d think they’d all be slovenly doofs with boogers in their noses and bits of jugular stuck between their teeth. Instead of handsome men like Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt, contemporary depictions of vampires should resemble bedraggled misfits like Tim Burton and mug shot Nick Nolte—people who obviously haven’t dared to look at their reflection in years. Self-reflection is at the core of vanity, and vampires completely defy that.
A brief overview of ghouls just wouldn’t be complete without mentioning zombies. The living dead rank as my favorite breed of supernatural monsters, due in large part to my affinity with the film “Shaun of the Dead,” the video game “Resident Evil,” and my radiantly pale bare chest. (As a cost-effective alternative to lighthouses, my blindingly pallid pectorals could serve as a luminous beacon to ships gone astray on the high seas.)
To disrupt the stifling tedium of everyday life, I would heartily welcome a zombie infestation. True, destruction and casualties would be unavoidable, but let’s be realistic, when has humanity avoided destruction and casualties for longer than eight seconds?
I am neither exceptionally brave nor patriotic, but I’d sign up for the Army if the U.S. were involved in a war with a nation of zombies. Because in that unlikely scenario, you know you’re fighting for the right side. Murdering a sleuth of foreign people believed to be a threat to our ideals and lifestyles is likely to cause some nagging moral confliction, maybe even a hint of remorse. But there’s none of that limp-wristed, theatre-major ambivalence when it comes to zombies! They are intellectually stagnant, ghastly carnivores with no capacity for morality.
Suppose someone dear to you, such as your sibling, significant other or drug dealer, abruptly converted from Christianity to Islam, or perhaps decided to reject democracy in favor of communism. You’d probably feel bamboozled and disquieted, possibly even hostile, but would you resort to homicide? I doubt it. If, on the other hand, a loved one, such as your sibling, significant other, or drug dealer, converted from humanity to zombiehood, you’d be a cowardly fool not to bash their skull with the nearest dough roller you can find.
A crusade against a throng of staggering zombies is just what this nation needs to soothe the dissention that threatens to divides us. It would also mark the first time since World War II that we’ve engaged in warfare with beings even whiter than us.
For once, I’d love to be a part of the widespread jingoism that grips America in times of war. Think of the possibilities. Country singer Toby Keith would top the charts for twelve weeks with his infectious ditty, “Only Good Zombie is a Decapitated One.” FOX News would air crudely superimposed photos of zombies burning American flags and effigies of Bill O’Reilly, Colonel Sanders and Mr. T. and Conservatives and liberals alike would malign Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld for evoking Benedict Arnold and switching his allegiance to the side of the undead. In this strange, hypothetical scenario, we’d tell ourselves we should’ve known something was amiss when he started devouring Chris Matthews at a press conference. But considering the pundit had just rudely pointed that the majority of our troops are being armed with cracked Wiffle-ball bats, we just smiled and mused, “Same Old Rummy.”
Oh, and speaking of certain members of the administration, they are also much scarier than ghosts.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Blue Tooth Confusion
*This one goes out to my pals in the Intro to Comedy Writing Class at the Second City in Chicago. Lisa, Phillip, Grant, Natasha, John, Scott, Mike, Chad, Courtney, Aaron, Kelly, Rebecca, and the elusive Elliot. Fate worse than death awaits me if I forgot anyone. Hope to return to Chicago, with the court case settled and my brain chemicals re-balanced. Someday, I can only hope, my level of appreciation will not be the most profound in hindsight.
“BLUE TOOTH CONFUSION”
10/4/08
CAST
John – 30s, Graphics Designer
Drake – 30s, Stockbroker
Dolores – 50s, Homeless Woman
10/4/08
CAST
John – 30s, Graphics Designer
Drake – 30s, Stockbroker
Dolores – 50s, Homeless Woman
(Two men face the crowd. Drake is
a smug yuppie clad in a suit and
tie. John is dressed casually. He
stares forward with an expression
of aloof dread.)
DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a purple line train to Linden.
DRAKE
Hey, do you know who won the Cubs game?
JOHN
No clue. I’m sorry, but I don’t follow baseball.
DRAKE
I wasn’t talking to you, bro.
JOHN
Oh. My mistake.
DRAKE
Yeah.
(Beat.)
DRAKE
Hey, what’s the forecast for tonight? The crew and I want to grill some dogs on the roof and I gotta know if Old Man God is gonna piss on the party...
Hello?
JOHN
It’s supposed to rain—yeah. I tuned into the Weather Channel this morning and apparently there’s, like, a seventy-percent chance—
DRAKE
Hold on a second, babe. Some guy at the train stop is squawking in my ear.
(He glowers at John.)
JOHN
...I’m confused. You keep saying you’re not talking to me, but there’s nobody else around, and you don’t have a cell phone, either.
a smug yuppie clad in a suit and
tie. John is dressed casually. He
stares forward with an expression
of aloof dread.)
DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a purple line train to Linden.
DRAKE
Hey, do you know who won the Cubs game?
JOHN
No clue. I’m sorry, but I don’t follow baseball.
DRAKE
I wasn’t talking to you, bro.
JOHN
Oh. My mistake.
DRAKE
Yeah.
(Beat.)
DRAKE
Hey, what’s the forecast for tonight? The crew and I want to grill some dogs on the roof and I gotta know if Old Man God is gonna piss on the party...
Hello?
JOHN
It’s supposed to rain—yeah. I tuned into the Weather Channel this morning and apparently there’s, like, a seventy-percent chance—
DRAKE
Hold on a second, babe. Some guy at the train stop is squawking in my ear.
(He glowers at John.)
JOHN
...I’m confused. You keep saying you’re not talking to me, but there’s nobody else around, and you don’t have a cell phone, either.
(Drake turns his head and points.)
DRAKE
I’m fitted with a Bluetooth, Einstein. My woman is at home surfing the Net. I get constant news updates thanks to this gadget.
JOHN
What gadget? I don’t see anything in your ear.
DRAKE
That’s because it’s a Camo-tooth.
JOHN
Camo-tooth?
DRAKE
That’s what I said. Camo-tooth is the latest upgrade in high-dollar-comm. Blends in perfectly with the color of your inner ear so you look like a normal person, not some dumb-ass listening to a piece of shrapnel. You should buy one if you’re not too poor.
JOHN
Hmmm. It seems like a neat device, but I try to be careful about splurging on luxury items. They don’t always bring people happiness, you know. Plus, and no offense, but I think Bluetooths are kind of silly.
DRAKE
Blow me.
JOHN
What? How dare you talk to me that way!
DRAKE
Chill. I was talking to my girlfriend. She finished giving me all the updates I asked for and then she asked if there was anything else she could do. I tuned you out after you said, “Hmmm.” What were you saying?
JOHN
Never mind.
(Dolores, a bedraggled homeless
woman, enters the scene and
flanks John. She is wearing a
newspaper diaper.)
DOLORES
That shifty doctor stole all my estrogen!
DRAKE
What does that matter?
DOLORES
Why, because it’s the most precious of all the lady juices; that’s why it matters!
DRAKE
Huh? This doesn’t concern you, lady. My woman said she has a headache. That’s a pretty sorry excuse for b.j. denial.
(Beat.)
DOLORES
JOHN
What gadget? I don’t see anything in your ear.
DRAKE
That’s because it’s a Camo-tooth.
JOHN
Camo-tooth?
DRAKE
That’s what I said. Camo-tooth is the latest upgrade in high-dollar-comm. Blends in perfectly with the color of your inner ear so you look like a normal person, not some dumb-ass listening to a piece of shrapnel. You should buy one if you’re not too poor.
JOHN
Hmmm. It seems like a neat device, but I try to be careful about splurging on luxury items. They don’t always bring people happiness, you know. Plus, and no offense, but I think Bluetooths are kind of silly.
DRAKE
Blow me.
JOHN
What? How dare you talk to me that way!
DRAKE
Chill. I was talking to my girlfriend. She finished giving me all the updates I asked for and then she asked if there was anything else she could do. I tuned you out after you said, “Hmmm.” What were you saying?
JOHN
Never mind.
(Dolores, a bedraggled homeless
woman, enters the scene and
flanks John. She is wearing a
newspaper diaper.)
DOLORES
That shifty doctor stole all my estrogen!
DRAKE
What does that matter?
DOLORES
Why, because it’s the most precious of all the lady juices; that’s why it matters!
DRAKE
Huh? This doesn’t concern you, lady. My woman said she has a headache. That’s a pretty sorry excuse for b.j. denial.
(Beat.)
DOLORES
Rats are stubborn about accepting direction. The stupid varmints ruined my production of The Nutcratcker.
JOHN
JOHN
Clever title.
DOLORES
Nobody asked you. I’ve got a blue tooth in my ear.
(She removes a tooth from her
ear; it is colored blue.)
It ripped out of my mouth while I was trying to bite through a bike lock. The filament in there keeps me connected to my Blog on the information speedway.
JOHN
Good God. How did you get a blue tooth?
DRAKE
Scamming gullible investors has afforded me lots of cool stuff.
JOHN
Not you. Her.
DOLORES
For the last eight months I’ve subsisted on blueberry Pixie sticks.
DRAKE
Hey toots, I need to know how my stocks are doing.
DOLORES
Well, lucky for you, I got access to all the latest stock market updates.
JOHN
He was talking to his girlfriend.
DRAKE
The hell I was. This homeless woman is wearing a copy of today’s edition of the Tribune.
DOLORES
Stocks are printed on my right buttock.
(Drake nods and leans in to
inspect her backside.)
DRAKE
All right! Micronetics rose 28% today.
(He gives Dolores a high-five.)
JOHN
Why didn’t you ask your girlfriend for that information?
DRAKE
We broke up. I guess she dumped me. Said some nonsense about psychological abuse. Life moves fast. I’m a free man now. It’s time to play the field. You bring good luck, homeless woman, and I dig the way you talk.
DOLORES
Nobody asked you. I’ve got a blue tooth in my ear.
(She removes a tooth from her
ear; it is colored blue.)
It ripped out of my mouth while I was trying to bite through a bike lock. The filament in there keeps me connected to my Blog on the information speedway.
JOHN
Good God. How did you get a blue tooth?
DRAKE
Scamming gullible investors has afforded me lots of cool stuff.
JOHN
Not you. Her.
DOLORES
For the last eight months I’ve subsisted on blueberry Pixie sticks.
DRAKE
Hey toots, I need to know how my stocks are doing.
DOLORES
Well, lucky for you, I got access to all the latest stock market updates.
JOHN
He was talking to his girlfriend.
DRAKE
The hell I was. This homeless woman is wearing a copy of today’s edition of the Tribune.
DOLORES
Stocks are printed on my right buttock.
(Drake nods and leans in to
inspect her backside.)
DRAKE
All right! Micronetics rose 28% today.
(He gives Dolores a high-five.)
JOHN
Why didn’t you ask your girlfriend for that information?
DRAKE
We broke up. I guess she dumped me. Said some nonsense about psychological abuse. Life moves fast. I’m a free man now. It’s time to play the field. You bring good luck, homeless woman, and I dig the way you talk.
(Overcome with emotion,
Dolores begins sniffling
with joy.)
DOLORES
It’s been so long since a man has given me a compliment. Thank you.
DRAKE
Stop crying!
DOLORES
(offended)
What?!
DRAKE
Oh, not you, baby. My ex-girlfriend is still on the line. She’s crying, saying she wants to get back together, but she’s just a part of my past—I swear.
DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a brown line train to Kimball.
JOHN
I’ll see you two later. The train is calling me.
(He exits the scene.)
DOLORES
Who needs the brown line when we can take the blue line together?
(She produces a blue Pixie
Stick and empties it out
above their frantically
probing tongues and lips.)
DRAKE
Delicious. Hey, did that guy really think the train was calling him?
DOLORES
I think so. What a nut-job!
(Blackout.)
with joy.)
DOLORES
It’s been so long since a man has given me a compliment. Thank you.
DRAKE
Stop crying!
DOLORES
(offended)
What?!
DRAKE
Oh, not you, baby. My ex-girlfriend is still on the line. She’s crying, saying she wants to get back together, but she’s just a part of my past—I swear.
DISEMBODIED VOICE
This is a brown line train to Kimball.
JOHN
I’ll see you two later. The train is calling me.
(He exits the scene.)
DOLORES
Who needs the brown line when we can take the blue line together?
(She produces a blue Pixie
Stick and empties it out
above their frantically
probing tongues and lips.)
DRAKE
Delicious. Hey, did that guy really think the train was calling him?
DOLORES
I think so. What a nut-job!
(Blackout.)
Friday, October 3, 2008
Nightmare on Elm Street Rock Opera
It's October, the month of Halloween and Chicago Cubs playoff meltdowns, and to commemorate the former (the latter merits no swooning tribute), I have to offer the track listing of Freddy Krueger's rock opera. Consider this a sticky globule of Worther's Original that I'm dumping into your bag of treats in lieu of the Twix bars you were hoping for.
*All songs written and performed by Freddy Krueger
1. The Raped Nun Overture
2. Daddy Dearest Murder Victim (Guest vocals: Alice Cooper)
3. Put Sawdust on Your Own Damn Vomit
4. Pedophile with Style
5. Boiler Room Barbeque
6. Satan Claws are Coming to Town
7. Water Bed Bloodshed (with Johnny Depp on guitar)
8. Motley Crucifix
9. Slayed by Some Bitch
10. Dream Infection Resurrection
11. Poolside Genocide
12. Grab Your Crucifix and I'll Grab Your Jugular...Bitch
13. The Old Man and the Sequels
14. Stab-Happy Grand-papi
15. Slayed by Some Bitch (reprise)
16. Jason Is a Total Pussy
*All songs written and performed by Freddy Krueger
1. The Raped Nun Overture
2. Daddy Dearest Murder Victim (Guest vocals: Alice Cooper)
3. Put Sawdust on Your Own Damn Vomit
4. Pedophile with Style
5. Boiler Room Barbeque
6. Satan Claws are Coming to Town
7. Water Bed Bloodshed (with Johnny Depp on guitar)
8. Motley Crucifix
9. Slayed by Some Bitch
10. Dream Infection Resurrection
11. Poolside Genocide
12. Grab Your Crucifix and I'll Grab Your Jugular...Bitch
13. The Old Man and the Sequels
14. Stab-Happy Grand-papi
15. Slayed by Some Bitch (reprise)
16. Jason Is a Total Pussy
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Sports Chat
I wrote this one for a class I took at Chicago's Second City.
“SPORTS CHAT”
9/12/08
CAST
Roy Plonske - 40s, Radio Show Host
Lane Vundervetti – 20s, NFL kicker
(Radio Booth)
(Two men sit facing each other.
The older one mimes pressing dials on a switchboard.)
ROY PLONSKE
Hello and welcome to “Sports Chat” on AM 820, the Chicago area’s number one source for all you Sports fanatics. My guest today is Lane Vundervetti, who I believe is a kicker in the National Football League. Is that correct, Lane?
LANE VUNDERVETTI
Um, yes. I’m a kicker for the Jaguars.
ROY PLONSKE
Fantastic. But more important than your career is the fact that you love Sports. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks: Which three words come to your mind when I say “Sports”?
LANE VUNDERVETTI
Hmmm. Interesting question. Off the top of my head, I’d have to say, “Thrilling,” “triumphant,” and “competitive.”
ROY PLONSKE
Uh-huh. I agree with the first two words whole-heartedly, but “competitive” is a bit of a head-scratcher to me. Unless you mean to suggest that each note of Sports is competing to out-rock the previous note. In which case, one could hardly disagree.
LANE VUNDERVETTI
(confused)
Competing to out-rock the previous note...
ROY PLONSKE
Right. That’s what I thought you meant. Here’s a doozey of a question: which do you prefer, the A-side or the B-side?
LANE VUNDERVETTI
The A-side or the B-side of what?
ROY PLONSKE
Why, Sports, of course. The topic of this radio show.
LANE VUNDERVETTI
Well...by A-side or B-side, do you mean, like, pros vs. cons? 'Cause I’d have to say the pros, such as being paid a great deal of money to play sports...
ROY PLONSKE
Whoa! There’s a company that’ll pay you to play Sports? I’d quit this radio gig in a second if I could snag a job like that. At least five times a day I play Sports.
LANE VUNDERVETTI
Really? I didn’t realize you were so athletic.
ROY PLONSKE
I didn’t mention athletics. I’m talking about Sports, a musical achievement you agreed was both thrilling and triumphant.
LANE VUNDERVETTI
I’m lost. What exactly are you talking about?
ROY PLONSKE
Sports, you meat-head! The chart-topping album by Huey Lewis and the News.
LANE VUNDERVETTI
Wait. Let me get this straight. You’ve devoted a weekly half-hour radio program to an album from—what—1984?
ROY PLONSKE
1983, stupid. God. What kind of a stooge assumes sports-athletics instead of Sports-Huey Lewis when he’s asked to give an interview on “Sports Chat”?
LANE VUNDERVETTI
(sarcastic)
Right. How silly of me.
ROY PLONSKE
Well, for the seventh-straight week, “Sports Chat” is going to call it quits prematurely due to miscommunication with a dumb jock. But before you get the hell out of here, Lane, answer my question: the A-side or B-side?
LANE VUNDERVETTI
(beat, followed by dry delivery)
The A-side.
ROY PLONSKE
The man’s got a soft spot for the “Heart of Rock and Roll,” “Heart and Soul” opening salvo. And who could blame him? Don’t touch that dial because “World News Tonight” is up next. The News is gonna share tales of all the wild parties they had on their '86 World Tour.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Hey God, Are You Out There?
Originally printed in The Advance-Titan, in October of 2006.
Olig to God, do you copy? Over. (Static hiss.) I repeat: Olig to God, do you copy? Over. Ha! That got your attention, didn’t it?
Considering there might be millions of other frail and aimless humans trying to channel you at this very moment, I figured I had to do something to set myself apart from the herd by contacting you with this nifty prayer Walkie-Talkie. I would have blessed it with holy water for full effect, but that might have short-circuited the gadget. Oh, I can just picture you scanning the current throng of praying people, debating whose pleas merit your undivided attention.
“Hmm...Mel Gibson’s nagging me again...starving Ethiopian begging for a morsel of food...Holy crap, is that scrawny guy contacting me via Walkie-Talkie?! What a novel idea! I want to hear what this nut-job has to say.” My scheme worked masterfully, benevolent Creator.
Seriously though, God, I hate to do this to you, but...I need to borrow some money. I got a little tipsy the other night and wagered a hefty amount of cash on the outcome of the movie “Kramer vs. Kramer.” Thinking there was no way I could lose, I logically bet on Kramer. Well, by the film’s conclusion, it became painfully clear that I should’ve bet on the wild card: “When it comes to divorce, there are no winners.” It was a poignant moral lesson, but on the downside, my greaseball of a bookie is going to shove my tongue into a pencil sharpener if I don’t cough up two grand by this time tomorrow.
Kidding! If you weren’t omniscient, you’d have been totally duped by my deadpan ramblings. Okay, before you divert your attention back to the starving Ethiopian, I’ll get to the point — I’ve got oodles of questions followed by a request. My first question is: do you remember that time two weeks ago when I tried to purchase some Nacho Cheese Doritos out of a vending machine and the bag got trapped in the area just above the deposit slot? My bag of Doritos plummeted into the unreachable limbo zone of the vending machine. It was traumatizing; I thought tragedies like that only happened to other people.
Why do you allow that kind of suffering? Is it because I laughed at some jokes about the recently departed Crocodile Hunter? That’s it, isn’t it?! That vending machine injustice was my karmic comeuppance for snickering at a morbid joke. Look, perhaps my response was inappropriate, but sometimes we need humor as a defense mechanism against sorrow. Nevertheless, the next time Siegfried or Roy gets viciously attacked by a wild animal, I promise not to laugh. Because I love Nacho Cheese Doritos.
Moving along, do you really get bent out of shape about gay marriage? Because a lot of your devotees do, and it’s disappointing that certain people cite you as an enabler for their petty hostility. You advocate the “until death do us part” bond, right? Well, I promise you the divorce rate in this country would decline if gay couples could wed in every state. Hear me out, God. Approximately 5 percent of people are homosexuals, so if you’re a gay man in some sparsely populated state like Wyoming, odds are that finding a mate will require an exhaustive search. By the time you find someone you dig enough to marry, you’re going to stay together out of fear that you’ll never meet another compatible man without having to relocate halfway across the state.
“Divorce? Nah, nuts to that,” thinks the homosexual from Wyoming. “The dude I’m with is pretty cool, especially when you consider there are only 14 other gay men in this entire frickin’ state, and I know for a fact that half of them are deadbeats. You gotta know when to hold ‘em.” (Editor’s correction: recent studies suggest there may be more than 16 gay men in the entire state of Wyoming.) (Columnist’s rebuttal: stay out of my prayers, editor!)
Here’s another question: when Muslim males die, are they really greeted by 72 virgins? In regard to the fairer gender, when Muslim females die, are they also greeted by 72 virgins? That just doesn’t seem fair; generally speaking, sex with a plethora of virgins is much more appealing to men than women. I’m no expert on women, but from their perspective, I’d imagine showing the ropes to 72 inexperienced men would be more hellish than heavenly. Seriously, eternal bliss should be without gender bias.
Sometimes I feel like my faith is dwindling irreconcilably. Case in point: back in mid-June when I visited Chicago, shortly after bar close, I kneeled before the entrance of Wrigley Field and prayed the Cubs would return to the .500 mark by the end of the season. To say the least, that prayer was overlooked. My final question at this late hour is, “Why do you hate the Cubs?”
God, I’m never quite sure if you’re a great listener or if I’m crazy for babbling to myself on another restless night. This brings me to the request I mentioned earlier. I would give you a 69 Fist Pump salute (my utmost display of reverence) if you just popped your head out of the sky for a mere two seconds to blurt the words, “I’ll explain later.” If you could only bend the rules of cosmic mystery for two measly seconds — which is less than nothing in eternity time — it would be immensely beneficial to planet Earth. I don’t mean to sound insulting, but let’s be rational here: when it comes to visual evidence, you’re outranked by both Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster.
Olig to God, do you copy? Over. (Static hiss.) I repeat: Olig to God, do you copy? Over. Ha! That got your attention, didn’t it?
Considering there might be millions of other frail and aimless humans trying to channel you at this very moment, I figured I had to do something to set myself apart from the herd by contacting you with this nifty prayer Walkie-Talkie. I would have blessed it with holy water for full effect, but that might have short-circuited the gadget. Oh, I can just picture you scanning the current throng of praying people, debating whose pleas merit your undivided attention.
“Hmm...Mel Gibson’s nagging me again...starving Ethiopian begging for a morsel of food...Holy crap, is that scrawny guy contacting me via Walkie-Talkie?! What a novel idea! I want to hear what this nut-job has to say.” My scheme worked masterfully, benevolent Creator.
Seriously though, God, I hate to do this to you, but...I need to borrow some money. I got a little tipsy the other night and wagered a hefty amount of cash on the outcome of the movie “Kramer vs. Kramer.” Thinking there was no way I could lose, I logically bet on Kramer. Well, by the film’s conclusion, it became painfully clear that I should’ve bet on the wild card: “When it comes to divorce, there are no winners.” It was a poignant moral lesson, but on the downside, my greaseball of a bookie is going to shove my tongue into a pencil sharpener if I don’t cough up two grand by this time tomorrow.
Kidding! If you weren’t omniscient, you’d have been totally duped by my deadpan ramblings. Okay, before you divert your attention back to the starving Ethiopian, I’ll get to the point — I’ve got oodles of questions followed by a request. My first question is: do you remember that time two weeks ago when I tried to purchase some Nacho Cheese Doritos out of a vending machine and the bag got trapped in the area just above the deposit slot? My bag of Doritos plummeted into the unreachable limbo zone of the vending machine. It was traumatizing; I thought tragedies like that only happened to other people.
Why do you allow that kind of suffering? Is it because I laughed at some jokes about the recently departed Crocodile Hunter? That’s it, isn’t it?! That vending machine injustice was my karmic comeuppance for snickering at a morbid joke. Look, perhaps my response was inappropriate, but sometimes we need humor as a defense mechanism against sorrow. Nevertheless, the next time Siegfried or Roy gets viciously attacked by a wild animal, I promise not to laugh. Because I love Nacho Cheese Doritos.
Moving along, do you really get bent out of shape about gay marriage? Because a lot of your devotees do, and it’s disappointing that certain people cite you as an enabler for their petty hostility. You advocate the “until death do us part” bond, right? Well, I promise you the divorce rate in this country would decline if gay couples could wed in every state. Hear me out, God. Approximately 5 percent of people are homosexuals, so if you’re a gay man in some sparsely populated state like Wyoming, odds are that finding a mate will require an exhaustive search. By the time you find someone you dig enough to marry, you’re going to stay together out of fear that you’ll never meet another compatible man without having to relocate halfway across the state.
“Divorce? Nah, nuts to that,” thinks the homosexual from Wyoming. “The dude I’m with is pretty cool, especially when you consider there are only 14 other gay men in this entire frickin’ state, and I know for a fact that half of them are deadbeats. You gotta know when to hold ‘em.” (Editor’s correction: recent studies suggest there may be more than 16 gay men in the entire state of Wyoming.) (Columnist’s rebuttal: stay out of my prayers, editor!)
Here’s another question: when Muslim males die, are they really greeted by 72 virgins? In regard to the fairer gender, when Muslim females die, are they also greeted by 72 virgins? That just doesn’t seem fair; generally speaking, sex with a plethora of virgins is much more appealing to men than women. I’m no expert on women, but from their perspective, I’d imagine showing the ropes to 72 inexperienced men would be more hellish than heavenly. Seriously, eternal bliss should be without gender bias.
Sometimes I feel like my faith is dwindling irreconcilably. Case in point: back in mid-June when I visited Chicago, shortly after bar close, I kneeled before the entrance of Wrigley Field and prayed the Cubs would return to the .500 mark by the end of the season. To say the least, that prayer was overlooked. My final question at this late hour is, “Why do you hate the Cubs?”
God, I’m never quite sure if you’re a great listener or if I’m crazy for babbling to myself on another restless night. This brings me to the request I mentioned earlier. I would give you a 69 Fist Pump salute (my utmost display of reverence) if you just popped your head out of the sky for a mere two seconds to blurt the words, “I’ll explain later.” If you could only bend the rules of cosmic mystery for two measly seconds — which is less than nothing in eternity time — it would be immensely beneficial to planet Earth. I don’t mean to sound insulting, but let’s be rational here: when it comes to visual evidence, you’re outranked by both Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Friends of Bigots
On orientation day of my class at the Second City, the instructor informed us that using a spotlight to accentuate your action descriptions is a heavy-handed and hackneyed practice. As no changes have been made in light of this tip, consider this the behemoth slob in boxer shorts from a weight loss commercial, the word "Before" appearing just below his flab-squeezed belly-button. If, someday, I'm able to produce a sculpted "After" model , you'll be the first to know.
This is satire, by the way, not to be confused with actual bigotry because I typed it with the fingers crossed on my right hand. I am far too accustomed to one-handed typing. (Wink...Sigh.)
INT. LAW OFFICE
Three men pose statuesquely around a polished wooden table, consulting leather-bound books between steep shelves. Outside of the setting, starkly spotlighted, stands a dashing yet disheveled actor named IKE WINSTON.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: You’re watching the Celebrity Channel: Entertainment for Entertainers. This is a paid program.
IKE WINSTON: Hello, I’m Ike Winston. Until recently, my life was a flourishing joyride of
pleasure and success. Then I was fired unjustly from my job, playing Dr. Randy Mansom on TV’s “Open Heart-Throb Surgery.” The termination put me in a financial crunch; I had to sell my favorite Jaguar, several assault rifles, and half of my indoor hockey arena. My plight got worse
when my former employer and co-workers publicly besmirched my good name, making it hard to find work elsewhere.
(beat)
And it was all because I spoke out against those damn sodomizing fairies.
The spotlight shifts to the three men in the law office: a homosexual, a Jew, and an African-American. KEN KENDAL, the homosexual, steps forward. His hair is gel-spiked and he wears a turquoise business suit.
KEN KENDAL: Are you a celebrity whose bold remarks have been misconstrued by the media? If so, Friends of Bigots want to help. My name is Ken Kendal, and for a reasonable rate, I offered Mr. Winston the service of my friendship. There’s no better way to prove you don’t really hate gay folks than being seen in public with a gay man like me. Ike, tell our celebrity viewers how fabulous I am.
IKE WINSTON: “Fabulous” isn’t my kind of word, Ken, but...you’re okay, I guess. Being photographed with Ken while browsing for scented candles at Bed Bath & Beyond helped to convince the public I was only kidding when I said: “Those damn sodomizing fairies seriously make bestiality seem like one of the sacraments.” Thanks, Friends of Bigots!
Another celebrity, GIL CARLSON, replaces Ike in the spotlight. Gil wears a black cowboy hat and long-sleeved blue denim. He preens arrogantly and broadens his shoulders as if daring someone to punch him in the sternum.
GIL CARLSON: Howdy. Name’s Gil Carlson, country music sensation. You prob’ly recall the
hullabaloo stirred up by the left-wing yahoos following the release of my concept album, “Peace on Earth, Jew Colony on the Moon.” There was protests, boycotts, and CD bull-dozin’—come on, it ain’t like I killed nobody.
DAVID KLEINMAN, a man of Jewish faith with dark curly hair and glasses, introduces himself.
DAVID KLEINMAN: My client’s poor grammar and double-negative notwithstanding, let me assure you that he most certainly has never killed anybody.
GIL CARLSON: (seething) You fancy yourself a book-reader, don’t ya, Kleinman?
DAVID KLEINMAN: Indeed, Mr. Carlson. Reading books has taught me a thing or two about freedom of expression. I don’t own a copy of “Jew Colony on the Moon,” but that didn’t stop me from inviting my client to my nephew Jeffrey’s Bar mitzvah. Once Entertainment Weekly printed a photo of my client dancing the Hora amongst dozens of my people, America became willing to give him a second chance.
GIL CARLSON: And sure as hell, I benefited from that second chance...for two whole weeks, ‘til I slipped up again just before an interview with one of them late-night fellers. The gap-toothed Yankee announced that I was the next guest and I made a grand entrance, sittin’ on a rocking chair hoisted by two of my finest slaves.
Cue the third member of Friends of Bigots—a black man with a stern countenance named Darren Hodges.
DARREN HODGES: And that’s where I came in. The rented friendship offered by my gay and Jewish colleagues may not convince the public you’re really a tolerant person. Sometimes it takes a black man like me, Darren Hodges, to pose with you waiting in line outside of a Public Enemy reunion concert.
GIL CARLSON: (proudly) Damn right. I was kicked in the ribs countless times outside of the Pubic Alimony show, and not once did I retaliate.
DARREN HODGES: That’s because you got hog-tied with that silly-ass Hulkamania doo-rag you
had on.
Gil jerks his focus to the side and frowns peevishly at Hodges. As a quick gesture of diplomacy, Kleinman puts a hand on his colleague’s shoulder.
KLEINMAN: Keep in mind, celebs, if your behavior incites the ire of not one but two minority groups, Friends of Bigots will offer a half-price bargain on the rental fee for the second friend. Insult a minority group once, shame on the public for misinterpreting what you said. Insult a minority group twice, shame on us for letting you save so much cash!
KEN KENDAL: A black man, a Jew, and a homosexual are more than just three guys who walk into a bar at the start of a joke. For an hourly rate of an itty-bitty ten-thousand dollars, Friends of Bigots can save your career!
DARREN HODGES: Call within the next hour and I promise not to make a pass at your wife.
GIL CARLSON: Hodges, you take back what you said about Hulkamania!
As Carlson huffs and stomps in place, the three members of Friends of Bigots smile straight ahead, unperturbed.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Call Friends of Bigots at 773-###-5309. Remember: the pound signs represent three explicit epithets...
GIL CARLSON: Your kind is even lousier than the Mexicans, you know that?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Friends of Bigots is now looking to hire a Mexican.
Three men pose statuesquely around a polished wooden table, consulting leather-bound books between steep shelves. Outside of the setting, starkly spotlighted, stands a dashing yet disheveled actor named IKE WINSTON.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: You’re watching the Celebrity Channel: Entertainment for Entertainers. This is a paid program.
IKE WINSTON: Hello, I’m Ike Winston. Until recently, my life was a flourishing joyride of
pleasure and success. Then I was fired unjustly from my job, playing Dr. Randy Mansom on TV’s “Open Heart-Throb Surgery.” The termination put me in a financial crunch; I had to sell my favorite Jaguar, several assault rifles, and half of my indoor hockey arena. My plight got worse
when my former employer and co-workers publicly besmirched my good name, making it hard to find work elsewhere.
(beat)
And it was all because I spoke out against those damn sodomizing fairies.
The spotlight shifts to the three men in the law office: a homosexual, a Jew, and an African-American. KEN KENDAL, the homosexual, steps forward. His hair is gel-spiked and he wears a turquoise business suit.
KEN KENDAL: Are you a celebrity whose bold remarks have been misconstrued by the media? If so, Friends of Bigots want to help. My name is Ken Kendal, and for a reasonable rate, I offered Mr. Winston the service of my friendship. There’s no better way to prove you don’t really hate gay folks than being seen in public with a gay man like me. Ike, tell our celebrity viewers how fabulous I am.
IKE WINSTON: “Fabulous” isn’t my kind of word, Ken, but...you’re okay, I guess. Being photographed with Ken while browsing for scented candles at Bed Bath & Beyond helped to convince the public I was only kidding when I said: “Those damn sodomizing fairies seriously make bestiality seem like one of the sacraments.” Thanks, Friends of Bigots!
Another celebrity, GIL CARLSON, replaces Ike in the spotlight. Gil wears a black cowboy hat and long-sleeved blue denim. He preens arrogantly and broadens his shoulders as if daring someone to punch him in the sternum.
GIL CARLSON: Howdy. Name’s Gil Carlson, country music sensation. You prob’ly recall the
hullabaloo stirred up by the left-wing yahoos following the release of my concept album, “Peace on Earth, Jew Colony on the Moon.” There was protests, boycotts, and CD bull-dozin’—come on, it ain’t like I killed nobody.
DAVID KLEINMAN, a man of Jewish faith with dark curly hair and glasses, introduces himself.
DAVID KLEINMAN: My client’s poor grammar and double-negative notwithstanding, let me assure you that he most certainly has never killed anybody.
GIL CARLSON: (seething) You fancy yourself a book-reader, don’t ya, Kleinman?
DAVID KLEINMAN: Indeed, Mr. Carlson. Reading books has taught me a thing or two about freedom of expression. I don’t own a copy of “Jew Colony on the Moon,” but that didn’t stop me from inviting my client to my nephew Jeffrey’s Bar mitzvah. Once Entertainment Weekly printed a photo of my client dancing the Hora amongst dozens of my people, America became willing to give him a second chance.
GIL CARLSON: And sure as hell, I benefited from that second chance...for two whole weeks, ‘til I slipped up again just before an interview with one of them late-night fellers. The gap-toothed Yankee announced that I was the next guest and I made a grand entrance, sittin’ on a rocking chair hoisted by two of my finest slaves.
Cue the third member of Friends of Bigots—a black man with a stern countenance named Darren Hodges.
DARREN HODGES: And that’s where I came in. The rented friendship offered by my gay and Jewish colleagues may not convince the public you’re really a tolerant person. Sometimes it takes a black man like me, Darren Hodges, to pose with you waiting in line outside of a Public Enemy reunion concert.
GIL CARLSON: (proudly) Damn right. I was kicked in the ribs countless times outside of the Pubic Alimony show, and not once did I retaliate.
DARREN HODGES: That’s because you got hog-tied with that silly-ass Hulkamania doo-rag you
had on.
Gil jerks his focus to the side and frowns peevishly at Hodges. As a quick gesture of diplomacy, Kleinman puts a hand on his colleague’s shoulder.
KLEINMAN: Keep in mind, celebs, if your behavior incites the ire of not one but two minority groups, Friends of Bigots will offer a half-price bargain on the rental fee for the second friend. Insult a minority group once, shame on the public for misinterpreting what you said. Insult a minority group twice, shame on us for letting you save so much cash!
KEN KENDAL: A black man, a Jew, and a homosexual are more than just three guys who walk into a bar at the start of a joke. For an hourly rate of an itty-bitty ten-thousand dollars, Friends of Bigots can save your career!
DARREN HODGES: Call within the next hour and I promise not to make a pass at your wife.
GIL CARLSON: Hodges, you take back what you said about Hulkamania!
As Carlson huffs and stomps in place, the three members of Friends of Bigots smile straight ahead, unperturbed.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Call Friends of Bigots at 773-###-5309. Remember: the pound signs represent three explicit epithets...
GIL CARLSON: Your kind is even lousier than the Mexicans, you know that?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Friends of Bigots is now looking to hire a Mexican.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Lemonade Stand
INT. KITCHEN – MORNING
A highly strung workaholic named ERNIE crumbles a handful of Tums antacids onto a bowl of cereal. Dressed in a suit and tie, he hunches over the kitchen table like a surly Gargoyle. His wife MAUDE, a pleasant and dopey woman, tends to the breakfast being made on the stovetop.
ERNIE: (sardonic) All the colors of the rainbow. Yippie.
MAUDE: Ernie, I made you some of my trademark “Bacombos.” You’re running late, so you can eat in the car if you like.
ERNIE: Again with the bacon and Combos, Maude? My cholesterol is going through the roof and your lousy food experiments are gonna send me to an early grave. And I’m not running late. I don’t punch in at the migraine factory ‘til 9 a.m., so quit rushing me out the door, will ya?
MAUDE: Oh, but it’s already 9:30, sweetie. Today is National Clock Tinkering Day.
Ernie lurches forward and spits his Tums-speckled cereal back into the bowl.
ERNIE: Freakin’ daylight savings time! Curse you, Cronus, you damned Greek god of time. I can never hit your biannual curveball!
He snags his briefcase and rushes for the door. Maude picks up a plastic baby resting on the stove.
MAUDE: Kiss Ernie Junior goodbye.
In his haste, Ernie leans in close to the doll but catches himself.
ERNIE: That’s not a real baby! Dammit, Maude, stop dropping these hints. I’m too busy to juggle a career and a family.
MAUDE: Okay. Maybe we’ll visit you at work later today; you can kiss him then.
Ernie groans in exasperation, turns, and stomps toward the exit. Before crossing the threshold, he berates his watch.
ERNIE: You just had to spring forward this time, didn’t you? Didn’t you?!
EXT. SIDEWALK – MORNING
ROSCO stands behind the counter of a lemonade stand crafted out of wood. A cardboard signs reads: “Round the Corner Lemonade, $.50/ cup.” Like his coworker, Rosco is cranky and unable to cope with stress. He pours a cup of lemonade and disdainfully surveys the long line of customers. Among them is a conspicuous man with a puffy red beard contrasted by blonde hair.
ROSCO: Where the HELL is he?
A FEMALE PATRON is first in line, cradling what looks like a bundled baby. She clears her throat, hinting agitation.
FEMALE PATRON: I’ll thank you not to swear in front of my child, sir.
ROSCO: (sighs) Okay, okay. My mistake, ma’am. Here, this cup is half-off.
A shoebox rests on the counter. Rosco removes the lid and hands her back a quarter.
FEMALE PATRON: I would accept no less.
She walks away as Ernie rushes toward the lemonade stand, swinging his briefcase wildly. He stops suddenly and squints at the woman and her bundled baby.
ROSCO: Hey, there you are. It’s about damn time.
FEMALE PATRON: You’re swearing again.
ROSCO: Full refund!
With that he throws a quarter at the woman. Ernie intercepts it.
ERNIE: Wait!
He swats the plastic baby onto the ground and the other customers gasp in horror.
ERNIE (CONT’D): That’s not a real baby!
He drops the quarter back in the shoebox as the customers exert a collective sigh. Ernie empties his briefcase on the countertop and out come its contents: several lemons, a box of sugar, and a hammer.
ROSCO: I don’t want to hear your bogus excuse for being late until after this ungodly rush is over. We’re low on the sun-juice, so get to hammering.
Ernie smashes fitfully at the lemons. Meanwhile, a MALE PATRON approaches the lemonade stand.
MALE PATRON: Uh, hi. I’d like a cup of lemonade, please.
ROSCO: Well, aren’t you Mr. Originality? One cup of lemonade!
Ernie grabs a sleeve of paper cups and yanks at the one on top. It won’t give; the cup is stuck.
ERNIE: Lousy paper jam!
With a vicious yank, he separates the cup from its sleeve. A wad of gum is stuck to the bottom.
ERNIE: Which one of you hell-raisers stuck a wad of gum in here? I want answers!
ROSCO: To hell with your investigation, Ernie. We’ll file a police report later.
A bullish snort of air escapes from Ernie’s nostrils. He fills a cup of lemonade and hands it to the male patron. The man drops some change into the box and darts away.
A TIMID PATRON approaches, drink in hand.
TIMID PATRON: Yeah, I bought a cup not too long ago and I found a fingernail embedded in a cigarette butt at the bottom of my drink. I’m sure it was an honest mistake, but…I’d like a refund.
ROSCO: Well, goodbye profit-margins!
Furious, he steals the hammer from Ernie and slams it down on a very juicy lemon. Citric acid sprays from the fruit into the Timid Patron’s eyes. The man reels backward and rubs his stinging peepers. Ernie shoves his coworker.
ERNIE: And hello lawsuit. Now there’s a fair trade.
The Timid Patron pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his other hand on the counter.
TIMID PATRON: Guys, just calm down…
ERNIE: (to Rosco) Who’s the cross-eyed Janitard that taught you how to make lemonade? Your technique’s all wrong. LOOK.
Ernie reclaims the hammer. Aiming to crush the lemon properly, he misses by inches and hammers the Timid Patron’s finger. The man howls and nurses his finger.
ROSCO: Bravo, Professor Lemonade. Now we gotta offer him a bribe.
He dumps out the contents of the shoebox and shovels dozens of coins across the counter to the Timid Patron.
ROSCO: Don’t sue us, you rotten bastard!
The conspicuous man in line rips off his fake red beard and reveals his true identity.
DISTRICT MANAGER: All right, I’ve seen enough, gentlemen.
ERNIE: The District Manager?
DISTRICT MANAGER: That’s right, Ernie. I dropped by for a surprise inspection, incognito, and what I’ve seen has been disgraceful. The tardiness, the cuss words, citric acid in the customer’s eyes—and Ernie, what you did to that baby was sickening.
ERNIE: That wasn’t a real baby!
DISTRICT MANAGER: Really? Well, nevertheless, you’re both canned. We’re bringing in some new blood to replace the two of you. (Calls offstage) Timmy! Trisha!
Two adorable children enter the scene and establish themselves behind the counter of the lemonade stand.
ROSCO: What a load of crap. Selling lemonade is a MAN’S job.
ERNIE: Freakin’ scabs!
DISTRICT MANAGER: Settle down, gentlemen. As a key part of your severance package I am offering to drive you to the unemployment office.
ROSCO: (considering) Hmmm. What do you think?
ERNIE: I think gas costs too much to turn down a ride from this scumbag.
With that, the disgruntled workers trail behind the man who fired them, exiting the scene. After a beat, a FAT PATRON steps toward the lemonade stand, indulging the children with a pleasant grin and a melodic tone in his voice.
FAT PATRON: I’ve got two quarters for two special little persons if you’ll kindly pour me a cup of lemonade.
TRISHA: We’re on our break, fat-ass!
The customer recoils, more shocked than offended. He slinks away, forever terrified of the future.
Timmy produces a small rectangular box from his pocket and extracts two candy cigarettes.
TIMMY: Candy cancer stick?
TRISHA: (nods) Fat-ass didn’t even say “please.”
A highly strung workaholic named ERNIE crumbles a handful of Tums antacids onto a bowl of cereal. Dressed in a suit and tie, he hunches over the kitchen table like a surly Gargoyle. His wife MAUDE, a pleasant and dopey woman, tends to the breakfast being made on the stovetop.
ERNIE: (sardonic) All the colors of the rainbow. Yippie.
MAUDE: Ernie, I made you some of my trademark “Bacombos.” You’re running late, so you can eat in the car if you like.
ERNIE: Again with the bacon and Combos, Maude? My cholesterol is going through the roof and your lousy food experiments are gonna send me to an early grave. And I’m not running late. I don’t punch in at the migraine factory ‘til 9 a.m., so quit rushing me out the door, will ya?
MAUDE: Oh, but it’s already 9:30, sweetie. Today is National Clock Tinkering Day.
Ernie lurches forward and spits his Tums-speckled cereal back into the bowl.
ERNIE: Freakin’ daylight savings time! Curse you, Cronus, you damned Greek god of time. I can never hit your biannual curveball!
He snags his briefcase and rushes for the door. Maude picks up a plastic baby resting on the stove.
MAUDE: Kiss Ernie Junior goodbye.
In his haste, Ernie leans in close to the doll but catches himself.
ERNIE: That’s not a real baby! Dammit, Maude, stop dropping these hints. I’m too busy to juggle a career and a family.
MAUDE: Okay. Maybe we’ll visit you at work later today; you can kiss him then.
Ernie groans in exasperation, turns, and stomps toward the exit. Before crossing the threshold, he berates his watch.
ERNIE: You just had to spring forward this time, didn’t you? Didn’t you?!
EXT. SIDEWALK – MORNING
ROSCO stands behind the counter of a lemonade stand crafted out of wood. A cardboard signs reads: “Round the Corner Lemonade, $.50/ cup.” Like his coworker, Rosco is cranky and unable to cope with stress. He pours a cup of lemonade and disdainfully surveys the long line of customers. Among them is a conspicuous man with a puffy red beard contrasted by blonde hair.
ROSCO: Where the HELL is he?
A FEMALE PATRON is first in line, cradling what looks like a bundled baby. She clears her throat, hinting agitation.
FEMALE PATRON: I’ll thank you not to swear in front of my child, sir.
ROSCO: (sighs) Okay, okay. My mistake, ma’am. Here, this cup is half-off.
A shoebox rests on the counter. Rosco removes the lid and hands her back a quarter.
FEMALE PATRON: I would accept no less.
She walks away as Ernie rushes toward the lemonade stand, swinging his briefcase wildly. He stops suddenly and squints at the woman and her bundled baby.
ROSCO: Hey, there you are. It’s about damn time.
FEMALE PATRON: You’re swearing again.
ROSCO: Full refund!
With that he throws a quarter at the woman. Ernie intercepts it.
ERNIE: Wait!
He swats the plastic baby onto the ground and the other customers gasp in horror.
ERNIE (CONT’D): That’s not a real baby!
He drops the quarter back in the shoebox as the customers exert a collective sigh. Ernie empties his briefcase on the countertop and out come its contents: several lemons, a box of sugar, and a hammer.
ROSCO: I don’t want to hear your bogus excuse for being late until after this ungodly rush is over. We’re low on the sun-juice, so get to hammering.
Ernie smashes fitfully at the lemons. Meanwhile, a MALE PATRON approaches the lemonade stand.
MALE PATRON: Uh, hi. I’d like a cup of lemonade, please.
ROSCO: Well, aren’t you Mr. Originality? One cup of lemonade!
Ernie grabs a sleeve of paper cups and yanks at the one on top. It won’t give; the cup is stuck.
ERNIE: Lousy paper jam!
With a vicious yank, he separates the cup from its sleeve. A wad of gum is stuck to the bottom.
ERNIE: Which one of you hell-raisers stuck a wad of gum in here? I want answers!
ROSCO: To hell with your investigation, Ernie. We’ll file a police report later.
A bullish snort of air escapes from Ernie’s nostrils. He fills a cup of lemonade and hands it to the male patron. The man drops some change into the box and darts away.
A TIMID PATRON approaches, drink in hand.
TIMID PATRON: Yeah, I bought a cup not too long ago and I found a fingernail embedded in a cigarette butt at the bottom of my drink. I’m sure it was an honest mistake, but…I’d like a refund.
ROSCO: Well, goodbye profit-margins!
Furious, he steals the hammer from Ernie and slams it down on a very juicy lemon. Citric acid sprays from the fruit into the Timid Patron’s eyes. The man reels backward and rubs his stinging peepers. Ernie shoves his coworker.
ERNIE: And hello lawsuit. Now there’s a fair trade.
The Timid Patron pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his other hand on the counter.
TIMID PATRON: Guys, just calm down…
ERNIE: (to Rosco) Who’s the cross-eyed Janitard that taught you how to make lemonade? Your technique’s all wrong. LOOK.
Ernie reclaims the hammer. Aiming to crush the lemon properly, he misses by inches and hammers the Timid Patron’s finger. The man howls and nurses his finger.
ROSCO: Bravo, Professor Lemonade. Now we gotta offer him a bribe.
He dumps out the contents of the shoebox and shovels dozens of coins across the counter to the Timid Patron.
ROSCO: Don’t sue us, you rotten bastard!
The conspicuous man in line rips off his fake red beard and reveals his true identity.
DISTRICT MANAGER: All right, I’ve seen enough, gentlemen.
ERNIE: The District Manager?
DISTRICT MANAGER: That’s right, Ernie. I dropped by for a surprise inspection, incognito, and what I’ve seen has been disgraceful. The tardiness, the cuss words, citric acid in the customer’s eyes—and Ernie, what you did to that baby was sickening.
ERNIE: That wasn’t a real baby!
DISTRICT MANAGER: Really? Well, nevertheless, you’re both canned. We’re bringing in some new blood to replace the two of you. (Calls offstage) Timmy! Trisha!
Two adorable children enter the scene and establish themselves behind the counter of the lemonade stand.
ROSCO: What a load of crap. Selling lemonade is a MAN’S job.
ERNIE: Freakin’ scabs!
DISTRICT MANAGER: Settle down, gentlemen. As a key part of your severance package I am offering to drive you to the unemployment office.
ROSCO: (considering) Hmmm. What do you think?
ERNIE: I think gas costs too much to turn down a ride from this scumbag.
With that, the disgruntled workers trail behind the man who fired them, exiting the scene. After a beat, a FAT PATRON steps toward the lemonade stand, indulging the children with a pleasant grin and a melodic tone in his voice.
FAT PATRON: I’ve got two quarters for two special little persons if you’ll kindly pour me a cup of lemonade.
TRISHA: We’re on our break, fat-ass!
The customer recoils, more shocked than offended. He slinks away, forever terrified of the future.
Timmy produces a small rectangular box from his pocket and extracts two candy cigarettes.
TIMMY: Candy cancer stick?
TRISHA: (nods) Fat-ass didn’t even say “please.”
Just Tires
I was on my way to dinner with a woman at a Mexican restaurant when it occurred to me that I had no chewing gum. When I’m on a date, chewing gum is a necessity. I need an instant remedy for the dragon breath brought on by those sneezing fits and vomit burps that you never see coming.
My date would be arriving at the train stop soon, so I started looking around for a convenience store to buy gum. As I quickly scanned the skyline, I caught a glimpse of a green and yellow sign, the same color design used by BP gas stations.
In actuality, the sign was for a store called Just Tires, but that didn’t register during the first take. As I was doing a double-take, I thought to myself hopefully, “DOES THAT PLACE SELL GUM? (Disappointed sigh.) Nope. Just tires.”
My date would be arriving at the train stop soon, so I started looking around for a convenience store to buy gum. As I quickly scanned the skyline, I caught a glimpse of a green and yellow sign, the same color design used by BP gas stations.
In actuality, the sign was for a store called Just Tires, but that didn’t register during the first take. As I was doing a double-take, I thought to myself hopefully, “DOES THAT PLACE SELL GUM? (Disappointed sigh.) Nope. Just tires.”
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Russel Stanke's Tales of Outdoorsman Glory
One.
I caught the biggest damn walleye you’ve ever seen in your life. After a two-hour tussle, I lugged the massive bastard onto the floor of my eighteen-hundred-dollar boat. Had to beat him to death ‘cause he was floppin’ around like an epileptic on a trampoline. I clubbed him with an oar—a makeshift model that was extra-God-damn-OARdinary. It had a machete hammered through the broad end of the wood. Oh…MAMA, how the sparks flew on the old work bench the night my machete, hammer, and oar had a mana ja three-way.
I swung like a Chinese immigrant at a railroad spike and clobbered him square in the gills. But the beast was tougher than I thought. He started flopping around like his scales was made of Flubber—and I’m talkin’ 'bout the top-shelf type of Flubber, not the generic kind. I can’t remember how many times I retaliated against that flagrant act of not dying—umpteen sounds about right—but eventually I forced his spirit into the Grim Reaper’s fishing net.
In the process of killing the walleye, though, I punctured roughly umpteen holes in the floor of my eighteen-hundred-dollar boat—more than enough holes to sink my treasured vessel. I lugged the beast all the way back to shore, one hand leadin’ the backstroke while the other dug in and palmed the beast’s softball-sized eye. It was a four mile swim. That’s the longest any feller in Lawn Dart County has ever swum with a machete stuck through an oar clenched between his teeth. My kill outweighed me by 25 lbs. Most people in this town will tell you that makes me one helluva fisherman. Others’ll tell you lies and say I’m just bulimic. Bunch of jealous muckrakers, they are.
My victory over the walleye was tainted slightly by the loss of my eighteen-hundred boat, but I’ll betcha my boat didn’t mind getting killed by another thing that its master loves. Plus, that walleye provided a pretty decent meal—only decent because although I’m a great fisherman, I’m not much for guttin’ and cleanin’ the scaly bastards. Don’t have the steady hands for it. On accident I discarded much of the edible parts and salvaged and cooked some of the parts that belonged in Mother Nature’s dumpster…What I did cram down my gullet, though, was downright…tolerable.
God, I miss that eighteen-hundred-dollar boat.
***
To read more about the redneck adventures of Russel, order a copy of "There Will be Blog" by me, Nick Olig.
www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html
Friday, August 1, 2008
The Smoky Room Upstairs
Originally printed in the Advance-Titan, October 2005. Why all this malaise about going to the carnival? Why hyperbolize those lousy feelings of dread and disappointment in the documentation of a fairly decent childhood memory? “The Smoky Room Upstairs” is pretty dour, I’ll admit, but at least it conveys a sense of nonplussed honesty. For dreamlike childhood nostalgia, John Lennon had “Strawberry Fields Forever.” I have “The Smoky Room Upstairs.” What a gyp.
My dad grew up in Mt. Calvary, a tiny village not far from my hometown of Fond du Lac. Every August, the meek and frequently sloshed village of Mt. Calvary hosts a carnival at Fireman’s Park. It is aptly referred to as the Fireman’s Picnic.
It’s not my aim to deride the spirit and tradition of the Mt. Calvary faithful. The modest town treasury simply did not permit them to splurge on the crème de le crème of redneck carnival rides—namely the Gravitron and the Zipper. Throughout my childhood summers, my parents would waste their money so I could waste some tickets on a ride in which rusty carts crawled clockwise on a track fifteen feet in diameter. It’s not like I was expecting loopty-loops and laser shows, but come on, give a kid something to work with, you know?
Only one ride posed a legitimate threat to the uprising of a corn dog you had just choked down. It was a blend between a high-octane carousel and a demonic swing-set. A dozen or so seats dotted the perimeter, and they were attached to chains that dangled from propellers. Once the thing got going, the propellers spun rapidly around-and-around-and-around, and the rider got a sense of what it feels like to be an unbreakable string of snot dangling from the blade of a helicopter. If memory serves, this ride was called “Discount Nausea.”
Discount Nausea could only be tolerated in great moderation, and with little interest in the tame rides, I sought out the prize booths maintained by jabber-jawing carnies. Sadly, throwing darts at balloons and executing a pyramid of empty beer cans with a single shot from a B.B. gun were talents that eluded me. Though my ambition was to win a Bartman t-shirt, or a least a miniature poster of Don Majikowski, I usually went home with the humiliating consolation prize: an artificial clip-on feather, colored the shade of a peacock’s underbelly. Not only did the carnies take my money—okay, my dad’s money, but my frickin’ tickets—the sadistic bumpkins also had the nerve to bash my impending manhood.
“I’m an eight-year-old boy,” I’d squeak. “I play with Ninja Turtles. What the heck do you expect me to do with a frilly blue feather?
And the carnie would guffaw, opening his mouth wide to reveal five lonesome maggots jutting from his gums.
“Weeelll, I’m sure you can think of somethin’, Nancy-boy. WHO’S NEXT?!”
It’s been said that human beings alternate between afflictions of either boredom or pain for their entire lifetimes. I’m not a very optimistic person, but I think that’s nonsense, primarily because orgasms—however fleeting they might be—are neither boring nor painful.
I mention the boredom/ pain tangent because, after wandering through the confines of Fireman’s Park, yawning in brief intervals, I would whimsically attach the fake feather’s jagged and metallic clip to my pointer finger and withstand the painful pinch until I could take it no longer. At last I would remove the clip urgently, and then shake my throbbing red finger for a while. The boredom didn’t feel so bad then.
My favorite attraction at the Fireman’s Picnic was the Moonwalk Tent. (No, the Moonwalk Tent wasn’t a diabolical scheme concocted by Michael Jackson in an unsuspecting village; it was a shaded enclosure with a floor made of puffy inner tube patches. Oddly enough, though, Tito Jackson was there, making sure no one got hurt, diligently earning seven dollars an hour.) Rambunctious hopping is an activity sure to engage children. The Moonwalk Tent had its charms, but after ten minutes or so, the fetid stench of sweaty socks lingering in a roasting confinement really got to you. Plus I was always bummed out about the absence of a top rope and turnbuckles inside the Moonwalk Tent. There aren’t too many places in which a top rope and turnbuckles can be set up feasibly, but dammit, inside the Moonwalk Tent is one of those places. And since I was too young to enact that infamous “Revenge of the Nerds” fantasy, I soon bid good riddance to the Moonwalk Tent.
It was after all these unfulfilling pursuits that I at last discovered the Smoky Room Upstairs, which was maintained by the local volunteer fire department.
The Smoky Room Upstairs was the size of a two-story hobbit-house, its dimensions comparable to a doublewide trailer living room. A tube the size of a manhole cover fed into the upstairs, and it traced back to a smoke machine with a generator that churned maddeningly.
Like I stated before, the Smoky Room Upstairs was run by the volunteer fire department, in order to enlighten kids on safety precautions in the event of a household blaze. A mustachioed volunteer would usher kids up a short flight of stairs on the side of the diminutive structure, above the seemingly vacant first floor and into the upstairs room. I say “seemingly vacant” because I had a hunch the off-duty firemen used it as a windowless sanctuary to play games of Euchre and chug beer.
His shoulders and neck craning at a painful angle, golden helmet scraping against the ceiling, our guide waved us all into the cramped room. It was furnished like an oversized dollhouse. In the midst of his boring safety lecture, he scolded a careless youngster who plopped down on an artificial couch. It’s hard for kids to discern a prop from the real thing. That’s why the little buggers feel like cold-blooded assassins when they aim a Daisy rifle at the mailman’s head.
Though the interior decorator did a half-assed job, the electrician was quite ambitious. The square perimeter was plastered with about a dozen outlets, at shin level. The fireman instilled a fear of outlets into our little hearts that day, warning us of the dangers of ramming a fork in there or overloading the amplitude as the dad from “A Christmas Story” would do.
As the lecture drew to a close, the fireman attached his gasmask and cued the smoke machine. I’ll never forget gazing at that vent, watching the smoke wisp gracefully and ominously into our air supply, feeling like I was at the mercy of a deranged super-villain and his elaborate death chamber. Years later, whenever I was smoking weed in a cramped room, my thoughts sparking like microwaved tinfoil, an inverted bog hovering over the heads of my friends, I’d recall this image.
Pretty soon, when the smoke had reached a murky, almost opaque density, we were instructed to crawl out of the Smoky Room Upstairs (a trek of roughly ten feet) and rejoin the outside world. Then it was once again time to scam money from our wasted parents so we could buy tickets for rides and booths until it was time to go home.
My dad grew up in Mt. Calvary, a tiny village not far from my hometown of Fond du Lac. Every August, the meek and frequently sloshed village of Mt. Calvary hosts a carnival at Fireman’s Park. It is aptly referred to as the Fireman’s Picnic.
It’s not my aim to deride the spirit and tradition of the Mt. Calvary faithful. The modest town treasury simply did not permit them to splurge on the crème de le crème of redneck carnival rides—namely the Gravitron and the Zipper. Throughout my childhood summers, my parents would waste their money so I could waste some tickets on a ride in which rusty carts crawled clockwise on a track fifteen feet in diameter. It’s not like I was expecting loopty-loops and laser shows, but come on, give a kid something to work with, you know?
Only one ride posed a legitimate threat to the uprising of a corn dog you had just choked down. It was a blend between a high-octane carousel and a demonic swing-set. A dozen or so seats dotted the perimeter, and they were attached to chains that dangled from propellers. Once the thing got going, the propellers spun rapidly around-and-around-and-around, and the rider got a sense of what it feels like to be an unbreakable string of snot dangling from the blade of a helicopter. If memory serves, this ride was called “Discount Nausea.”
Discount Nausea could only be tolerated in great moderation, and with little interest in the tame rides, I sought out the prize booths maintained by jabber-jawing carnies. Sadly, throwing darts at balloons and executing a pyramid of empty beer cans with a single shot from a B.B. gun were talents that eluded me. Though my ambition was to win a Bartman t-shirt, or a least a miniature poster of Don Majikowski, I usually went home with the humiliating consolation prize: an artificial clip-on feather, colored the shade of a peacock’s underbelly. Not only did the carnies take my money—okay, my dad’s money, but my frickin’ tickets—the sadistic bumpkins also had the nerve to bash my impending manhood.
“I’m an eight-year-old boy,” I’d squeak. “I play with Ninja Turtles. What the heck do you expect me to do with a frilly blue feather?
And the carnie would guffaw, opening his mouth wide to reveal five lonesome maggots jutting from his gums.
“Weeelll, I’m sure you can think of somethin’, Nancy-boy. WHO’S NEXT?!”
It’s been said that human beings alternate between afflictions of either boredom or pain for their entire lifetimes. I’m not a very optimistic person, but I think that’s nonsense, primarily because orgasms—however fleeting they might be—are neither boring nor painful.
I mention the boredom/ pain tangent because, after wandering through the confines of Fireman’s Park, yawning in brief intervals, I would whimsically attach the fake feather’s jagged and metallic clip to my pointer finger and withstand the painful pinch until I could take it no longer. At last I would remove the clip urgently, and then shake my throbbing red finger for a while. The boredom didn’t feel so bad then.
My favorite attraction at the Fireman’s Picnic was the Moonwalk Tent. (No, the Moonwalk Tent wasn’t a diabolical scheme concocted by Michael Jackson in an unsuspecting village; it was a shaded enclosure with a floor made of puffy inner tube patches. Oddly enough, though, Tito Jackson was there, making sure no one got hurt, diligently earning seven dollars an hour.) Rambunctious hopping is an activity sure to engage children. The Moonwalk Tent had its charms, but after ten minutes or so, the fetid stench of sweaty socks lingering in a roasting confinement really got to you. Plus I was always bummed out about the absence of a top rope and turnbuckles inside the Moonwalk Tent. There aren’t too many places in which a top rope and turnbuckles can be set up feasibly, but dammit, inside the Moonwalk Tent is one of those places. And since I was too young to enact that infamous “Revenge of the Nerds” fantasy, I soon bid good riddance to the Moonwalk Tent.
It was after all these unfulfilling pursuits that I at last discovered the Smoky Room Upstairs, which was maintained by the local volunteer fire department.
The Smoky Room Upstairs was the size of a two-story hobbit-house, its dimensions comparable to a doublewide trailer living room. A tube the size of a manhole cover fed into the upstairs, and it traced back to a smoke machine with a generator that churned maddeningly.
Like I stated before, the Smoky Room Upstairs was run by the volunteer fire department, in order to enlighten kids on safety precautions in the event of a household blaze. A mustachioed volunteer would usher kids up a short flight of stairs on the side of the diminutive structure, above the seemingly vacant first floor and into the upstairs room. I say “seemingly vacant” because I had a hunch the off-duty firemen used it as a windowless sanctuary to play games of Euchre and chug beer.
His shoulders and neck craning at a painful angle, golden helmet scraping against the ceiling, our guide waved us all into the cramped room. It was furnished like an oversized dollhouse. In the midst of his boring safety lecture, he scolded a careless youngster who plopped down on an artificial couch. It’s hard for kids to discern a prop from the real thing. That’s why the little buggers feel like cold-blooded assassins when they aim a Daisy rifle at the mailman’s head.
Though the interior decorator did a half-assed job, the electrician was quite ambitious. The square perimeter was plastered with about a dozen outlets, at shin level. The fireman instilled a fear of outlets into our little hearts that day, warning us of the dangers of ramming a fork in there or overloading the amplitude as the dad from “A Christmas Story” would do.
As the lecture drew to a close, the fireman attached his gasmask and cued the smoke machine. I’ll never forget gazing at that vent, watching the smoke wisp gracefully and ominously into our air supply, feeling like I was at the mercy of a deranged super-villain and his elaborate death chamber. Years later, whenever I was smoking weed in a cramped room, my thoughts sparking like microwaved tinfoil, an inverted bog hovering over the heads of my friends, I’d recall this image.
Pretty soon, when the smoke had reached a murky, almost opaque density, we were instructed to crawl out of the Smoky Room Upstairs (a trek of roughly ten feet) and rejoin the outside world. Then it was once again time to scam money from our wasted parents so we could buy tickets for rides and booths until it was time to go home.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Cut Lip
7/9/08
10:42 a.m.
Following eighteen months of post-collegiate cogitation on the career front, I have at last arrived in Chicago to take the plunge into the comedy racket. The Second City headquarters is a mere one-mile stroll from my cousin’s condo. I’m going to hoof it there shortly to enroll in a comedy writing class. I want to look spiffy and make a fine first impression on everyone from the secretaries to Bill Murray (whom I suspect roams the halls repeating the phrase “Gunga-gulunga”), so I’d better scrub off the old stink waves in the shower. And, what the hell, even though I just shaved yesterday and have never made it a daily practice, I’ll take the Mach 3 to my face and shear every trace of stubble to show those clowns how serious I am about silliness.
11:04 a.m.
Slight delay in the plan. I cut myself shaving, just above the right corner of my mouth. A moistened wad of toilet paper is now being applied to the cut. While I wait for the bleeding to stop, I’m going to hone my impression of Rick Moranis from “Ghostbusters.” “ARE YOU THE GATEKEEPER? ” Heh,heh. Can’t wait until the secretary gets a load of that bit.
11:24 a.m.
Yikes. I must have scraped the razor over a thinly lathered gusher spot on my upper lip. Eight squares of toilet paper and the gash is still seeping blood. Unbelievable. Maybe I’ll have better luck using Kleenex since it’s more absorbent than toilet paper. Snot is more liquid-based than feces, after all, and blood is closer to snot in its consistency. Plus, the fabric is smoother, so I’ll run less of a risk of grating the gash and reopening the wound. Kleenex should do the trick, and then I’m off to the Second City.
11:51 a.m.
Sweet Jesus, I have the upper lip of a flounder. How much blood can possibly seep through a gash the size of a cookie crumb? EIGHT squares of toilet paper, SIX Kleenexes, all blotted red. The garbage can is starting to resemble a medical waste receptacle in an operating room. This is my comeuppance for making an effort to look presentable. That’s one of the reasons artistic careers are so appealing: Nobody expects a haggard malcontent to shave everyday.
12:12 p.m.
It’s official: My upper lip is menstruating. I’m never shaving again; it’s too masochistic. Electric shavers always leave behind tiny sprouts of facial hair and traditional razors massacre flesh; there is no happy medium.
Why does society link credibility with one’s insistence on risking bodily harm to remove the hair that grows naturally and without relent? I know why, and I could write the answer with the blood gushing from my upper lip like a sadist’s inkwell: BECAUSE SOCIETY IS A LOAD OF ARTIFICIAL CRAP! Cavemen had it so easy.
What am I going to do? Apply a Band-Aid to my upper lip, stroll down to the Second City, and explain myself when the secretary or Bill Murray gawk at the beige strip beneath my nose? “We don’t allow shaving amateurs in this outfit,” they’re bound to say. Those judgmental jerks.
12:32 p.m.
Three bloody washcloths later, I have no choice but to put on a Band-Aid and bare the embarrassment of a gruesome first impression. If asked about the Band-Aid, which will almost certainly happen, I will contrive a sob story about having a seizure while in the act of shaving. What sort of a monster has the heart to scoff at an injury induced by a seizure? Not even the monsters at the Second City, I should hope. Then all I have to do to maintain the ruse is fake a seizure while enrolling in the class. And a few more phony seizures in the classroom wouldn’t hurt, either…unless of course I bashed my head on the corner of a table as I fell down. This damned shaving wound has cut open a Pandora’s Box of nasty consequences I must cope with.
Phew! I’m getting a bit light-headed. No matter. I’m going to walk down to the Second City and with my final step, insert my foot in the door!
2:19 p.m.
The bad news is that I fled back here without registering for the comedy writing class, still bleeding. The good news is that I stopped weeping a few minutes ago. As I was hurried toward Wells St., turning the blemished side of my face away from passersby whenever possible, I got within two blocks of my destination before being heckled by a street tough in baggy pants. He pointed at me and sneered, “Yo, white boy must be hidin’ the Herp!” Blast! It never occurred to me that the oozing scab caused by a shaving mishap could be mistaken for Herpes. Having a venereal disease is even less appealing than being a novice with the razor-blade. Street toughs assume the most obscene possibility; that’s why any woman in skimpy cutoffs doing the ass volcano in a rap video is deemed a “Ho.”
Well, the encounter jarred my nerves. I tore off the useless Band-Aid as I pivoted toward home, back to seclusion. As a newcomer to this immense city, I took a few wrong turns at full-speed and worked up quite a sweat. The salt that dripped into my wound almost stung as much as five more people speculating that I have Herpes. Eventually I retraced the trail of blood that speckled every third or fourth square of sidewalk and navigated my way back into the neighborhood.
This cut upper lip fiasco has gone on for too long. I’ve no choice but to dial 9-1-1.
2:45 p.m.
It seems my registration with the Second City will have to be postponed. The operator spoke tartly, but I gather that the flesh above my lip has become infected with bacteria. She diagnosed my condition with one word, “Puss-y,” which of course means filled with pus.
Illinois borders my home state of Wisconsin, but nevertheless, it’s going to take some time getting used to the local accent. For a second I thought she said something insulting.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Zatrax
Prose is my first love. If there were plenty of drawbacks to the standard form of written language, the Neanderthals who first scrawled onto cave walls prose such as, “Ways to Woo Your Cavewoman without even Clubbing Her” would have referred to their innovation as “Cons.”
Sketches, in contrast to prose, are high-maintenance mistresses. They flaunt a sensory indulgence that prose doesn’t provide, and the allure of applause, to boot. Mistress Sketch is without fidelity; she is passed around and shared like a Big Mama among a gang of Hell’s Angels. The writer’s input is diluted by the inclusion of actors, a director, producers, and the worst of the bunch, BEST BOYS, who all insist their shit smells the best. My knack for human error is prodigious, and so sometimes it feels absurd to seek out collaborators to add bits of their human error to compliment mine.
That’s a pessimistic assessment, naturally, and too resentful for comfort. Ultimately, anyone preoccupied with compounding human error should consider the life of an agoraphobic as an alternative.
Today I signed up for a comedy writing class at the Second City. To ensure that it’s a decent investment, I will have sketches rather than prose on the brain for awhile. Featured below is a sketch about pharmaceudical relief from pizza-burn. It's called “Zatrax,” from “Tim Invents the Triangle of Death,” a show that serves as a grim reminder of how far removed from college the contributors have become. The crew deserves thanks for contributing a minimum amount of human error to this one. As for my part, judge for yourself.
EXT. BACK YARD - DAY
Four exuberant men play a game of hackey-sack. A giddy woman with a puffed-up stomach presents a pizza and sets it down a table among paper plates and a bottle of whiskey.
JULIE: Who wants pizza?
The hackey-sack flops to the ground, forgotten. The men salivate and cheer. NICK, the most impatient of the bunch, snatches a slice and is about to inhale it.
JULIE: Wait for it to cool down, buddy. If you eat it too fast, you’ll get a nasty tongue-burn.
NICK: But it looks so delicious…and I’m hungry NOW, darn it.
JULIE: (briefly considers) You make an interesting point.
She grabs a slice and gobbles half of it. The others follow suit. Tongue-burn hits them like Instant Karma.
ERIC: Ouch! Something’s wrong with my tongue; I don’t understand.
STEVE: It feels like invisible demons are scraping tridents against my popsicle-licker!
NICK: Is there no relief?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: There is now, thanks to Zatrax.
Julie slops a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into her mouth.
JULIE: (to camera) Zatrax?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: That’s right: Zatrax. The brand new, once-a-day tablet that suppresses nagging tongue-burns!
ERIC: Sounds too good to be true. Am I high right now?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: I wouldn’t doubt it. But regardless, Zatrax really works. Here, try a free sample.
A vial of pills materializes on the picnic table. Everyone swallows a capsule except for Julie, who inspects her pill uncertainly. The men experience instant relief.
MIKE: Hallelujah, it works!
NICK: The disembodied voice was right. Zatrax kicks ass.
The revitalized men high-five each other and act out a series of antics. Nick piggybacks onto Mike and catches a football thrown to him.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Side-effects of Zatrax include dry mouth, fatigue, headache, sinus congestion, slight nausea, and irritability.
Hearing this, the men react indifferently. Mike and Eric happily declare a thumb-war on each other. Nick places his palms on the ground and kicks his legs up. Steve grabs hold of his ankles and the two perform the human wheelbarrow trick.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Other side-effects include diarrhea, muscle spasms, acne, blood-clotting, excessive dandruff, dimple loss, and erectile dysfunction.
At the mention of these last two words, Steve reels and releases hold of his friend’s ankles.
STEVE: Wait--what was that last side-effect?
Steve is rattled. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Do not mix Zatrax with alcohol, as it may lead to brain hemorrhaging.
Defeated and chagrined, he sets the bottle back down. Julie seizes his lost opportunity and guzzles the booze.
The men gather in a half-circle. Someone flips the hackey-sack half-heartedly but no one bothers to kick it.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: In addition to epilepsy and rickets, Zatrax may cause full-body warts, aortal explosion, clitoral numbness, persistent nipple chafing, nasal ringworms, irrepressible yodeling, Korean War flashbacks, and rabid sperm.
MIKE: Rabid sperm?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Only in 40% of the cases. Don’t puss out on me. (beat) Pregnant women should not take Zatrax.
Whiskey bottle still clenched, Julie lets her pill fall to the ground.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: (desperately) Unless, of course, you don’t mind birthing a flipper baby.
JULIE: (stomping pill) I’d rather not.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: You heartless harlot. I’ll bet you don’t even know who the father is.
Julie is outraged at first, but soon shrugs and nods as if to say, “You got me.”
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Where was I? Did I mention rectal bleeding and testicular erosion?
NICK: Good God…
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Well, they’re side-effects, too. Ask your doctor about Zatrax today, and say goodbye to tongue-burn forever!
Various side-effects flare up. Mike reaches underneath his shirt and scratches his persistently chafing nipples. Steve yodels in uncontrollable fits. Eric becomes vigilant and paranoid. He cups his crotch with two hands, and before darting out of the scene, he says…
ERIC: I’ve got to inspect my testicles before those damn Koreans cross the 38th parallel.
NICK: (looking around in relief) Hey…I think I got off easy. Other than a touch of dry-mouth, I feel fine. No clitoral numbness to speak of…
(convulsing) Arrrggghhh! My aorta!
An explosion booms as Nick clutches his heart and keels over.
FADE OUT.
Sketches, in contrast to prose, are high-maintenance mistresses. They flaunt a sensory indulgence that prose doesn’t provide, and the allure of applause, to boot. Mistress Sketch is without fidelity; she is passed around and shared like a Big Mama among a gang of Hell’s Angels. The writer’s input is diluted by the inclusion of actors, a director, producers, and the worst of the bunch, BEST BOYS, who all insist their shit smells the best. My knack for human error is prodigious, and so sometimes it feels absurd to seek out collaborators to add bits of their human error to compliment mine.
That’s a pessimistic assessment, naturally, and too resentful for comfort. Ultimately, anyone preoccupied with compounding human error should consider the life of an agoraphobic as an alternative.
Today I signed up for a comedy writing class at the Second City. To ensure that it’s a decent investment, I will have sketches rather than prose on the brain for awhile. Featured below is a sketch about pharmaceudical relief from pizza-burn. It's called “Zatrax,” from “Tim Invents the Triangle of Death,” a show that serves as a grim reminder of how far removed from college the contributors have become. The crew deserves thanks for contributing a minimum amount of human error to this one. As for my part, judge for yourself.
EXT. BACK YARD - DAY
Four exuberant men play a game of hackey-sack. A giddy woman with a puffed-up stomach presents a pizza and sets it down a table among paper plates and a bottle of whiskey.
JULIE: Who wants pizza?
The hackey-sack flops to the ground, forgotten. The men salivate and cheer. NICK, the most impatient of the bunch, snatches a slice and is about to inhale it.
JULIE: Wait for it to cool down, buddy. If you eat it too fast, you’ll get a nasty tongue-burn.
NICK: But it looks so delicious…and I’m hungry NOW, darn it.
JULIE: (briefly considers) You make an interesting point.
She grabs a slice and gobbles half of it. The others follow suit. Tongue-burn hits them like Instant Karma.
ERIC: Ouch! Something’s wrong with my tongue; I don’t understand.
STEVE: It feels like invisible demons are scraping tridents against my popsicle-licker!
NICK: Is there no relief?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: There is now, thanks to Zatrax.
Julie slops a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into her mouth.
JULIE: (to camera) Zatrax?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: That’s right: Zatrax. The brand new, once-a-day tablet that suppresses nagging tongue-burns!
ERIC: Sounds too good to be true. Am I high right now?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: I wouldn’t doubt it. But regardless, Zatrax really works. Here, try a free sample.
A vial of pills materializes on the picnic table. Everyone swallows a capsule except for Julie, who inspects her pill uncertainly. The men experience instant relief.
MIKE: Hallelujah, it works!
NICK: The disembodied voice was right. Zatrax kicks ass.
The revitalized men high-five each other and act out a series of antics. Nick piggybacks onto Mike and catches a football thrown to him.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Side-effects of Zatrax include dry mouth, fatigue, headache, sinus congestion, slight nausea, and irritability.
Hearing this, the men react indifferently. Mike and Eric happily declare a thumb-war on each other. Nick places his palms on the ground and kicks his legs up. Steve grabs hold of his ankles and the two perform the human wheelbarrow trick.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Other side-effects include diarrhea, muscle spasms, acne, blood-clotting, excessive dandruff, dimple loss, and erectile dysfunction.
At the mention of these last two words, Steve reels and releases hold of his friend’s ankles.
STEVE: Wait--what was that last side-effect?
Steve is rattled. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Do not mix Zatrax with alcohol, as it may lead to brain hemorrhaging.
Defeated and chagrined, he sets the bottle back down. Julie seizes his lost opportunity and guzzles the booze.
The men gather in a half-circle. Someone flips the hackey-sack half-heartedly but no one bothers to kick it.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: In addition to epilepsy and rickets, Zatrax may cause full-body warts, aortal explosion, clitoral numbness, persistent nipple chafing, nasal ringworms, irrepressible yodeling, Korean War flashbacks, and rabid sperm.
MIKE: Rabid sperm?
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Only in 40% of the cases. Don’t puss out on me. (beat) Pregnant women should not take Zatrax.
Whiskey bottle still clenched, Julie lets her pill fall to the ground.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: (desperately) Unless, of course, you don’t mind birthing a flipper baby.
JULIE: (stomping pill) I’d rather not.
DISEMBODIED VOICE: You heartless harlot. I’ll bet you don’t even know who the father is.
Julie is outraged at first, but soon shrugs and nods as if to say, “You got me.”
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Where was I? Did I mention rectal bleeding and testicular erosion?
NICK: Good God…
DISEMBODIED VOICE: Well, they’re side-effects, too. Ask your doctor about Zatrax today, and say goodbye to tongue-burn forever!
Various side-effects flare up. Mike reaches underneath his shirt and scratches his persistently chafing nipples. Steve yodels in uncontrollable fits. Eric becomes vigilant and paranoid. He cups his crotch with two hands, and before darting out of the scene, he says…
ERIC: I’ve got to inspect my testicles before those damn Koreans cross the 38th parallel.
NICK: (looking around in relief) Hey…I think I got off easy. Other than a touch of dry-mouth, I feel fine. No clitoral numbness to speak of…
(convulsing) Arrrggghhh! My aorta!
An explosion booms as Nick clutches his heart and keels over.
FADE OUT.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Vote Len Finklin for Mayor
If elected mayor of your fine city, I would not discontinue my vicious smear campaign against my opponent. In December, after a month's worth of earning meaty mayor-checks, I'm going to crank the smear campaign up a notch. Did you know he buys alcohol for minors just to keep them occupied while he takes advantage of their moms? You do now, and I promise to remind you of this disgrace and many others for years to come by setting up billboards across town that state the various reasons why my opponent should be ashamed of himself.
Losing this election won't be enough to convince him that he's an asshole. It's going to take a wrestling match to convince him of that. He won't be able to side-step questions about my steel cage challenge once I'm elected mayor. He can either sign the contract for the match (and tacitly agree to be embarrassed and bloodied live on cable access TV) or I'll vanquish him to the South along with all the other undesirables. And by undesirables, I of course mean all the people who didn't vote for me.
***
Read more about the Len Finklin's demented quest to become mayor by ordering a copy of my book. It's called "There Will be Blog."
www.xlibris.com/NickOlig
Saturday, June 28, 2008
The Illegitimite Blog
Tonight I've been busy sprucing up this shabby, urine-scented blog--tweaking the font and format, adding pictures to rectify the absence of visuals, removing asbestos, that sort of thing. For about an hour I wrote in the once vacant "About Me" section, only to learn upon completion that an autobiography over 1,200 characters in length is deemed verbose by Blogspot. It all worked out for the best, though, because this entry isn't really "About Me" in the first place, and besides that, if you knew 1,201 characters worth of my personal information, the mystery would be gone.
Following a dismal night at the dog track in which I lost $500 under the false impression that I could bet on the mechanical rabbit circling the track, I got severely loaded. My notebooks wanted nothing to do with me that night, and so I stumbled into the embrace of a computer that buzzed like a bee pollinating a flower. I recall fitful fragments of blather, mostly about the tyranny of the higherups at the dog track. I thought there was no harm in venting to random outlets once in a while, but I was wrong.
The next morning when I awoke, haggard and breathing napalm, the lap-top was still in my bed. I roused it with a gentle tap of the space bar and became petrified by the realization of what I had done. I had brought a blog into this world.
"Fist pumps and beyond?! What the fuck does that mean?" I cried.
The lap-top rested forlornly on my bed as I hurried out the door in my pajamas. I strided around the block for three hours, returning to the same point just as my frantic thoughts did. I didn't have the heart to DELETE the blog (although I respect other people's decision to delete their own blogs) because the Internet is just too precious. And I didn't want to hand my blog over to another writer for fear that they'd never truly love my blog as their own. The point that I kept coming back to in my mind that morning was that we know nothing about responsibility and wisdom until we find ourselves in a situation where we're totally screwed.
Now you know the genesis of Fistpumpsandbeyond, which is as screwy and implausible as the comedic essays it harbors.
Following a dismal night at the dog track in which I lost $500 under the false impression that I could bet on the mechanical rabbit circling the track, I got severely loaded. My notebooks wanted nothing to do with me that night, and so I stumbled into the embrace of a computer that buzzed like a bee pollinating a flower. I recall fitful fragments of blather, mostly about the tyranny of the higherups at the dog track. I thought there was no harm in venting to random outlets once in a while, but I was wrong.
The next morning when I awoke, haggard and breathing napalm, the lap-top was still in my bed. I roused it with a gentle tap of the space bar and became petrified by the realization of what I had done. I had brought a blog into this world.
"Fist pumps and beyond?! What the fuck does that mean?" I cried.
The lap-top rested forlornly on my bed as I hurried out the door in my pajamas. I strided around the block for three hours, returning to the same point just as my frantic thoughts did. I didn't have the heart to DELETE the blog (although I respect other people's decision to delete their own blogs) because the Internet is just too precious. And I didn't want to hand my blog over to another writer for fear that they'd never truly love my blog as their own. The point that I kept coming back to in my mind that morning was that we know nothing about responsibility and wisdom until we find ourselves in a situation where we're totally screwed.
Now you know the genesis of Fistpumpsandbeyond, which is as screwy and implausible as the comedic essays it harbors.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Hitler and Mr. Düsseldwarf
In light of the dubious nature of the author's research, you readers should know that if you want the facts on Hitler, this essay is not as sound as, say, the film Max or the Roald Dahl short story "Genesis and Catastrophe." In defense of the author, though: Good luck laughing at the Hitler-Facts.
The sympathy card business thrives on human misfortune. You know you're in trouble when someone goes out of their way to assure you that, "This rainbow of wishes is coming to you." I mean no disrespect to the sweet and caring Sue Reilly; it's just that we are mostly promised rainbows and such when the Drama-Shit hits the oscillating device with four propellers.
Death in the family, loss of job, broken jaw, all of these misfortunes are cause for sympathy cards. Getting sucked into a black hole of inane violence garnered me a gift certificate for ice cream and a month of free NetFlix, both of which were slipped inside a sympathy card. There are perks to having your jaw broken, and they are not to be wasted. Last night I used a copy of Fight Club that I ordered through NetFlix as a coaster for a pint of ice cream as a superstitious way of bringing the whole cosmic mess together. (By the way: It's one helluva coaster, that Fight Club DVD...)
In less than a month the braces that cage my tongue and keep my top and bottom teeth intimate will be snipped. I plan on racing to the nearest Subway, splurging on Italian BMTs, and since I'll have no more use for the sympathy cards, I'm going to offer them to the employees at Subway.
"What's this for?"
"I'm just sorry you have to work here, friend."
(Elton John made a jackpot assessment when he sang, "It's the circle of life...")
But before that exchange between a Subway employee and I takes place, I have some living to do, living that I'm not permitted to hibernate through. With that in mind, I'm open to suggestions people offer in an effort to improve the situation. The worst suggestion was Angry Mob Justice, because we haven't been able to round-up the appropriate number of torches and pitchforks for the project.
The most intriguing suggestion is that I learn the art of ventriloquism* while my jaw is wired shut. What better opportunity to learn a trade that is arguably less creepy than clowning? There is no better discipline for the jaw than having it wired shut. A respectable ventriloquist's** jaw should appear idle while his puppet has the floor. This illusion is considered sacred. With my top and bottom teeth confined within a millimeter of each other, a disciplined jaw comes natural to me.
When a bizarre opportunity like this presents itself, it deserves consideration...But only a fool would shove his hand up a dummy's ass and yammer stupidly before doing a little research first.
I turned to Wikipedia for fast and sometimes valid information on ventriloquism. Like ska music and Dungeons & Dragons, ventriloquism was founded by a young malcontent who spurned his parents' insistence to "Get a hobby" until being told, in exasperation, to "INVENT a damn hobby, then; just give us a moment's rest!"
Ventriloquism was invented by Vangelis "Van" Queasel. At the age of 27, he was stoned to death by the ancient Greeks under suspicion of being a mouthpiece for demons. But by that time, Ventrilo-mania had already spread across Europe, the hype carried by dozens of abject minstrel hacks.
Scrolling farther down the web-page, I learned about all the most notable ventriloquists. Wikipedia could not recall the names of many of them but offered vague descriptions such as "One of Batman's most obscure archenemies" and "The guy with the dragon puppet from the early-90s version of Match Game" The list was punctuated, interestingly enough, by Dictator/ History's Greatest Monster/ Ventriloquist Adolf Hitler.
Hitler's ill-fated venture into ventriloquism is documented here, with Wikipedia used as a primary source, but certainly not to the extent that would merit charges of plagiarism.***
In most ventriloquist acts, the puppeteer functions as the rational straight man while the puppet plays the part of the unpredictable loudmouth. The dynamic between Hitler and his dummy, Mr. Düsseldwarf, was the exact opposite, however. Hitler's IN-YOUR-FACE ethnic jabs once prompted a young Don Rickles to remark, "That ugly kraut has no God-damn decency!" But his furor was tempered by Mr. Düsseldwarf's cheerful and clever diplomacy. The dummy routinely assured the audience that his cranky cohort was only kidding when his Pollock jokes quickly led to a call for ethnic cleansing.
Mr. Düsseldwarf had an instinct for pacifying both his puppeteer and their audience--by suggesting the duo perform their trademark routine in which Hitler lit one of Mr. Düsseldwarf's farts. All of the puppeteer's scorn and misanthropy were forgotten by the audience when the pair delivered this gag. Before Hitler & Mr. Düsseldwarf hit the scene, people were under the assumption that a farting dummy was but a wondrous pipe-dream. Several decades later, ventriloquism skeptics and naysayers remain baffled by the trick.
With every public appearance, Hitler & Mr. Düsseldwarf boosted their popularity, sustained by the counter-balance they provided each other. Hitler had always felt contempt for those he deemed impure, but Mr. Dusseldwarf had a calm, diluting effect on his psyche. The Nazi's decent into super-villainy did not occur until the date of the duo's final appearance on June 8th, 1928. That was the night of the fire at the comedy club, a scorching night of destructive accidents in which Mr. Düsseldwarf had his bowels clenched by the cold fist of hatred.
Brisstalnacht's Comedy Club in Frankfurt was the site of Germany's premier talent show. Hitler and Mr. Düsseldwarf were the favorites to dethrone three-time defending champions Shecky Steinmetz & Spunky Hebrewster, a ventriloquist combo whom Hitler reviled.
Steinmetz & Hebrewster took the stage before Hitler & Mr. Düsseldwarf, and their performance was sensational. While Steinmetz wore a deep-sea-diving helmet overflowing with potato salad, his dummy sang a flawless three-minute rendition of "Add on Salami, Not Pork", the duo's ode to sandwiches that parodied the Jewish hymn "Adon Olom." **** The audience was stunned and enraptured as Steinmetz finally removed the helmet, splattering potato salad on the stage. He grinned triumphantly with slimy yellow bits stuck to his teeth. They bowed and, just before exiting the stage, notified the crowd of the book-signing that would take place after the talent show.
At the back-corner of the stage stood a wooden table that seemed parched in the stale heat of the crowded club. It supported dozens of copies of Steinmetz & Hebrewster's autobiography: Knock, Knock? Jews There! The cover featured a cartoon drawing of Steinmetz knocking on his dummy's forehead, both of them laughing uproariously.
Hitler & Mr. Düsseldwarf went on-stage next with jangly nerves. Some members of the audience were still buzzing about the deep-see-diving helmet trick, too preoccupied to acknowledge the current performers. Mr. Düsseldwarf, in particular, was rattled. He bungled set-ups and punchlines the two had practiced and performed countless times. The duo's confidence evaporated along with the wisps of heat that floated up the spot-lighted wall behind them. By the end of their set, Mr. Düsseldwarf was sweat-soaked and slouched like a dummy with a crooked trunk. As Hitler's unsteady hand lit the match for the big finish, the dummy stood up lackadaisically and pointed his ass at an irregular angle, aimed at the books on display at the back corner of the stage.
It is rumored that Hitler's eyes glimmered knowingly as he brought the match to his puppet's backside.
The display of autobiographies was the first casualty of the blaze. Steinmetz charged the stage, his panicked jabber drowned out by the ferocious, nasal scream of the puppet he carried. Their salvaging efforts were chased away when the blaze expanded with a great leap, swallowing the wooden stage and burping sharp crackling sounds. Bedlam ensued. Hitler & Mr. Düsseldwarf led the stampede out of the building. The blaze was unstoppable. Fireballs punched through the windows like deadly vigilantes. The smoldering roof folded and collapsed and made a noise like slowly booming thunder just as the fire-trucks arrived.
Across the street from the inferno, the mostly Jewish assemblage vilified Mr. Düsseldwarf for pointing his ass off-kilter and causing the destruction of one of Germany's most beloved comedy clubs. The dummy was reticent, almost catatonic, allowing Hitler to spew forth the sort of hateful, irredeemable rhetoric that would one day make him a star on the History Channel. His crimson face streaming with tears, Hitler then ran for the nearest train station, harassed by cries of "Book-Burners!" and the realization that he and Mr. Düsseldwarf would be forever blacklisted by the ventriloquism community.
Mr. Düsseldwarf broke his silence one block short of the train station, and he did so with convulsive uproar that made the puppeteer stop in his tracks. His bitter condemnation of Steinmetz & Hebrewster and indeed the entire Jewish population was so crass that it could only be documented by the History Channel's "Too Shocking for History" DVD series...which does not as yet exist. Hitler cracked a smile for the first time in hours, knowing he had at last converted a powerful ally.
While Hitler turned his ferocious energy toward politics, Mr. Düsseldwarf went into seclusion, inside a dusty bedroom closet. The dummy was not idle, however; he ruminated, seethed, and schemed. His unforgiving wooden finger pointed always toward past misfortunes that he believed to be the only reasons why the present was such a miserable struggle. In actuality, the primary reason life was such a miserable struggle for him was because he wasn't getting any sunlight inside that closet. Even when he traveled with Hitler, he demanded to be stored inside a suitcase that let in no light.
For almost two decades the dummy served as Hitler's top-secret advisor, lobbying to his puppeteer suggestions such as "Make that cross crooked, then maybe we'll put it on a flag" and "We'd be fools not to do business with Mr. Schindler." He remained a recluse and avoided sunlight until April 30th of 1945. And the sunlight he witnessed on that day lasted for but an instant--between the time the bombs crashed through the roof above the closet and the time they exploded. *****
Q: What does it all mean?
A: The goon who broke my jaw is not without his detractors, but do you know who's even worse than he is? Hitler. Sharing a hobby with an inductee into Hell's Hall-of-Fame would reduce me to a level two or three notches beneath said Goon...alongside of Hitler. To hell with ventriloquism. During this time in which I vaguely resemble a puppet owned by Jaws from the 007 movies, the only temporary hobby I'm interested in is scaring little children.
* Ventriloquism is not in fact an art form.
** No such thing as a respectable ventriloquist.
*** Wink, wink!
****Novelty song writers have always been obsessed with food for some reason.
***** Along with his main squeeze Eva Braun, Hitler was estranged from his dummy during their last days. The dictator left him behind during his hasty retreat to his underground bunker. Upon realizing his mistake, suicide seemed all the more appealing.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
69 Fist Pumps
Rating systems are important to the neurotic mind. They help solidify an opinion, and neurotics love having opinions. Say you watched a movie and its awesomeness knocked your ass into next Sunday. Which of the following phrasings is more captivating? “I really liked the movie ‘Dumb & Dumber,’” or “Out of a possible 10, I give that outrageous comedy nine whoopee cushions.” If you have a soul, the latter is the obvious answer. To make a tired point: “Dumb & Dumber” is hilarious and whoopee cushions make me giggle.
The 10 Whoopee Cushion rating system is admittedly cool, but my favorite method of categorization is the Sixty-nine Fist Pumps system. Here’s how it works: many fist pumps means I really like something; not many fist pumps means I really dislike something. Why is sixty-nine the pinnacle for fist pumps? Because sometimes I indulge in low-brow humor.
Don’t change the channel, reader, because I’m going to provide a list of numbered fist pumps that corresponds to my appreciation level for various stuff. For the record, much of what follows is hypothetical. Which goes to show that, although it’s not mentioned on the official list, imagination gets the full Sixty-nine Fist Pumps.
69. A nice session of sweet love-making with Scarlett Johansson. Unfortunately, this remains an optimistic and hypothetical occassion.
68. Somewhat ironically, mutual oral sex with Scarlett Johansson. I just think she’s hot, OK?
67. Cubs win World Series. Mark Grace comes out of retirement for game seven against the Yankees and drives in four runs in the DH spot. And the ghost of Harry Carrey appears during victory celebration a la Obi Wan Kenobi at conclusion of “Return of the Jedi.”
66. Front row seats at a Radiohead concert. The opening act is Christopher Walken doing a puppet show.
65. “NBA Jam: Tournament Edition,” of course.
64. W. Bush gets impeached during the third week of his well-publicized “Hee-Haw” binge.
63. Lover that agrees the following things are generally overrated: Muscles, hair, confidence (which is indeed important, but uncomfortably close to conceit, for my money), above-average height, and “Family Guy.”
62. Drunken Toby Keith wets his pants onstage at Country Music Awards. Also, he insults all minorities, then slips on his own puddle of urnine and falls down hard.
61. A vigorous hug from the Advance-Titan’s Kate Briquelet.
60. A vigorous hug from the Advance-Titan’s Laura Frank. (I hope you’re not jealous, Laura. It really boiled down to who gave me a hug most recently.)
59. Niko’s Gyros delivers me a free meal every day of my life. The delivery boy is a dude wearing a ‘70s era Batman costume.
58. Modern video game console releases the sports title “Tecmo Bowl ’06.” The game is sold for $1.99 and it doesn’t disappoint.
57. Cuddling made an Olympic Sport. Within months, I appear on the cover of “Sports Illustrated.”
56. Chris Farley and Phil Hartman miraculously come back to life and headline a sketch comedy show.
55. Length of wait in line for roller-coasters determined by overall visibility of dimples. I don’t think I need to explain this one.
54. A significant reduction of my leg hair.
53. Scientists announce they have discovered a new venereal disease, and they are naming it after that colossal douche that produces those “Girls Gone Wild” videos.
52. Bill O’Reilly forced to live in a Bronx ghetto for an entire year. His misadventure is of course filmed and it becomes a hit reality show.
51. Women across the globe come to their senses and realize mustaches are much cooler than pink shirts.
50. Lunch at a fancy restaurant with Larry David and the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson.
49. A half-hour make-out session with SNL’s Tina Fey.
48. Decline in bumper stickers created by unforeseen skyrocket in price.
47. Similar to Conan’s “Walker: Texas Ranger” lever, a device in my living room that plays random snippets of “Trapped in the Closet” and the obscure ‘80s piece of rubbish “Body Slam.”
46. That ham-and-chese omelet I ate at IHOP a few months ago. It was pretty tasty.
45. Pro-athletes Barry Bonds and Terrell Owens play a game of chicken on mopeds in a narrow alleyway to determine which of the two is more arrogant. The loser gets hit in the face by a Wiffle bat wielded by a modest athlete such as Cal Ripken Jr. or Barry Sanders. The winner gets pepper-sprayed by me.
44. Beer available at vending machines on campus. (I actually wrote a letter to the chancellor lobbying for this advancement. Keep your fingers crossed, campus.)
43. Someone other than me washes the frickin’ dishes at my apartment.
42. Every March, a schizophrenic hallucination appears to me a la “A Beautiful Mind.” He fills out my taxes, wishes me luck, and then vanishes until the next year.
41. Rock band Weezer apologizes to fans of their earlier albums who foolishly bought a copy of “Make Believe.”
40. Helping to interview actor/comedian David Cross over the telephone.
39. Cast of “Friends” reunited and boarded onto a spaceship. Destination: anywhere but planet earth.
38. World peace declared by all nations.
37. Neck-ties. I find them tedious and completely unnecessary.
36. America caves in and converts to the metric system. Honestly, I could go either way on this issue.
35. Indifference. I mean--pick a side, man! But on the other hand...who gives a shit?
34. The mumps revival is interesting, but for the most part, I’m not a fan of the mumps.
33. I see my crappy stereo fall victim to spontaneous combustion. It would be a dazzling sight, but on the other hand, Nick needs his tunes.
32. A minority of college students continue to watch dumbass reality shows on MTV.
31. “Jeopardy” host Alex Trebek tracks me down at a local bar and begs for my e-mail address so we can keep in touch. Oh, don’t even get me started on that uppity dork.
30. Girlfriend that nags me to watch “Sex and the City” DVDs every Sunday night.
29. Cataclysmic tornadoes.
28. Remember those high-stress tornado drills in grade school? God, those were unbearable. (You heard it here first. According to my rating system, Tornado drills are in fact worse than actual tornadoes.)
27. A vicious bear-hug from the Advance-Titan’s Nick Gumm, followed by beard-muffled accusations that I am lazy.
26. Helping to interview actor/comedian David Cross over the phone and not being credited in print with the questions I asked him. Ahem.
25. The telemarketer profession inexplicably doubles in popularity.
24. A week-straight of Little League-related nightmares, including my streak of five consecutive tee-ball strikeouts, which nearly got me disowned by my parents.
23. My 23rd birthday was punctuated by a 23 fist pump salute from some friends.
22. The remote control runs out of juice as I’m flipping through the stations and I get stuck watching the unspeakably-boring Golf Channel for three hours.
21. Waking up next to a girl who changed into a clown costume while I was sleeping. I roll over to give her a kiss and…DEAR GOD, A CLOWN! (Editor’s note: They all float down here, Olig. Heh, heh.)
20. People start referring to me as “Slow-lig,” which occurred from time-to-time in high school.
19. Cubs’ marquee players continue to battle the injury bug. (In 2006, mind you.)
18. Getting stung by a hornet on the foot on the only day of the year that I wore sandals.
17. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld vomits bile onto the Constitution and then rewrites his own version using blood from a sacrificial puppy.
16. Trapped inside an elevator with a half-dozen rabid squirrels. My screams are drowned-out by a live bootleg from the jam band Phish.
15. Jellybeans. I just think they’re disgusting.
14. The Beastie Boys retire.
13. The maddening beep noise that occurs when you're knocking on death's door, desperate to obtain a cartoon heart in the Nintendo game "Zelda."
12. Following a cruel twist of fate, I become Donald Trump’s indentured servant.
11. Garden Gnomes. They should all be rounded up and destroyed by rednecks with illegal fireworks.
10. “The Ten Commandments.” I mean the movie, not the Biblical document. What a snoozer!
9. The high-pitched squeal of a large group of drunk women. You know that earsplitting din? It’s painful to listen to. So cut it out.
8. For some reason the court orders me to log in ten hours per week at Winger’s Bar on Wisconsin Street. Seriously, if you never tire of singing along to “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” I don’t want to hang out with you.
7. Canker-sores.
6. Any song in which a city-dweller compares himself to a cowboy, or wonders where all the cowboys have gone.
5. The Yankees win the World Series.
4. Getting shot in the kneecaps by former Van Halen singer David Lee Roth. While I’m writhing around on the ground, bloodied and hollering, he exclaims, “Bippity-Bop!”
3. After death, I get sent to hell and the rumor is true: The Port-o-potties are not cleaned with great regularity.
2. The results from the 2000 presidential election.
1. The apocalypse.
0. The results from the 2004 presidential election.
The 10 Whoopee Cushion rating system is admittedly cool, but my favorite method of categorization is the Sixty-nine Fist Pumps system. Here’s how it works: many fist pumps means I really like something; not many fist pumps means I really dislike something. Why is sixty-nine the pinnacle for fist pumps? Because sometimes I indulge in low-brow humor.
Don’t change the channel, reader, because I’m going to provide a list of numbered fist pumps that corresponds to my appreciation level for various stuff. For the record, much of what follows is hypothetical. Which goes to show that, although it’s not mentioned on the official list, imagination gets the full Sixty-nine Fist Pumps.
69. A nice session of sweet love-making with Scarlett Johansson. Unfortunately, this remains an optimistic and hypothetical occassion.
68. Somewhat ironically, mutual oral sex with Scarlett Johansson. I just think she’s hot, OK?
67. Cubs win World Series. Mark Grace comes out of retirement for game seven against the Yankees and drives in four runs in the DH spot. And the ghost of Harry Carrey appears during victory celebration a la Obi Wan Kenobi at conclusion of “Return of the Jedi.”
66. Front row seats at a Radiohead concert. The opening act is Christopher Walken doing a puppet show.
65. “NBA Jam: Tournament Edition,” of course.
64. W. Bush gets impeached during the third week of his well-publicized “Hee-Haw” binge.
63. Lover that agrees the following things are generally overrated: Muscles, hair, confidence (which is indeed important, but uncomfortably close to conceit, for my money), above-average height, and “Family Guy.”
62. Drunken Toby Keith wets his pants onstage at Country Music Awards. Also, he insults all minorities, then slips on his own puddle of urnine and falls down hard.
61. A vigorous hug from the Advance-Titan’s Kate Briquelet.
60. A vigorous hug from the Advance-Titan’s Laura Frank. (I hope you’re not jealous, Laura. It really boiled down to who gave me a hug most recently.)
59. Niko’s Gyros delivers me a free meal every day of my life. The delivery boy is a dude wearing a ‘70s era Batman costume.
58. Modern video game console releases the sports title “Tecmo Bowl ’06.” The game is sold for $1.99 and it doesn’t disappoint.
57. Cuddling made an Olympic Sport. Within months, I appear on the cover of “Sports Illustrated.”
56. Chris Farley and Phil Hartman miraculously come back to life and headline a sketch comedy show.
55. Length of wait in line for roller-coasters determined by overall visibility of dimples. I don’t think I need to explain this one.
54. A significant reduction of my leg hair.
53. Scientists announce they have discovered a new venereal disease, and they are naming it after that colossal douche that produces those “Girls Gone Wild” videos.
52. Bill O’Reilly forced to live in a Bronx ghetto for an entire year. His misadventure is of course filmed and it becomes a hit reality show.
51. Women across the globe come to their senses and realize mustaches are much cooler than pink shirts.
50. Lunch at a fancy restaurant with Larry David and the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson.
49. A half-hour make-out session with SNL’s Tina Fey.
48. Decline in bumper stickers created by unforeseen skyrocket in price.
47. Similar to Conan’s “Walker: Texas Ranger” lever, a device in my living room that plays random snippets of “Trapped in the Closet” and the obscure ‘80s piece of rubbish “Body Slam.”
46. That ham-and-chese omelet I ate at IHOP a few months ago. It was pretty tasty.
45. Pro-athletes Barry Bonds and Terrell Owens play a game of chicken on mopeds in a narrow alleyway to determine which of the two is more arrogant. The loser gets hit in the face by a Wiffle bat wielded by a modest athlete such as Cal Ripken Jr. or Barry Sanders. The winner gets pepper-sprayed by me.
44. Beer available at vending machines on campus. (I actually wrote a letter to the chancellor lobbying for this advancement. Keep your fingers crossed, campus.)
43. Someone other than me washes the frickin’ dishes at my apartment.
42. Every March, a schizophrenic hallucination appears to me a la “A Beautiful Mind.” He fills out my taxes, wishes me luck, and then vanishes until the next year.
41. Rock band Weezer apologizes to fans of their earlier albums who foolishly bought a copy of “Make Believe.”
40. Helping to interview actor/comedian David Cross over the telephone.
39. Cast of “Friends” reunited and boarded onto a spaceship. Destination: anywhere but planet earth.
38. World peace declared by all nations.
37. Neck-ties. I find them tedious and completely unnecessary.
36. America caves in and converts to the metric system. Honestly, I could go either way on this issue.
35. Indifference. I mean--pick a side, man! But on the other hand...who gives a shit?
34. The mumps revival is interesting, but for the most part, I’m not a fan of the mumps.
33. I see my crappy stereo fall victim to spontaneous combustion. It would be a dazzling sight, but on the other hand, Nick needs his tunes.
32. A minority of college students continue to watch dumbass reality shows on MTV.
31. “Jeopardy” host Alex Trebek tracks me down at a local bar and begs for my e-mail address so we can keep in touch. Oh, don’t even get me started on that uppity dork.
30. Girlfriend that nags me to watch “Sex and the City” DVDs every Sunday night.
29. Cataclysmic tornadoes.
28. Remember those high-stress tornado drills in grade school? God, those were unbearable. (You heard it here first. According to my rating system, Tornado drills are in fact worse than actual tornadoes.)
27. A vicious bear-hug from the Advance-Titan’s Nick Gumm, followed by beard-muffled accusations that I am lazy.
26. Helping to interview actor/comedian David Cross over the phone and not being credited in print with the questions I asked him. Ahem.
25. The telemarketer profession inexplicably doubles in popularity.
24. A week-straight of Little League-related nightmares, including my streak of five consecutive tee-ball strikeouts, which nearly got me disowned by my parents.
23. My 23rd birthday was punctuated by a 23 fist pump salute from some friends.
22. The remote control runs out of juice as I’m flipping through the stations and I get stuck watching the unspeakably-boring Golf Channel for three hours.
21. Waking up next to a girl who changed into a clown costume while I was sleeping. I roll over to give her a kiss and…DEAR GOD, A CLOWN! (Editor’s note: They all float down here, Olig. Heh, heh.)
20. People start referring to me as “Slow-lig,” which occurred from time-to-time in high school.
19. Cubs’ marquee players continue to battle the injury bug. (In 2006, mind you.)
18. Getting stung by a hornet on the foot on the only day of the year that I wore sandals.
17. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld vomits bile onto the Constitution and then rewrites his own version using blood from a sacrificial puppy.
16. Trapped inside an elevator with a half-dozen rabid squirrels. My screams are drowned-out by a live bootleg from the jam band Phish.
15. Jellybeans. I just think they’re disgusting.
14. The Beastie Boys retire.
13. The maddening beep noise that occurs when you're knocking on death's door, desperate to obtain a cartoon heart in the Nintendo game "Zelda."
12. Following a cruel twist of fate, I become Donald Trump’s indentured servant.
11. Garden Gnomes. They should all be rounded up and destroyed by rednecks with illegal fireworks.
10. “The Ten Commandments.” I mean the movie, not the Biblical document. What a snoozer!
9. The high-pitched squeal of a large group of drunk women. You know that earsplitting din? It’s painful to listen to. So cut it out.
8. For some reason the court orders me to log in ten hours per week at Winger’s Bar on Wisconsin Street. Seriously, if you never tire of singing along to “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” I don’t want to hang out with you.
7. Canker-sores.
6. Any song in which a city-dweller compares himself to a cowboy, or wonders where all the cowboys have gone.
5. The Yankees win the World Series.
4. Getting shot in the kneecaps by former Van Halen singer David Lee Roth. While I’m writhing around on the ground, bloodied and hollering, he exclaims, “Bippity-Bop!”
3. After death, I get sent to hell and the rumor is true: The Port-o-potties are not cleaned with great regularity.
2. The results from the 2000 presidential election.
1. The apocalypse.
0. The results from the 2004 presidential election.
Professor Radington 1
Reader, do you know what I really look forward to in life? It’s not the fickle stuff like the free weekends of Cinemax or the popular return of the mustache (Bold prediction: the ‘stache makes a comeback in 2009, along with Zubaz pants). I’m really looking forward to that moment when I cradle my first infant child and she wraps her TINY hand around my finger and squeezes with the rare strength of an unblemished heart. Do you need to hug the person next to you after reading that? Yeah, I’d like to do the same, but I’m currently seated beside an editor that smells like microwaved Preparation-H.
Kids grow up, of course, and someday they might be squeezing your throat instead of your finger. Once kids start tossing firecrackers at the elderly and blowing all their allowance money on Vaseline, I have no clue how to deal with them. But the squeezing-finger thing seems pretty appealing, so with absolutely no further thought on the matter, I want to be a daddy.
***
www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html is the link to access if you'd like to order a copy of the book this essay is featured in.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Relive Shawn Kemp's Glory Days with NBA Jam T.E.
In the year 2006, when this article was printed, Super Nintendo game reviewer was ranked the third-least profitable profession in America, ahead of only punchlines one* and two.** I dabbled in the field, but ultimately decided against it since the market was saturated with men-boys who survive on the Pop-tart diet. Super Nintendo reviewers are in less demand than a lesbian bar in Smurfsville.
College provides an outlet and an audience for a variety of obscurities; just ask a philosophy major who once raised his hand in a pit class and spouted off a criticism of the logic behind the Greatest Happiness Principle, years before getting a tattoo that reads, "Where did I go wrong?" (Philosophical Debator is actually #4 on the aforementioned list.)
When I'm dead, they should feel free to stuff a few of the stupid ones*** into the coffin with me.
When my colleagues at the newspaper asked me to write a retro video game review, I had but two questions: "Hell yes, I’ll do it," and, "Does anyone even read those?"
Great sports games usually have more replay value than their action/adventure counterparts. With all due respect to "Metroid" and "Contra," they’re just not as enchanting the second time through. Sports games are also more conducive to two-player showdowns, assuming you have a friend or a drunk uncle to play with, of course.
"NBA Jam Tournament Edition" is easily the most enjoyable basketball title for the Super Nintendo console. Playability for basketball games is often hampered by a clutter of 10 players swarming around in a half-court set. It can get pretty messy. The original "NBA Jam" stripped round-ball down to a two-on-two contest—a marquee duet vs. a marquee duet. The results were amazing.
"NBA Jam" paired the simplistic team setup and permissible violence of Nintendo’s "Arch Rivals" with the aerial acrobatics of a coked-up superhero. The pacing is rapid and never slowed down by tedious foul shots. Game-play basically boils down to passes, dunks, three-pointers, shoves and blocks. Simplicity is beautiful. The sequel surpasses the original. ACT test analogy: "A New Hope" is to "The Empire Strikes Back" as "NBA Jam" is to "NBA Jam Tournament Edition."
The biggest difference is the addition of a third bench player for each team. Stockton and Malone are joined by another white guy. Kemp and Payton are joined by a European stiff. There is one more player on the Milwaukee Bucks that you vaguely remember. A third player is essential because of another new feature: injury ratings. Gone are the days when your character can be shoved around like a scummy kid at a Misfits show without consequence. In "Tournament Edition," your character’s speed and shot-accuracy deteriorate if he has endured too much physical punishment. After a quarter’s-worth of rest, however, they return totally revitalized…just like in real life.
Player attributes are more extensive as well. Each player is rated on a scale of zero-to-nine for eight different categories. Each player has idiosyncratic and distinct strengths and weaknesses. Reggie Miller can hit the three like no other, but on the other hand, I could probably beat him in a fight. Cliff Robinson can crash the boards and throw noggin-rattling elbows, but in clutch situations, he’s about as reliable as a broken alarm clock. Spud Webb can dunk from two time zones away…and that’s pretty much it.
The settings of "T.E." are malleable and liberating. The player can choose from five levels of both difficulty and game speed. In addition, the sequel features optional "hot-spots" and "power-ups." Hot-spots are starred numbers that randomly materialize then quickly vanish on the court. Hitting a shot from that location can be worth as much as (brace yourself, dude) NINE points. Collecting a power-up boosts a specific attribute to a Game Genie-type level. When an uncoordinated monstrosity such as Shawn Bradley stumbles across a three-pointer power-up, he virtually transforms into Larry Bird beyond the arc. From a purist’s perspective, hot-spots and power-ups are decadent and downright unnecessary. They jeopardize the sanctity of "T.E.," and I never turn them on. They lend the game an awful "Dragonball-Z" feeling. Thankfully, "T.E.’s" glaring gimmicks are excluded from the tournament quest.
One-player mode is driven by the challenge of defeating all 29 NBA teams. The gamer first faces futile teams such as the pre-Kevin Garnett T-Wolves and progressively works up to worthy foes such as the Sonics and Knicks. A few of the premier teams from this era are missing their best player. The battles down the home stretch are slightly anti-climactic due to the absence of Shaq Fu, Sir Charles, and #23. All three were peddling games one-tenth the quality of "T.E." at the time. Their absence is conspicuous and disappointing, but hell, I’m not going to cry about it…anymore.
Once you’ve stomped every team in the Association, the real challenge begins. The computer drones become increasingly tenacious, wily, and resilient to shoves. Marquee players are paired with secret characters such as the pony-tailed geeks that created the game. Make no mistake: these vainglorious dweebs are sensational ballers. There’s nothing more humiliating than having your lay-up swatted by a "Trekkie" with a Dream Theater tattoo on his pasty bicep. And I feel morally-conflicted whenever my character connects a vicious elbow shot to the jaw of Mike D. from the Beastie Boys. Likewise, the Beasties’ b-ball skills are slightly embellished.
For two-player showdowns, "Tournament Edition" is incredible. Games last no longer than 15 minutes, the frenzy never relents and last-second buzzer-beaters are a common occurrence. (About a month ago, Tyler Maas stuck a dagger in my heart when he swished the winning three-pointer as time expired. I fell out of my chair, spilled my Miller Lite and cursed the cruel fatalism of the video game gods. Not a pretty sight.) Two-player cooperation is another option, and it makes one wonder why Nintendo 64 half-assed their take on the "NBA Jam" series. A worthwhile 4-player game of "Jam 64" would have brought a smile to my face back in 1997. Alas.
Out of a possible 69, "NBA Jam: Tournament Edition" earns 65 fist pumps. (My rating system is very popular with ninth-grade boys.) Stores such as Game Crazy sell retro games and consoles for cheap prices. If you’re a fan of fast-paced, simplistic sports titles, do yourself a frickin’ favor and purchase this masterpiece.
Indeed.
What does the future hold for reviewers of video games that keep fading deeper into the past? Perhaps Super Nintendo Reviewer will once again become a legitamite career, due to something whimsical like the popularity of VH1's forthcoming "I Love Nostalgia: 1994, part 9." Or maybe people will instead realize that watching VH1 is a colossal waste of time. My prediction? Never bet against VH1, America.
And even if I'm wrong, I could still fit in the occasional Super Nintendo review for charity. Imagine the smile on the face of a terminally ill seven-year-old when I tell him what I think about Donkey Kong Country.****
* Fanny-Pack Merchant
** Rec. League Hacky Sack Referee
*** Like this one, for instance.
****I think it's awesome.
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