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.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
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.
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