The Plight of the Bigot's Fantasy Football Team

When readers take satirical writing too literally, they tend to feel contempt for the author. It's all a misunderstanding. Don't confuse my beliefs with the beliefs of a character I created for the sake of a comedy column. Mark Twain was an intrepid abolitionist, and yet he frequently used an epithet more insulting than “Ninja” in his work; more “Ninja” bombs are dropped in “Huck Finn” than in NWA's first album. And let this be the last time I compare myself to Mark Twain.

On the adapted for cable TV version of Leprechaun in the Hood, it may be worth noting, the term that Mark Twain and NWA are so fond of is dubbed over by the word “Ninja.” For example: “Did you know that NWA stands for 'Ninjas with Attitude'?”

Hello. I'm a white supremacist. As such, I believe that Larry Bird is the greatest basketball player of all time, and to ensure that my opinion never changes, I smoke a crap-ton of crystal-meth in order to vanquish from my memory the likes of at least 32 slam-dunkin' Ninjas.

My first-born son, Rudy Gordon Lumwick III, learned how to crawl in aisle 5 of a Wal-mart. He was coaxed on by a trail of Cheeto's what led from the gun display all the way to the checkout line where my sweet Aryan wife was tittie-feeding our seventh or eight bundle of White Joy, Dally Mae or Danica Molly.

And ever since that scrawny spook got elected president and started winning Swedish awards for turning this once great country into a land of Commie freeloaders, I've converted my garage into an independent nation, where I'm free to smear shoe polish on the faces of my little cousins and reenact inside a wrestling ring I built with the hands of Mexican laborers the Hulkster's brutal victory over that cross-eyed Ninja Zeus from the film classic No Holds Barred. May the Confederacy of Lumwick's Garage reign supreme until Jeb Bush is elected president in 2012.

For reasons I do not understand, burning crosses tends to burn bridges with the common, white-guilt afflicted American, but at the very least, in the humane interest of the Superior Race, I beg you to turn a compassionate ear to the desperate plea I am about to express.

Like millions of other true-blooded Americans, I am a Fantasy Football enthusiast. Hell, to be matter-of-fact with you, Fantasy Football gives me more joy than seeing two homeless black guys wrestle over a day-old bagel (a sight I enjoyed mightily while visiting Brooklyn during one of my legendary Hate-Benders). When I think of Fantasy Football during sex with my dumpling Aryan bride Dolly Susie, I blow my load, right then and there, and curse the likes of Peyton Manning and Wes Welker for popping into my head while I got's a boner. But not all is right with my Fantasy team, to be frank, and lately my boys have been giving me more grief than joy.

As a White Supremacist, I'll be damned if I'm going to draft any stinkin' Ninjas. I'm part of a REAL Fantasy League, not one of them Negro Fantasy Leagues. My team is pure! And if that means passing up on every single thousand-yard running back since John Riggens in the mid-1980s, then so be it! I'd sooner draft 4th string Broncos running back Peyton Hillis than one of these gang-bangin', Mouseketeer-gropin' Ninjas like Adrian Peterson or Michael Turner.

Which segues pretty well into a furious gripe I have with the Head Coach of the Denver Broncos, Josh McDaniels. For the benefit of the White Race, and almost as importantly, my Fantasy Football team, Coach McDaniels has got to realize that it ain't enough to simply have a roster-spot for a proud and dying breed, the white running back; you've got to give that egg-skinned son-of-a-bitch some playing time, too. I don't care if he's got more fumbles lost than touchdowns in his short career; the fact remains that he is a White Man! As a White Man who has at least carried the football in the pros, he's a survivor of an endangered minority that has been subjected to the sort of prejudice that civil rights yahoos like Marty King once spoke out against.

Josh McDaniels, by starting a couple of colored hoodlums over one of America's most precious resources, the white running-back, you have betrayed the greatest race known to man. I'm also chargin' you with consent to ass-backwards-racism that benefits the black athlete's monopoly of the running-back profession. You sold us out, McDaniels!

It ain't very trendy for a white man to complain about inside-out racism, but y'all gotta hear me out on this. Whenever an NFL team has a vacancy at Head Coach because a bunch of Ninjas conspired to sabotage the hard work of a white man in charge, the team is required to interview “minority” candidates for the open position. Slit-eyed Orientals, towel-headed Arabs, polar bear-sodomizin' Eskimos, worthless astronauts, and Ninjas included. It's the NFL's version of that tyrannous Affirmative Action policy.

The effects of topsy-turvy racism have been so profound that black Head Coaches now outnumber white running-backs in the NFL. And dammit, that just ain't fair. There's no policy in place to help the white running-back; they're being weeded out of football because of racial favoritism, which colored folk always done complained to the world was wrong.

In light of this discrimination, white RBs should be granted a handicap on the field of glory. In a perfect world, to make the playing field more racially equitable, two of the eleven defenders should be forced to have their arms and legs shackled in chains whenever a white running-back enters the game. If that seems harsh, my first instinct is to shout “Fuck you, Ninja-lover!” but in the interest of compromise, lemme offer an alternative. How 'bout this: Pure honky brutes like Peyton Hillis and John Riggins (the latter heroically un-retired at the mature age of 60), should be allowed to wear steel-spiked shoulder pads. And as a last resort compromise, lemme run this by you: Half the black running-backs in the league should be forced to undergo the same intensive plastic surgery what turned Michael Jackson's skin the ashen shade of Fat Elvis' ass-cheeks.

Once converted to the pure race, formerly black RBs will be forced to stop dancing in perfect time with music, write a 2,000 word report on the righteous message of the film Birth of a Nation, and cease all groping of Disney Mouseketeers.

The fate of my Fantasy Football team hinges on White Activists--or racists--such as myself pressuring the NFL to provide preferential treatment to the endangered species that is the white running-back. People, I have endured 9 Fantasy Football seasons without a single victory because the NFL says it's okay to keep the white running-back down.
But if you've made it this far into my plea, I'm preaching to the choir on that matter. So, if you love Fantasy Football like I do, and also, you hate black people, follow my lead: Send an angry e-mail to the Commissioner of the National Football League on behalf of all the white RBs who are being discriminated against—for reasons as fickle as their inferior speed, size, strength, agility, athleticism, toughness, and productivity. United by the profound bond of White Supremacy, we can turn around the sorry program that is my All-White Fantasy Football team.

Please take action, my White brothers. The John Lynch Mob is in desperate need of its first win.

Everybody Be Cool and Listen Up

Hey everybody, I need you to listen up! Could everybody just be cool for a second? I've got something important to say. Excuse me, everybody in the hysterical prayer circle, I'm talking to you. Please...zip it.


Okay, my name is Hal Galboni and I'm an ex-cop. Now, I know some of you might have read about my termination in the newspapers. If so, all I would like to say in my defense is that some retarded children are excellent liars. That's it.

Ma'am, please. What's done is done and somebody needs to take control of this situation. It's dangerous out there.

Now, the first thing we need to do is get our heads straight and separate myth from fact.

Myth: Evil space aliens are real. So, you can just breathe easy on that one.

Fact: Zombies, vampires, prehistoric man-eating creatures from another dimension, and vicious birds like the kind featured in the Hitchcock movie Birds, are in fact real.

Hey, calm down everybody! We're just going over the facts here.

It turns out that zombies, vampires, the prehistoric things, and even the god-damn Hitchcock birds are as real as the blood splattered on old Mrs. Valentine's new blouse. The four sects of hellish monsters have inexplicably formed an alliance whose sole purpose is the extermination of the human race.

Damn it! Will you please stop crying, Mrs. Valentine? Somebody give her some whiskey, get her boozed-up.

As I was saying: Many of you have lost loved ones to the demonic monsters, literally seen them torn limb-from-limb by a prehistoric thing, or pecked in the face repeatedly by a Hitchcock bird, what-have-you. That is a horror that I can only hope not to imagine because, thankfully, all my loved ones live someplace far, far away.

Anyway, listen: If you happen to be one of the unfortunate souls who witnessed a loved one, or several loved ones, brutally killed by a creature that should not exist in a world created by a supposedly perfect being, the only remedy for you is vengeance. People, we need to launch a counter-attack. A murdered loved one whom you fail to avenge has every right to be disappointed in you when you meet again in Heaven, or possibly Hell.

Whoa, whoa! Hush up, prayer circle. Vengeance first, repentance later. Jesus, there's nothing like a little mention of the afterlife to get the religious nuts worked into a frenzy. There'll be plenty of time for praying after we've slaughtered a couple hundred of those ghoulish sons-of-bitches. Praying might save your soul, but it won't save your ass.

All right, then. Back to the counter-attack plan. I think there's a reason why all 14 of us fled the city to get away from those beasts and gathered inside this old fireworks stand by the highway. Hell, maybe God planned it this way. He might be looking down at us now, saying, "Okay. There's my team of ass-kickers. They're gonna defeat the demon creatures and then get to making babies to rebuild civilization, for it is my will."

And do you know what else? God blessed us with some weapons here. I have in my right hand an M-80 firecracker. In my left hand, a Roman Candle. We've got two boxes full of ammunition, too. Also, I have six lighters in my possession because I've been getting high constantly ever since I realized the end of the world is looming.

The time has come for the group to divide into two sects. Those of you who want to shoot Roman Candles alongside of me, you can come on up here and give your leader a high-five. The rest of you can just go right ahead praying to the same God that did this to us--no offense--or continue waiting for the grief counselor somebody called to finally show up. But keep in mind, on the odd chance the grief counselor is still alive, the man has got to have a very hectic work schedule.

Hey, that's what I'm talking about. Yes! (High-Five!) The lone wolf is alone no longer. You too? Excellent. (High-Five!) The rebellion's army is growing. Here, have a couple tokes on me, guys.

Ahem. Well, it appears that sides have been chosen. I'd like to thank and congratulate you guys for being my soldiers. Both of you.

Okay men, here's the thing to keep in mind: the enemy has dents in its armor. Vampires are nocturnal creatures. They sleep during the day. Do you two realize what that means? It means that during daylight hours we only have to contest with the zombies, the prehistoric things, and the Hitchcock birds. During the daytime, it's basically like three-on-three. You versus the zombies, other guy can handle the prehistoric things, and, by process of elimination, I'll be plugging my trusty Roman Candles up the asses of the Hitchcock birds.

We have about eight hours until daylight. Until then we need to carve up a bunch of wooden stakes. We can use the scrap lumber in the storage room and the Swiss Army blade Frank the bus driver used to slit his own throat. We'll make our way over to the Wal-mart three miles from here, stock up on guns and supplies, maybe even play Guitar Hero in the electronics department, just to take the edge off. And hey, speaking of taking the edge off, hand me back that--

Oh, shit. Shhh! Everybody hush up. Something's out there. Jesus, what kind of a monstrosity are we dealing with here? Zombie, mutated pterodactyl, or Hitchcock bird...either way, I'm going to blow its fuckin' head off. With a Roman Candle.

Hey, you! Open the door, will ya? This wick is burning like hell.

The power of Christ owns you like a bitch!

Schhhhooook!

Oh, shit. Shit! Does anyone have some aloe lotion to rub on his skin? Hey, don't yell at me. I could hardly see a thing through the thick mist. How was I supposed to know the monster outside was really the stupid grief counselor?

Siamese Twins and OCD

At the risk of playing a very tiny violin, I’d like to state that living with a mental disorder is a relentless pain in the ass. The mind-over-matter battle that everyone grapples with is heightened for my pill-popping peers and I, but it’s important to judge one’s plight with a sense of relativity.

Whenever I’m toiling in a neurotic and depressive funk and I’m asked the question, “Hey Nick, how’s it going?” I have devised a foolproof reply to fall back on. The phrase is truthful and it also spares me the stigma of a wet blanket. I tell my “How’s it going?” inquisitor: “I’m just glad I wasn’t born with a Siamese twin."

In comparison to Siamese twins, we’ve all got it relatively easy. My heart goes out to all the physical oddities of the world. As a mental oddity, folks are oblivious abnormalities until they engage me in a conversation about a bizarre topic such as Siamese twins. Siamese twins are externally strange, and they can’t simply shell out $40 a bottle to make things very slightly better, the pitiful saps. On one level I empathize, but on another level, I indulge in a fair amount of comparative gratitude. The next time I find myself checking and rechecking my CD wallets to make sure that all bands are arranged in alphabetical order, I’ll take consolation in the fact that I am not conjoined to another human being. Conversely, I doubt a Siamese twin would think to himself, “Oh, sure, since birth I’ve been unable to walk through a doorway without shuffling sideways in accordance with that chatterbox Lefty, but at least I’m not fussy about alphabetizing my CD catalog. Phew! That’s a load off.” In the poker game of genetics, Siamese twins were dealt a seven-deuce off-suit.

***

I'm only providing the beginning of this essay because I want you to buy a copy of my book, which costs money.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig

A False Opener Followed by Additional Nonsense

If you're interested, and I hope you are, I also write columns for a humor site by the name of twelvepackistan.com . Truth be known, I'm not even sure if this showstopper will be posted there. Sometimes my offerings surpass the word-count they're looking for, and other times the uppity fuckers pass on essays like "Vampire Fight" and "Hair of the Pubic Variety" for reasons my ego will not permit me to understand. This next one is a reworked version of a column I wrote for the Advance-Titan. On a final italic note: I joke about a wide array of strange bull-honkey, but in all honesty, I would love to play a cock-fight-themed video game.

In the nation of Twelvepackistan, we, the contributors, put a high premium on fulfilling the needs of our various demographics. We try to be sensitive to the sensibilities of certain sects of our readership. In a recent column that asserted Led Zeppelin's supremacy in a battle royale of the greatest bands in rock history, Greg took a dismissive swipe at the prog-rock group Styx. Regardless of how you feel about lame and pompously contrived bullshit like “Mr. Roboto,” it cannot be disputed that Greg's terse remarks served to anger and alienate the nerd demographic of this once proud humor web-site. Greg's exclusion of both REO Speedwagon and Starship in the discussion of superlative rock bands further inspired the ire of Twelvepackistan's nerd demographic.

Styx supporters, please, stop waving those plastic light-sabers around, pretending the thin air you're swiping through is Greg's jugular vein. There's no need to gnash your teeth and utter the words “Vile Fiend!” while beating your bony fists against the bean-bag you've been sleeping on ever since that pet iguana of yours squirted diarrhea all over the love-seat. Nick is here to mollify all the indignant nerds who were offended by Greg's anti-Styx stance.

In an act of comic contrition, my aim is to propose some guidelines for a cockfight-themed video game. Nerds everywhere are in agreement: It would be sweet if such a game really existed. Unfortunately, I lack the rampant acne, hunchback posture, and wet-cardboard-smelling body odor known to all video game designers, so I don't have the wherewithal to actually create this game. But I've got faith that one of our readers does, and we're glad to have you on board for this one, poindexter. Feel free to run with the basic blueprints to “Pulverizing Pollos.”

Here is a list of clever character names: Pepi, the Peruvian Peck Technician; Miguel, the Mucho Gusto Rooster; Sir Winston Cluckworth the Fourth, Cock-Master Nine-Thousand; Chachi, the Chicano Chicken; the Wingspan Caravan; Jose Ray, the Half-Pint Pinto Powerhouse; the El Guapo Bopper; and Kenny “The Kentucky-Fried Southern Pride” McBride.

Let's move on to the attack commands. There are four basic attacks: the Jugular Jab, the Beak Bludgeon, the Drunken Tracheotomy, and of course the...

Whoa, what's this? Sorry for the holdup in hilarity, reader, but I just received a telegram. Hmmm. The word “Urgent” is scrawled on the envelope. Damn, I'd better read this. Feel free to get a snack or scratch your genitals, okay? This will only take a minute.

All right, I made short work of that saliva seal. Now I'm reaching inside the envelope and unfolding the letter. (Editor's note: This is Bush League.) Interesting. It's a letter from my fictitious aunt Olla. I haven't heard from her in quite a while.

Oh, God. (Gulp.) No, no, no. Why? My fictitious Uncle Orpheus, he's...DEAD. No! Why do bad things happen to alcoholic uncles? I'm going to shout at the heavens. God, you unfathomable cosmic prankster, why didn't you take my goldfish instead?! It's not like I feed him on a regular basis, anyway. Oh—the plight of it all!

Okay, pull yourself together, man. You're neck-deep in a dynamite column that simply wandered off-track due to an unforeseeable tragedy. Don't let the reader see you cry. Never let the reader see you cry.

(Exasperated sigh.) Sorry, Styx fans, the “Pulverizing Pollos” ditty will have to be postponed. Right now I've got to grieve the only way I know how: by writing an uproarious obituary.

This one is dedicated to my Uncle Orpheus. He could sometimes act like a decent man, but that was usually done as a ruse to dupe the elderly into signing up for one of his pyramid schemes.
His proud shock of frizzy blond hair never faded to gray because he dunked his head in bleach water to sober up each and every morning. He was a gaseous man, bloated with life, who lost two fingers in Vietnam while proving to his fellow soldiers that he could indeed slam dunk the height of the whirring blades on the chopper that transported his unit. He had a palate for Cheese Wiz and schnapps, and he died before he even got the chance to exist.

Uncle Orpheus was an unpredictable vagabond whose travels were driven by an insatiable wanderlust as well as warrants for his arrest in various counties, states, and countries. Back in 2002, he crusaded across Europe in a minivan. He coined his campaign “Y'all Sound Gay When You Speak Your Native Language!” To this day it is recognized as the least effective and most offensive crusade for a global vernacular.

Up until five paragraphs ago, I had planned to spend the next few months with him in Australia. He always said it took money to buy booze, especially in excess. Excess for Uncle Orpheus required a six-figure income to support his habit. For that reason he was not content with an ordinary job. No, he was a dreamer who flirted with Lady Greatness only to have his libido subdued and crushed by three shots of schnapps at bar-close time.

His ambition Down Under was to found the Koala Bear Wrestling Federation. Ausies are fairly sophisticated and far too uppity to indulge in idiotic “sports” such as pro-wrestling. Grown men feigning violence in colorful tights? It's bloody ridiculous, they say. In Australia, they leave the sports entertainment to the koalas...only the violence is very real.

My job was to be costume designer for the koalas. Just like our country's humanoid grapplers, wrestling koalas are required to wear gaudy ensembles. Now, to some of my skeptical readers, I'm sure the notion of a koala clad in a purple Speedo with skull-and-crossbones stitched onto the crotch seems absurd. To those gripers my response is, “Would you prefer a NAKED koala? Gross!”

Had Uncle Orpheus not choked on a doobie made from parasite-ridden Eucalyptus leaves, he would have been in charge of marketing and training in the KBWF. As Head Trainer of the koala bears, he intended to convert a gentle species of herbivores into malicious brawlers capable of wielding steel chairs for entertainment purposes.

His untimely death has devastated my job prospects. As any economist will tell you, the job market for Koala Bear Speedo Designer is dire in America. My only recourse may be to set up a pyramid scheme that tricks the elderly into blowing their retirement money on Hummel figurines for autistic blind children.

But let's not dwell on that. In times of mourning, it is essential to recall the good things a departed loved-one has imparted on your life.

Case in point: The family reunion a few years ago. Uncle Orpheus showed up with his jaw wired shut. The previous week he had fractured his jaw after trying to “unscrew a pesky bottle of champagne” with his clenched teeth. What's even worse, he wasn't even holding a bottle of bubbly at the time; it was a damn bowling pin and he was too wasted off his ass to realize the difference. With his jaw wired shut, he couldn't partake in festivities such as Grandma's Beer Bong Challenge and Uncle Orville's Racial Slur Bonanza. He became envious of everyone in attendance and ordered me to dump out his bag of mushy “astronaut food” and replace it with some schnapps. He intended to consume it little by little through a straw, but I refused to accommodate.

At this point an indignant rage consumed Uncle Orpheus. He grabbed a nearby Scattegories die and hurled it at my head. I ducked just in time. The die flew over my head and cracked against my grandma's right temple. The feisty old woman's response was to chug a large quantity of German Potato Salad, which has a Popeye/ spinach effect on her. She charged Uncle Orpheus with a Jenga box packed with blocks and pummeled the hell out of him.

“I sunk your battleship, son!” grandma slurred. Her timely line didn't make much sense, but we all shared a hearty laugh, anyway.

And that is what I try to remember most about my semi-beloved fictitious uncle: the laughter. Upon your cremation, I vow to spread your ashes across the vast cyberspace of Twelvepackistan...unless Greg deems this column unfunny or too long, in which case, you're shit out of luck.

Oh, and by the way, for the sake of closure, the final attack command for “Pulverizing Pollos” is the Feather Duster.

The Dark Knight and Brett Favre

Originally written in September of 2009.

A few things to keep in mind, since this work is being published in 2010 and therefore requires some updates...

The Minnesota Vikings had a very successful run in 2009; they lost in the NFC Championship game to the New Orleans Saints, who ultimately won the Super Bowl. The loss to the Saints was due in large part to an overtime interception thrown by guess-who.

Aside from that predictable yet (arguably) tragic ending, Favre was undeniably terrific, throwing for over 4,000 yards and boasting the league's most impressive touchdown-to-interception ratio. The Vikings' offense thrived; opposing defenses dared Favre to beat them with his arm and, more often than not, he did just that. These developments astounded me.

My appreciation for Brett Favre is a powerful force that will remain dormant for as long as he wears a Minnesota Vikings jersey. I can't get over my subjectivity as a fan of the Green Bay Packers, nor do I want to. Favre is one of the top ten football players the NFL has ever produced. But defecting to the Vikings to spite the franchise you were almost entirely responsible for rejuvenating? That's a dick move, Brett, and many Packer fans will always hold that against you.

"You either die a hero or else you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."


This is the most profound quote from The Dark Knight, the blockbuster superhero flick that is thought-provoking in ways both intentional and accidental, calculated and tragic. In addition to foreshadowing Harvey Dent's mutation into Two-Face, this quote not only summarizes Brett Favre's decent into villainy in the eyes of the Green Bay Packer faithful, it also cements the impact Heath Ledger's flawless swan song as the Joker had on his legacy.

By playing a deranged villain so adeptly in the final film he was to star in (completely), Heath Ledger died a cinematic hero, but ironically and fittingly enough, he never got to bask in his own triumph; by the time The Dark Knight opened in theaters, he had been buried for four months. Devout Favre fans in Packerland wanted the same from their rowdy gunslinger. We craved the same bittersweet—but unequivocally final—end to Favre's career.

The 2007 season, Favre's last with the Packers, wasn't perfect: it ended in the NFC Championship game with an overtime loss to the New York Giants, who went on to upset the undefeated New England Patriots in the Super Bowl. But the team won 14 games (including the playoffs), and notwithstanding one last confounding interception from Favre, it was the best season the team had had in a decade. Packer fans were both mournful and celebratory in March of 2008 when Favre choked back tears to announce his retirement. Among many other things, we exalted his consecutive games played streak, the way our guy made his fair share of mistakes, but never missed a single start due to injury. He was still the seemingly indestructible country kid who tackled his wide receivers with boyish delight after zipping a touchdown between two defenders. He brought the Lombardi Trophy back to Titletown, set records for passing yards and touchdowns thrown, led his team to the playoffs despite a broken thumb on his throwing finger, threw a six-point strike while in the woozy throes of a concussion, and had one of the most sensational games of his career on Monday Night Football the day after his father died. We remembered all of that, and always will, I hope.

***

This essay is featured, in its entirety, in my book, titled "There Will be Blog."
To order a copy...

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

Pluto's Letter to Earth

Hello, Earth. It's Pluto. It's been a long time since our last correspondence. Ever since you saw it fit to revoke my status as a planet, the two of us have lost contact with each other. Oh, and speaking of Contact, the Jodi Foster sci-fi flick, how the hell is Jodi, anyway? I've been an avid fan of hers ever since her precocious debut in Taxi Driver over 30 years ago. She never replied to any of my letters. I hope she received that chunk of my crust that I sent her as a gift to honor her Oscar nomination for Silence of the Lambs. It's not like I'm stalking her or anything. How could I—without severely altering the course of my orbit in order to collide with violent passion into Ms. Foster and the planet she seductively inhabits? I could never do that. Christ knows I've tried. Okay. Enough about Jodi Foster. If she wants to play hard to get, that's her own whorish business.

About two years ago, a team of Earth's astronomers who all lost their prolonged, middle-aged virginity in a horrid gang-bang of the cleaning lady at their observatory agreed that I should no longer be considered a planet because I'm not up to your standards of size. That's hurtful, Earth. My 900 days of winter have gotten even colder since you stuck that knife in my back. Do you have any idea what kind of damage that demotion has reeked on my social life? Fucking Neptune was the only planet to send me a Christmas card this year, and when I opened the card, the only line written was, “Sorry to hear the news. What a shame! Hope all is well.” Jesus. It's not like my surface is fitted with a shirt that reads, “I crave Neptune's sympathy.”

If I am no longer a planet in the bespectacled eyes of your scientists, then what am I? This wretched demotion is causing me a serious identity crisis. What do your nerdy astronomers call me now? How am I categorized?

Am I a satellite? No, because I don't orbit around another planet. Demote me all you wish, but I'll never be Neptune's bitch. I orbit the Sun, just like you. So, how are we any different?

Do you think I'm a meteor? Because I've got news for you: I'm not. I've got more class, esteem, and regard for life than any of those Jihad-shrieking, suicidal mavericks. If I was a meteor, however, I'd probably propel myself in the direction of Earth, shred through your depleted o-zone layer, and demolish the observatory responsible for revoking my claim to planet-hood.

Am I some sort of an unconventional star to you—barren and frigid and modestly sized? No, I'm too small to be classified a planet, much less a star, which is why I got demoted in the first place. Asteroid, black hole, comet? No, no, and no. I'm running out of space-words here! What the hell am I? Since being demoted, my self-esteem has plummeted. At my lowest moment, I got loaded on moonshine and ether with one of Uranus' moons—shit, I can't even remember which one—and got so depressed hanging out with that galactic nobody that I tried to float into the path of a meteor shower.

But that ultimately brings me to my point. I recall Uranus' moon slurring the words “Dwarf Planet”--it was either that or “Smurf Gadget.” But “Smurf Gadget” was senseless within the context of the conversation, which was all about Earth's big “Fuck you” to old Pluto.

I can live with being called a Dwarf Planet. Do you know why? Because you can't spell “Dwarf Planet” without the word PLANET! Dwarf is merely an adjective to describe a noun, which in this case is a planet. We don't need to get bogged down in semantics here, but obviously, a dwarf planet still qualifies as a planet, doesn't it? Just because something is small or dwarfish in size doesn't mean you need an entirely different noun to categorize it. Just as a small penis is a penis nonetheless, a small planet still counts as a planet. A penis can't be kicked out of the League of Penises by a larger penis; that wouldn't make any sense, so I don't see how Earth—which isn't even big compared to planets like Jupiter—can possibly dismiss a long-time member of the club because of a bias in size.

And actually, it's pretty cool being the only planet in the club with an adjective to modify it. While the rest of you, from that kiss-ass of the Sun Mercury to Neptune with its two bull-dike moons, the whole sorry lot of you all are just planets. But me, I'm a rare breed, a dwarf planet, which is a point of pride and distinction.

So, thanks for going through all the trouble to reclassify me a dwarf planet, Earth. It makes Pluto feel special. Oh, and please let me know when the telescope, scented candles, and bottle of lubricant I sent to Jodi Foster three light years ago arrives. When the night is right, I'm going to give that sultry broad the show of a lifetime.

Jokes Instead of a Column

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

You can read the rest by purchasing a copy of "There Will be Blog."

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

A Translation of Zooey's Meows

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

The rest of "Zooey's Meows" is available for your reading pleasure within my book. In case you'd like to order a copy...

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

The High School Reunion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diane enters the scene, gazing about uncertainly.

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

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

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

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

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

Chad: Wow. You wrote that jingle?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diane: What is he talking about?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diane: Russell Stanke, you complete me.

"How's It Going?"

The “How’s it going?” exchange is pretty meaningless. You know the drill. In passing, you spot someone you know fairly well, and, in a simplistic show of politeness, you acknowledge the other person’s presence with this benign inquiry. The acceptable reply, regardless of the mood you’re in at the time, is of course, “Good” or “Can’t complain.” In an effort to really sell their happiness, some people even say, “Couldn’t be better.” If we’re being watched by space aliens that strictly pay attention to our “How’s it going?” exchanges, they’ve got to think planet Earth is a near-utopia. Which is far from the actual truth, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now.

I’m astounded by how often we fib when asked, “How’s it going?” The positive, honky-dory response is really just a time-saver. “We’ve both got places to go and an in-depth description of my actual state of mind would just hold us up. I mean it’s not like you’re my shrink for crying out loud. So let’s cut a few corners and go with the traditional response and then part ways so as not to interfere with our schedules.”

The question “How’s it going?” doesn’t give you much insight into the struggles and joys of another person, to put it mildly.

Have you ever dared to defy convention and bluntly answered something unexpected like, “Please kill me or at least hand over some Vicodin” or “What ever happened to Plan A?” It really throws a wrench in the machinery of everyday greetings. That kind of sullen retort will brand you with a pretentious label. “What do you mean, ‘Why do I bother leaving the house?’ You’re not supposed to grovel like that in passing. We have a time-honored system here, and you’re meddling with it, fancy-pants! You think my life is perfect? My teenage daughter won’t talk to me and my fantasy football team is ravaged with injuries!” To some people, the soldiering productive-types mostly, a gloomy answer to “How’s it going?” lofts your problems over theirs…and they hate that.

Let me tell you a story about a guy with a very distinct and plaintive retort to “How’s it going?” His name was Kyle, and he was a melodramatic and surly character who lived purely to rebuff pleasantries. Every time he was asked the question, he would say, without inflection, “I’ve got a terminal illness.” Which was a lie. Kyle attended college, and between classes, when asked, “How’s it going?” he’d say, “I’ve got a terminal illness.”

And a lot of times, the person headed in the other direction tuned out his answer. “Good to hear. Keep on truckin’, Whatsyername,” they would say, without breaking stride, bustling toward yet another appointment on yet another busy day.

Kyle’s “I’ve got a terminal illness” response persisted for quite some time. At joyous occasions such as weddings and baby showers, his matter-of-fact catchphrase never wavered. He never let you down in his role as a downer. It became a real nuisance to his friends, who often questioned why they hung around with Kyle in the first place. The last straw came at a twenty-year high school reunion. An old associate of the gang approached and made the mistake of casually asking Kyle a certain question. You can probably guess what that question was, as well as Kyle’s reply. At this point, his closest friend snapped.

“For God’s sake, you’ve been milking that line for twenty years now! If you’ve got a terminal illness, then why aren’t you dead yet?”

I used to think there are two kinds of people in this world: “More-miserables” and “Less-miserables.” In hindsight, that’s excessively bleak, but for the sake of this column, we’ll go with it. Obviously, Kyle is a “More-miserable.” On the other end of the spectrum, you have the “Less-miserables.” Rudy was such a character.

Whereas Kyle was a self-pitying curmudgeon who transmitted his unhappiness to anyone who would listen, Rudy would rather die than trouble others with his piddling problems. Regardless of his temperament, in times of elation, despair, and everything in between, when asked the question, “How’s it going?” Rudy would reply, chipper as a regret-free newlywed and without irony, “Every eye blink gives me a rush of joy!”

It wasn’t easy to maintain such an upbeat response to the question “How’s it going?” One day, in a bizarre board game mishap too complicated to fully explain in an article less than 20,000 words, Rudy accidentally swallowed a 23-sided Scattegories die. The die was naturally too large to squeeze down his throat, and as it protruded from just above his collar bone, his face turned a ghastly shade of purple. Things were looking bleak for Rudy, until his roommate—a Nursing major with a soft spot for weed brownies—returned home and casually asked Rudy, “How’s it going?” Unable to speak and barely conscious, Rudy scribbled onto a Scattegories answer sheet: “Every eye blink gives me a rush of joy! Now, if it isn’t too much trouble, I have a favor to ask: could you please be a dear and give me the Heimlich maneuver before my life is cut tragically short by a Scattegories die lodged in my throat. Please help me before I choke to death. XO, Rudy.”

Another time, during a tumultuous visit to the aquarium, an ill-tempered jellyfish leaped out of its tank and attached itself to Rudy’s head. After a mighty sigh, Rudy left the aquarium and made for the hospital. On his way there, he encountered a few casual acquaintances, and when they asked a certain question that rhymes with “Cow’s tit sewing,” he reasoned it impolite to pester them with his trifling problems.

“Every eye blink gives me a rush of joy!” he proclaimed. And as the other person bustled without breaking stride toward yet another appointment on yet another busy day, they felt invigorated by Rudy’s optimism. “Man, I think I’ve got it rough, but whatshisface is wearing a damn jellyfish for a helmet and he’s doing just fine. Maybe life isn’t so bad, after all.”

Rudy died of head trauma on his stroll to the hospital, but he inspired more than a few people on the way there.

The “How’s it going?” pleasantry doesn’t work for me because almost everyone is far too comfortable with a bullshit reply. For just one day, I’d love to see “How’s it going?” replaced by the far more straightforward inquiry: “Any nervous breakdowns today?” If you ask someone how it’s going and they respond negatively, you don’t know if they’re being melodramatic about having a pebble stuck in their shoe or if they’re having a legit nervous breakdown, and you may very well waste your time sympathizing with a former Geology lab partner that isn’t even having a nervous breakdown. The question, “Any nervous breakdowns today?” will save you that time and cut through some bothersome red tape.

And you’re much less likely to fib in response to, “Any nervous breakdowns today?” The nervous breakdown inquiry is hard to take lightly. I’ve fibbed about how “It’s going good” on countless occasions, but I can count the number of nervous breakdowns I’ve had using just three hands.

In closing, let me just say that if you ask someone, “Any nervous breakdowns today?” and they nod, try not to bustle toward yet another appointment on yet another busy day—not right away, at least. Walk with them to a nearby restaurant and do your part: in an act of compassion, buy the poor soul a sandwich of their choosing.

And if the person doesn’t like sandwiches...hell, maybe they deserve to have a nervous breakdown. The anti-sandwich people cannot be saved.

Job Fairs and Prank Applications

*I've done it before, but this time it is especially blatant: this column was written while I was still in college. Two-and-a-half years later, I'm discouraged by how little has changed in my attitude toward the job market, but grateful the personal zest I put into "Job Fairs and Prank Applications" still resonates today. I haven't made the advancements in responsibility that I'm after, but at least I still identify with myself.

Throughout my lengthy college tenure, I've exerted much energy fending off the malaise presented by entering the work force. Truth be known, if I had another semester left to stubbornly procrastinate, there's no way in hell I'd ever attend a job fair. The very phrasing, “job fair,” is an oxymoron. A JOB typically connotes repetitive labor driven less by passion than the pressing desire not to sleep inside an abandoned fireworks stand. A FAIR, on the other hand, hearkens to mind delightful spit-experiments on the Gravitron, scrumptious caramel apples, and a performance from the deceptively-spry Cheap Trick on the main stage. The words “job” and “fair” are paired together about as fittingly as “diarrhea” and “jamboree.” (Interestingly enough, “Diarrhea Jamboree” was the name of my first garage band. I operated the smoke machine and harmonized into a Fudgesicle I pretended was a microphone).

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t completely abhor the transition from college to career. It’s just that most jobs favor the practical mind as opposed to the type of mind that stays up until dawn trying to think of amusing song titles for a Freddy Krueger-themed rock opera. (True.) I mean to say that telegraph repairmen have an easier time finding employment than comedy writers do.

And don’t let this job-bashing lead you to believe I’m a hippie that yearns for capitalist exile on a commune. I’ll admit there are some allures to the collectivist lifestyle, but when I garnish my salads with Bacon-Bits, I would prefer not to be dowsed with a bucket of fake blood. In addition to that, communes feature a high-percentage of Phish fans. My desire to avoid an area densely populated by this inferior breed of humanity overshadows my misgivings about working a trade I have little enthusiasm for. In a roundabout way, my distaste for pompous soloists with lyrics like a Weird Al tune minus the punch line motivated me to attend a recent job fair.

Don’t expect a carnival atmosphere when you attend a job fair. While I navigated the aisles in a state of aloofness, I mused about how great it would be if the recruiters wore silly hats and screamed at passersbys with the cadence of an auctioneer. As I walked past the Cumulus broadcast booth, a mustachioed man in an American flag vest would yammer in my direction, “Hey there, Slim, you look desperate for employment. Well, today’s your lucky day, fellow. If you can topple this pyramid of empty milk bottles with THIS ping-pong ball, I’ll hire you on the spot. It’s the chance of a lifetime, junior, and it only costs five blue tickets!”

But alas, my imagination proved too lofty. There was nary a pyramid of empty milk bottles to be seen, and the only bearded lady there tended the Kwik Trip booth. Yes, a Kwik Trip booth was set up at the job fair, presumably for applicants that want to look dapper and confident before landing a job that requires them to scrape off encrusted nacho cheese inside a microwave.

I did stumble across a booth that really interested me. Located far away from the other booths, it attracted me like the one girl at a bar that shuns the dance floor while that retarded “Skeet, Skeet” blares. But when I asked the man behind the counter about the employment opportunities his business had to offer a vigorous go-getter such as myself, he just frowned and replied, “Sir, you’re holding up the line. Just tell me what kind of soda you want.”

Even the concession stand had high standards I couldn’t meet. I stomped out of the Kolf Center disgruntled and hopeless. Job fairs had become the latest annoyance in my experience with the work force, continuing a wretched tradition that includes applications.

Filling out job applications is both tedious and dreadful--like using a credit card to color-coordinate a puddle of vomit. Applications are nosy buggers that burrow into your skull and demand concise answers to meaningless questions. “What is the address of the high school you attended? Oh, you don’t remember? Well, then you don’t deserve to vacuum dead lake flies in the district manager’s pool house for minimum wage! No, the privilege of sucking-up dead lake flies with a deafening Shop-Vac will go to a DIFFERENT desperate schmuck--one that actually remember the address of his old high school.”

I endured a stint of unemployment this past summer (fuck you, Exclusive Company), and after two weeks of dead-end applications, I began to feel worthless and desperate. It’s my understanding that vengeance is more appealing than both worthlessness and desperation, and for that reason I resorted to filling out “Prank Applications.”

Prank Applications flout the restrictive stuffiness of the job hunt with a healthy dose of dark comedy. On a recent Prank Application, I was asked to provide three references. I listed the following notorious characters: abusive husband Ike Turner, lackluster comedian Carlos Mencia, and everyone’s favorite taboo punch line Osama bin Laden. I even provided an exhalant quote from each.

Ike Turner praised, “I’ve beaten a lot of women in my day, but you can’t BEAT Nick Olig’s work ethic!”

Carlos Mencia screamed, “Take it from ME: Nick is really funny. P.S.: dee-dee-dee!”

Osama bin Laden raved, “I thought I hated ALL Americans, but after expert worker Nick Olig cleaned out and reorganized my basement clutter, I can name at least one capitalist monster I would not wish a Jihad against!”

If I’m not going to get hired, I want to do it with morbid style.

In the employment history section, applicants are asked to cite the reasons why they left their former jobs. Typical answers include: “Insufficient pay” or “Didn’t receive enough hours.” Such responses, while legitimate, will fail to sabotage your chances of securing employment.

Here are some of my farcical former vocations and my reasons for leaving.

Police officer: Terminated for repeatedly enforcing a law that does not exist. Much to chagrin, it is in fact legal to be cross-eyed in a school zone.

Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago: That post was far too exhausting; I had to quit. Never mind Trinidad, governing Tobago alone was becoming way too much to handle.

Pro Wrestling Referee: Fired by the promoters for ignoring the villain’s manager while he tried to distract me from outside the ring. What did I do wrong?! I tell you, that quasi-sport is teeming with corruption!

Medical Surgeon: Given the pink slip for accepting a dare that I couldn’t make an aortal incision ten seconds after inhaling a balloon filled with nitrous oxide.

Ricky Martin Impersonator: Fired when my singing telegram agency discovered my terrible secret: I’m the actual Ricky Martin.

Antics such as Prank Applications aren’t likely to land you a job, but on the plus side, they WILL provide you with a childish satisfaction you should have outgrown by now. And dammit, that’s good enough for me.

Tony and Tina's Wedding: Interrupted

*This is another sketch I wrote for the Second City. Prose will be secondary for a few more weeks on fistpumps, until the completion of the class. Feel free to stage sock-puppet productions of any of the sketches you read here this summer.

CAST
Tony- Played by an actor named Frank. Co-star of the show whose performance is interrupted by real life girlfriend with special needs.
Tina- Played by an actress named Meadow. She’s upset by the intrusion of Sophie.
Michael- Tony’s best man in the performance, played by an actor named Bobby.
Sophie- Frank’s girlfriend who can’t discern between environmental theatre and reality. She is mentally challenged.

(Behind an elongated table draped in frilly white
cloth sit two men and a woman—the men in
dapper suits and ties, the woman in a wedding
dress. Each has a glass of champagne within reach.)

MICHAEL
(standing, glass in hand)
All right, pipe down, everybody. I’m trying to make a speech here.
(beat)
Tony, you’re the best Paison a guy could ask for. From my very first chubby to lap-dance number one, years later, to yakking-up a calzone and two bottles of red wine at the high-heeled shoes of Triple-Cici, I owe all these fine memories to you and the gentleman’s club owned by the Nunzio family. And as for you, Tina, I wish someone was here to say some complimentary things on your behalf, but unfortunately, your Maid of Honor Maddy is in the can doin’ God knows what. Thank you.

(As Michael reclaims his seat, Tina stands up.)

TINA
Don’t overstrain yourself with the sweet talk, Mikey. For crying out loud, Tony, your best man has about as much class as a two-Euro Vatican who-ore. And as for you, mi amore, I just want to say that loving you ain’t always easy, but every time we make love, I sure feel greasy.

(She sits down as Tony rises to his feet.)

TONY
Well, for the love of the Pope, we got a couple-a regular sentimentalists up here, don’t we? This one’s got his mind in the gutter and this one’s breakin’ my balls about the proud Nunzio family tradition of sweating like Rocky Balboa in the last round of a prize fight. Well, I ain’t gonna say nothin’ dirty ‘cause I ain’t out to spit on this special occasion. Tina, I know things between you and me ain’t always been perfect, but you always make me strive to become a better man. I love you with every drip of my body sweat. You’re the best thing that every happened to me, and I want to be wit’choo the rest of my life.


(From stage-left, a distraught and hysterical SOPHIE
enters the scene.)

SOPHIE
Oh, Frank, how could you do this? You married someone else when my back wasn’t looking? You make my heart hurt a big owie!

TONY/ FRANK
(breaking character)
Sophie? Sweetheart, I told you never to come to one of my performances. What are you doing here?

SOPHIE
(thrusting a pack of Big League Chew)
You forgot your bubble-gum at home, silly!

MICHAEL
(laughing uneasily, maintaining character)
Performance? What are you talking about, Tony? This ain’t no performance; it’s a friggin’ wedding. And furthermore, who the hell is this broad?

SOPHIE
You didn’t want me to come here ‘cause you’re getting married to another girl. I thought your heart sang happy songs for me, Franky-Wanky.

TINA
Security!

TONY/ FRANK
(to Tina/ Meadow)
I don’t want security strong-arming my girlfriend. Put a lid on it. I can handle this myself, Meadow.


MICHAEL
OOOHHH! Franky-Wanky? Meadow? Who are these people? Are the both of ya spies leadin’ double lives or somethin’? And Tony, if that is your real name, I always knew it’d be tough for you to become a one-woman man, but what gives? You’re already cheating on Tina with this retarded chick?

TONY/ FRANK
Bobby, you ignorant prick, you call my girlfriend retarded again and I’ll punch your teeth down your throat. She’s just…special.



MICHAEL/ BOBBY
Potato/ Potat-oh. And who the hell is “Bobby”? I ain’t no top-secret spy.

TONY/FRANK
Just stop calling her retarded. You hear me?

SOPHIE
Stop defending me! You don’t love me anymore. You’re married to an ugly meanie with chunky flab-arms.

TONY/FRANK
(to audience)
Listen folks, I gotta tell ya: Anything can happen during Tony & Tina’s Wedding, but these shenanigans will be all over in a second.
(to Sophie)
I will never stop defending you, Sophie! Just wait outside for half-an-hour and I’ll try to explain—

TINA/MEADOW
Chunky flab-arms?! Listen bitch, I don’t know who you are, but this is my wedding, and you’re a big nuisance right now. And if Tony is going to defend anyone, it’s going to be me: Tina, his wife!

SOPHIE
Oh, my used-to-be sweetie, you’ve changed. I don’t even know your name anymore!

TONY/FRANK
Sure you do, Sophie. Look, it’s very simple: I’m Frank.
(to his co-stars, then to the audience)
Keep your pants on, folks; old Tony’s just got some dirty laundry to air. It’s all part of the show—er, all part of the wedding bash we got goin’ on here.
(eying Sophie, demonstratively crossing fingers)
Nothin’ to worry about; I’m Tony, everybody!

MICHAEL/BOBBY
(quietly)
Jesus, Frank, is it contagious? Have you gone retarded, too?

TONY/FRANK
Bobby…er, Michael, I already told you, you keep sayin' that word, best man or no best man, I'll bust you one right in the jaw. That is a very hateful, ignorant word.

SOPHIE
I don’t need your sympathy!
(She turns to leave, weeping)
Tony, I never want to see Frank’s dumb face again forever and ever plus one.

MICHAEL/BOBBY
(to Tina, whispering)
What the hell? Were there some rewrites nobody told me about?

TONY/FRANK
No! Don’t go, Sophie.

(Sophie stops in her tracks, back facing
the mock wedding party.)

TINA/MEADOW
No. There weren’t any rewrites, Michael, because this isn’t some play with actors and a script. This is reality. And Tony, if you’ve been fooling around on me with this…handicapped girl Sophie, well, I’m quite disappointed. This is all very, very unexpected. But I still think we can work it out. We have to work it out…as soon as that dopey broad gets out of here. Then everything will be back to normal between you and me.

(Sophie does an about-face and stares at her
beau in desperate confusion.)

TONY/FRANK
Look. This is a really hard predicament for the Tone-Bone. For now, how ‘bout this: can I just say that I love both of you’s equally and have that be cool?

TINA/MEADOW and SOPHIE
(in unison)
No!

TONY/FRANK
Okay, okay. My balls are getting’ shattered into smithereens here.
(sighs)
Tina, thank you for forgiving me. I’ve been acting like a bed-hopping pig lately, and you’re an incredible woman for taking me back. I messed-up big-time, going around with this…Sophie girl…

(Crestfallen, Sophie turns to leave.)

TONY/FRANK
Oh, the hell with it. Sophie, listen! This is all just make-believe. I’m not really going to marry Tina. Tina’s not even her real name; it’s Meadow. We’re just actors in what’s called an environmental theatre production. I’m just pretending that I’m the groom in a wedding.

TINA/MEADOW
God-dammit. You’ve officially ruined the show, Frank.

SOPHIE
(brightening up)
Why didn’t you say so before? I love make-believe. Like when I pretend to be a mommy- bird and you lay underneath me and pretend to be one of the eggs I have to keep warm!

TONY/FRANK
Exactly, sweetheart! Now, I won’t lie to you, I’m probably going to get fired soon. But that’s okay. I hate playing a stereotypical grease-ball for low-brow tourists, anyway. So until I land my next job waiting tables or whatever, we’ll have plenty of time to spend together.

SOPHIE
Wanna go feed animal crackers to the geese by the pond?

TONY/FRANK
You read my mind, sweetheart.

(He gets up from behind the table and escorts
his girlfriend off-stage.)

SOPHIE
Here’s you Big League chew, Frank.

(Tina and Michael look somberly at each other.
Finally, Michael nods gravely.)


MICHAEL/BOBBY
Ladies and gentlemen, due in large part to tonight’s bizarre interruption, the broken down fourth wall that is the essence of “Tony & Tina’s Wedding” has been re-constructed, re-separating fiction and reality. We’ve all been dreading the day this would happen. Now that the show’s gimmicky appeal has been sullied, the cast and crew can no longer go on doing this pitiful shtick. This is the final performance of “Tony & Tina’s Wedding.”

TINA/MEADOW
And there will be no refunds!

(Blackout.)

Jester Staggs: A Retrospective/ Intervention

^A Sarlacc pit from Return of the Jedi.^

*This is a sketch I wrote recently for the Second City. Be warned: It's quite crude, even for me, and it's times like this I'm relieved my parents have no interest in reading my writing. Thanks go out to Billy Squier for offering the inspiration behind this one.

“Jester Staggs: A Retrospective/ Intervention”
6/14/09

Characters:
Jester Staggs- Glam rocker who rose to prominence in the late 70s with raucous odes to the hand-job.
Venus Staggs- Dissatisfied wife of Jester who is fed-up with her husband’s bizarre fetish.
Dr. Danny Porter- Resident therapist of the VH1 network with a thoughtful and compassionate drive.
Molly Staggs- Daughter of Jester and Venus who is embarrassed by her father’s lewd legacy.
“Dirty” Dirk Sandstrom- Former lead guitarist of Jester’s band who shares concern for the singer’s obsession.
“Tom-drum” Tommy Blain- Disgruntled drummer who merely wants royalties owed to him.

(Six chairs form a U-shape on the stage.
The arrangement is typical of any daytime talk-
show in which the host is surrounded by
several people united by a common crisis
that needs to be discussed. Dr. Danny
and Jester Staggs occupy the middle seats.)

DR. DANNY
Hello and welcome to a VH1 retrospective called Jester Staggs: The Past Is in the Palm of Your Hand, a tribute of sorts to rocker Jester Staggs. I’m Dr. Danny Porter. Joining me today for this gathering are Jester’s family—daughter Molly and wife Venus--as well as two of the founding members of the Four Fingers—“Dirty” Dirk Sandstrom and “Tom-drum” Tommy Blain--and of course...

JESTER STAGGS
Don’t forget the star of the show! It is I, the man who belted out all your favorite hand-job anthems, including: “I Demand the Hand,” “Beast in Blue Jeans,” “Sausage Stroke on the Sly,” “Nothing Left to Ooze,” and 93 others that rock almost as hard!

DR. DANNY
Indeed, Jester. I was just getting to that, but I see you’ve provided your own introduction quite ably.


JESTER STAGGS
Damn, I almost forgot about “She’s So Handsome” and “Your Curled Fingers Linger.” Those tunes also rocked your grandma into a coma!

VENUS STAGGS
Jester, please. Stop interrupting Dr. Danny.

DR. DANNY
Thank you, Venus. Now, Jester, your record sales in the late-70s notwithstanding, you have the reputation of being somewhat of a one-trick-pony.

JESTER STAGGS
I don’t know about one-trick-pony, but you can ask my baby Venus about my One-eyed-pony. Damn...that could be a song title right there...

MOLLY STAGGS
Jesus, dad, would you cut it out for a second? This is important.

DR. DANNY
I must ask you, Jester, on behalf of your fans, and to a greater extent, your friends and family that have gathered with us today, what is behind your single-minded obsession with hand-jobs? You have written nearly a hundred songs to date, and every last one is about receiving a hand-job.

TOMMY BLAIN
Don’t forget about the songs he didn’t write.

DR. DANNY
We’ll touch on that later, Tommy. But remember, we’re here for Jester and his family.

JESTER STAGGS
Well, the way I’ve always seen it, I was born with two reasons to be very happy. First, the Good Lord blessed the lady-creatures with fingers and opposable thumbs. Secondly, He gave me a wiener. Those two blessings united when I was 17, and ever since, I’ve been in paradise. And the only thing better than living in paradise is singing about it. That’s what inspired me to create “Elaiza and the Cream Geyser,” and dozens more in that same hand-job vein.

MOLLY STAGGS
Dad, you’re so disgusting.

JESTER STAGGS
Relax, Molly. I met Elaiza years before I became acquainted with your mother’s hand.

VENUS STAGGS
(to Dr. Danny)
Sometimes I think the only reason he married me is because my name rhymes with “Penis.”

JESTER STAGGS
Now, you know that ain’t the truth, baby. I married you for that reason and because you give the best H-Js in the world!

DR. DANNY
Jester, stop it. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing your daughter?

JESTER STAGGS
Hey, what’s with all this flack I’m getting here? Ain’t this supposed to be a tribute or something?

DR. DANNY
(sighs)
As much as everyone on this panel appreciates you, Jester, no, it’s not. We attracted you here under the guise that this is a glowing retrospective, but in reality, it’s an intervention.

JESTER STAGGS
Intervention? What for? I don’t need no intervention.

VENUS
(to Dr. Danny)
You see? Denial! Jester, we’ve been married for 30 years and Molly is the only evidence that we’ve ever made love. You have refused my longing body thousands of times, consistently turned-down oral pleasure, and completely ignored my sexual needs. I can’t take it anymore!

JESTER STAGGS
Ignored your sexual needs? Baby, that’s ludicrous. Why, just last night you were hardly crying at all when you agreed to pump my one-eyed—

DIRK SANDSTROM
Oh, enough about the hand-jobs, already! For God’s sake, Jester, you’re in your fifties and you’re still hung-up on this juvenile thrill from sophomore year of high school. How can you live with yourself for turning down all the groupie-sex a man could ask for?

JESTER STAGGS
I was too busy getting wicked hand-jobs to give a damn about—what do you call it—intercourse! All I’ve ever wanted from a lady is to get it jacked by a co-pilot. What’s wrong with that?

MOLLY STAGGS
I’ve never choked down so much vomit in my life...

DIRK SANDSTROM
Vaginas are awesome, Jester. For straight men, and especially macho rock singers, they provide the ultimate groove, the spot where the pleasure-amp gets cranked up the loudest. For you to be married 30 years and shun your wife’s vagina, dude, that’s pretty creepy.

DR. DANNY
Dirk makes a valid point, albeit in a slightly crude manner. What we’re trying to say, as adults, is that the hand-job ranks very low in the scope of sexual intimacy. Relationships are founded on reciprocation. As Venus’ husband, it is your duty to likewise satisfy her sexually, and when you refrain from intercourse—

JESTER STAGGS
(erupting with tears)
Vaginas remind me of that man-eating sandpit from Return of the Jedi! Swallowing Boba Fett in one gulp. They’re terrifying! I survived one encounter with it, and the Good Lord offered us sweet Molly. But never again will I chance it.

MOLLY STAGGS
(walking off-stage)
I can’t take this anymore.


DR. DANNY
Ah-ha. Well, at long last we reach the crux of the matter. How interesting. Jester, for the benefit of your wife, can you try replacing that unpleasant image with that of something more appealing--say--a damp flower in bloom?

JESTER STAGGS
No. Vaginas are like Sarlacc pits!

VENUS STAGGS
He has the most hideous things to say about my womanhood.

JESTER STAGGS
Don’t blow this out of proportion, baby. It’s not just your womanhood; it’s all womanhood.

TOMMY BLAIN
If I may interject here, might I remind you that this man’s odd obsession with handies has paid for your luxurious home, the Vera Wang dress you’re wearing, and your daughter’s Ivy League education.

JESTER STAGGS
Thank you, Tommy.

TOMMY BLAIN
Which brings me to the only reason I came here: Royalties. Jester, you know damn well I was the one who came up with the title track from our last album, “Nothing Left to Ooze.” My God, your best idea was calling it “See You Ejaculator.”

JESTER STAGGS
That was pretty clever...

TOMMY BLAIN
No, it wasn’t! You never paid me the royalties I was owed for that song. For the last six years I’ve been subsisting on Saltine crackers, living in a canoe beside my friend’s houseboat. Pay up, you greedy son-of-a-bitch!

VENUS STAGGS
I can’t believe people are talking about song royalties when my marriage is in serious trouble. Jester, I still have faith in you, but I need to lay down some ground rules. First off, no more you-know-what’s until you’ve undergone 40 more hours of psychoanalysis from Dr. Danny. Or else. That's all I have to say.

(With that she storms off the stage,
in step with her daughter’s inconsolable rage.)

JESTER STAGGS
No! You can’t leave me. I wrote “Venus Strokes My Penis” for you, baby. That ballad was playing when we took our first dance as husband and wife.
(beat)
Aw, shucks. Now who’s gonna give me hand-jobs? Good God, maybe I have taken my little H-J fetish a bit too far. I’ve known this for far too long. When I wrote “Monster in My Pocket,” the Monster I was referring to wasn’t my one-eyed-pony...it was me.
(standing resolutely)
Well, that’s all gotta change. If my baby Venus won’t satisfy me anymore, something must be seriously wrong with old Jester. From this day forward, I’m a changed man.

TOMMY BLAIN
I’ll give you a hand-job if you sign away the rights to “Nothing Left to Ooze.”

JESTER STAGGS
(revitalized)
It’s a deal!

(The pair busily rush offstage to the
nearest bathroom.)

DR. DANNY
Hmm. It’s important to remember that acceptance is the first step in the rehabilitation process, and in most cases, relapses are inevitable. Usually the relapse takes longer to occur than five seconds, but we must not be quick to judge Jester, for inside of all addicts lurks the evil referenced in “Beast in Blue Jeans.” It waits for the slightest window of opportunity to rear its ugly head. No pun intended.
(beat)

Join us next time for Rock Star Retrospectives and Interventions, when our guest will be the Red Rocker Sammy Haggar, who continues to create music despite the sincere pleas of his friends and family urging him to call it quits. Until then, I’m Dr. Danny Porter. Goodbye.

END SCENE.

The Bee Sting

A couple years ago, just before the dawn of the school year, I went to get a haircut at a barbershop. I entered the place through a back alley, strolling past a fetid dumpster that simmered in the late August sun.

It should be noted that I was wearing blue jeans and sandals at the time. Triple-digit heat be damned; pants are the norm for me year-round. The reason being my superhumanly hairy legs, which I regard as Twilight Zone compensation for the good old receding hairline.

You see, sometimes the man upstairs likes to balance things out for his noblest creations. The people most likely to be ranked a “10” on the attractiveness scale oftentimes have vapid personalities (ex: Paris Hilton, Tommy Lee, and the late Mother Teresa). Steven Hawking was born physically handicapped, but in order to counteract that, God blessed Hawking with a brilliant mind that permitted him to write a revolutionary book on Nintendo cheats and codes…or something impressive like that; I’m not overly familiar with the man’s work and this article is due in fifteen minutes, so we’ll just go with the Nintendo cheats and codes thing.

In my case, God realized that a receding hairline early on might cause me some problems, so, in his infinite wisdom, He compensated that genetic mishap with some kick-ass Sasquatch legs. When I’m feeling especially creative, I coil clumps of hair up and down my calf and imagine I’ve created a twisted teepee reservation for a tribe of fleas. When plucked, one of my leg hairs is long enough to wrap around John Madden’s waist three-and-a-half times. But enough about pants and the secret hideousness they conceal, let’s talk about my footwear on this particular day.

I very seldom wear sandals. They hamper your mobility, click annoyingly with every stride, and, as I was soon to learn, they provide insufficient protection for your feet. You know what kinds of people regularly wear sandals? Off-duty guidance counselors with graying ponytails that browse the self-help section at Walden Books every other Saturday and lethargic burnouts that play in a String Cheese Incident cover band and empty their hash-pipes underneath the rug when the ashtray is a daunting eight feet away.

Sandals are made by aspiring shoe manufacturers that just lost their motivation halfway through the process and said, “To hell with it; here’s the finished product.” (In fact, I’m willing to bet that a surprising number of the people that work at sandal factories play in a String Cheese Incident cover band.) Prior to my haircut, I was apparently too impatient to bother tying shoelaces, and, struck by an ominous whim, I fatefully opted for flip-flops.

On my way out the barbershop, walking past the fetid dumpster, my exposed foot was targeted by a sadistic bee, and before I could scream for mommy, the pest stung me just below the ankle. And for the love of Plinco, it hurt like the dickens! To put this pain into perspective, in comic books, when a superhero is overwhelmed with agony inflicted by a surge of electrocution or a parking meter flogging to the skull, the exclamation “Yaarrgghh!” appears in a word bubble attached to his or her mouth. Were a comic book depiction to be made of this incident, let’s just say the word “Yaarrgghh!” emanating from my mouth would be followed by a minimum of sixteen exclamation marks in order to vaguely capture the torment I was feeling.

After every bee sting, I take marginal consolation in the knowledge that they can’t live without their stingers; every act of aggression is kamikaze for them. But on this occasion, my blood was boiling unabatedly as I hobbled through the parking lot. 364 days out of the year, I fumed, when that fiendish be attacks my foot, I’m protected by a two millimeter fortress of shoe fabric. Had I been wearing shoes like any decent, God-fearing man would do (Jesus excluded), I’d have walked away unscathed, scoffing at my arthropod assailant. That bee was malicious, yet cerebral. He knew he could’ve stung my forearm, neck, or better yet, eyeball, but that wouldn’t have the same quasi-ironic flare of needling an area that is rarely vulnerable. The bee is a cunning, quasi-ironic species.


On the drive home, I fantasized in depth about that bee’s widow and thirteen children living inside the dumpster, gathered around a half-eaten Honey Bun, awaiting the arrival of their father, who was uncharacteristically late for the evening meal. At last the landlord of the dumpster would visit and deliver the somber news. “Ma’am, there’s no easy way to say this, but...your husband died today after gallantly stinging a twelve-year-old boy with thinning hair. We’re assuming the boy is receiving chemotherapy for cancer, and if it’s any consolation to you, it doesn’t appear he’ll be around for much longer, either.” As the devastation and grief set in, the landlord would add, “Oh, and P.S., rent is due tomorrow and I don’t tolerate truancy. Blah, blah, blah, sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

While speeding through a red light and almost crippling the cuter half of a Girl Scout Troop, I further indulged my spiteful daydream. The death of the family’s sole provider, coupled with the excessive cost of his funeral, spelled eviction for his surviving kin. They were forced out of their spacious dumpster into a cramped 20 oz. Mountain Dew bottle. A day later, at the funeral wake, a bereaved millipede accidentally knocked over the Cool Mint Listerine PocketPak that served as my attacker’s coffin, and as his stinger-less corpse crashed against the concrete, the thorax severed from the antennae and all the onlookers shrieked in horror. Even in the twilight of the children’s lives, some fifteen days later, considering the average lifespan of a bee, this traumatic memory would haunt them in their sleep.

As I parked the car in my driveway, dragging behind a kiddy pool that was inexplicably snared onto the back bumper, the agony had worn off a tad, and I had my morbid delusions to thank. It was a short-lived reprieve, because a moment later I realized I had yet to suck out the venom.