The Seafood Casserole

To the uppity roommate who threw out the seafood casserole that had been stored in our fridge since we moved into this place three years ago: Dude, what's your problem? Don't you have any respect for history? Don't you remember how, at the six-month mark, we all agreed it would be classic if we just left it in there 'til the lease ran out? Why did you sell us out? I'm not, like, super-pissed about it, but bro, that was so lame of you. I thought we were in this together. You, me, Shroomy, Fat Sully, and the Seafood Casserole. I guess I was wrong.

You remember the pact, right? We were gonna save it 'til our last night together at this place, get severely crunked, and then dare Mushy-P next door to scarf the whole thing. We agreed—all four of us—that we'd chip in a maximum of $20 each in order to witness this awesome sight. And don't tell me you forgot that conversation, because I brought it up the next morning, too. We were all hungover at the IHOP and Shroomy kept trying to get that hot waitress's digits. And then Fat Sully threw up all over your Belgian waffles. HA—you remember that?! I laughed so hard I snotted all over that rack of Sweet 'n' Low. That was so funny!

But don't let my nostalgic tangent fool you. I want answers, bro. Seafood Casserole-related answers. We pretty much just use that fridge to store beer, ranch dressing, and the occasional ice-ball during winter. It's not like we're all snobby about the sanctity of the fridge. (Ha, I said “'titty.”) When did you turn into Martha Stewart, bro? When did you get all limp-wristed and prissy? Not to cross the line, but you used to rave hard with us, and now it seems someone has shoved your once-treasured glow-stick up your butt. Maybe it was that fiancé of yours.

And dude, speaking of your fiancé, you're hardly ever here anymore. You're always at her house—painting Fabergé eggs or gabbing about Sex and the City DVDs or whatever it is you two do together. My point is, what right did you have to toss out our beloved three-year-old casserole that wasn't yours to begin with, especially when you only show up once or twice a week. Checkmate: Me.

What's that you say? Oh, sure. Suuurrreee. Look at the English major, using big words like rancid and noxious and unsanitary. Bro, listen, it boils down to respect for the belongings of others, and that casserole never belonged to you. And I'll have you know—that rancid casserole never tainted the flavor of one of my New Castles. The stink waves from that unsanitary seafood casserole never made my ranch sauce taste less delicious, I'll tell you that much.

Not to sound like an ass, 'cause I want to drink for free at your wedding next month and I'm not out to burn any bridges, but bro, that fiancé of yours has got you whipped. Whipped like a henchman from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Not to sling accusations or anything, but I'm pretty sure she put you up to it. I think she nagged you into throwing out the Seafood Casserole.

When I look at you now, it's hard to see five years of friendship. All I see is the food-snob who trashed a memento from our apartment. All I see is the traitor who killed the dream. And for what? For your precious fiancé? For a steady lay, the prospect of a loving family and, as you put it, “the enrichment of the soul that can only be achieved through devotion to one's soul mate”? God, you sound so gay when you say that!

Now, the best-case scenario is that we retrieve the Seafood Casserole from the dumpster, rip some shots of Cuervo, maybe spark up a doobie, and try to find a homeless guy to eat the thing. It would be pretty classic, but nowhere near as classic as seeing Mushy-P scarf it down as we had originally planned. Mushy-P said there was absolutely no way he would eat a three-year-old casserole out of a dumpster, even if he was bonkered off his ass. He said: “Three-year-old casserole when I'm wasted? Maybe. Three-year-old casserole out of a dumpster when I'm wasted? That's where I draw the line.” So I hope you're happy, bro.

Like I said, I'm not super-pissed, though. Just disappointed. If you want to set things straight in apartment 8, all you have to do is get the casserole out of the dumpster and coax a homeless guy into eating it. How does that sound?

Whoa, whoa. What was that? I'm blowing this whole thing way out of what? I'm making a mountain out of what kind of a hill because I'm addicted to what? Listen, bro, I am not the one at fault here; you're the one who changed. You haughty, self-righteous fairy. You're whipped like a henchman from Raiders of the Lost Ark by a conniving, fun-hating B-I-T-C-

What's that? You're going to beat the living WHAT our of me?! Ouch! That hurt like hell! NO, NOT AGAIN! OWWW! Shroomy, call the cops; I'm being assaulted! But hide the bong first.

Fired Mailman Sues Nintendo

To the creators of the Nintendo Zapper:

Your product, the Nintendo Zapper (aka the Light Gun) has caused me an unduly amount of grief and humiliation. I had been a faithful supporter of your product since 2003, when I purchased the Nintendo Zapper at a garage sale along with a copy of Duck Hunt. Over the years I have spent many nights and Christmas day marathons honing my sharpshooting skills, sniping millions of cartoon ducks and unwinding from my stressful job in the process.

My umbrage with your product began shortly after I was fired from the post office. My firing was an ugly business. Many have questioned the recourse I used after that little monster attacked me. I ask you, Nintendo corporation, what would you do if some redheaded punk bombarded your feet with Whipper-Snappers during your afternoon delivery? That's right. You'd chase him down and choke him with the strap of your mail bag, of course.

But my stuffy superiors at the post office saw otherwise. I was terminated at once and denied the traditional severance package of a $500 stamp collection.

The plentiful downtime afforded me an additional eight hours of Duck Hunt time per day. But after four months, as the bills piled halfway to the ceiling and I received an eviction notice, my utopia was disrupted by the cruelty of the outside world.

I decided I was going to put my proficiency with your product to good use. Unfortunately, since the Stridex-sponsored “Duck Hunt Invitational” hasn't been held since '86, my only option was to rob a convenience store using the NES Zapper.

This seemed the perfect solution because, unlike most postal workers, I don't really want to kill other people, but I am deserved money for putting up with all the bullshit God has dumped on me. To that end, the Zapper was the weapon I trusted most to get retribution from the Man.

The only problem was that the Man is hard to find. But his minions are everywhere, among them the scruffy cashier at the convenience store that wore a hemp necklace. Disguised in 3-D glasses and a baseball hat,* I waited a few minutes for the other customers to vacate the store. Once we were alone, I stalked to the counter, pointed the Zapper at his heart, and ordered him
to hand over all the money in the drawer.

The cashier only laughed at me.

“The Duck Hunt gun?!” he exclaimed. “Rad. I haven't played that game since I was like five. I love how the dog snickers at you when you miss all those ducks. You just know that bitch-eyed pooch is stoned!”

“You just know that bitch-eyed pooch is stoned.” I ask you, are these the words of a man who respects the Nintendo Zapper? No. They are not. For God's sake, I'd have had better luck intimidating the guy with a Magic-eye poster of a skull and crossbones.

My failed robbery attempt left me hopelessly depressed. I played a couple rounds of Duck Hunt to cheer me up, but it didn't work. It killed me that a weapon I had grown to love had proved so ineffective outside of my living room.

My will to live was gone, and since the latest season of 24 has been so disappointing, I decided on suicide. Since I didn't have a gun that would fire actual bullets (ahem), I was going to have to get creative.

And so I dialed 9-1-1 and told the operator that I was the length of a duckling feather away from blowing my dog's head off because I was furious with him, that he looked so much like Marmaduke but had none of his charisma. This was a crafty lie, of course. Dogs that have been stuffed, fitted with cigars in their mouths, and placed around the poker table in the basement have no personality traits to speak of, even if all five of them do kind of resemble Marmaduke.**

In less than five minutes a squad car arrived. One of them identified himself and then banged on the front door, but I didn't get up from my swivel chair in front of the TV. Soon he kicked the door open and barged into my house, his partner trailing. Both with their guns drawn.

Instead of screaming, “DIE PIGS, DIE!” or something along those lines, I drew a blank for a second. Before aiming your Zapper at the cops, all I could think to say was, “How 'bout a little help here...?”

Again, your product proved to be deficient. With their expertly trained eyes, the cops noticed the gaudy-orange handle of the gun paired with the gray stock and barrel and quickly determined I was not holding a real gun. Also, the Zapper was still plugged into the Nintendo because I wanted to play Duck Hunt during my last moments on earth.

“Oh, Christ,” said the cop who kicked open my door. “Wait 'til the nurses hear about this at the nut-house.”

Then the smart-assed dog your company created joined in on the cops' chuckling. In the midst of all the commotion of a botched cop-assisted suicide, I had failed to shoot three ducks in a row.
In the psych ward I was able to write the first draft of this letter, but other than that, my stint there wasn't helpful. The time dragged by slowly without my daily Duck Hunt marathons. During one of the group meetings, a nurse suggested that Duck Hunt was bad for me because all it did was facilitate a lot of medical hogwash she called “Repressed Anger.” She suggested I try new hobbies.

It may come as a surprise to you that as soon as I was released from the hospital I listened to her advice. On the long walk home from the hospital I stopped at a store that sold used electronics and beheld the sight of a plastic bazooka about two-and-a-half feet in length. There were purple and pink buttons on the top as well, which I thought were a nice touch. I asked the cashier about it. He explained that it was called the Super Scope and that it works for a system I had never heard of and must therefore be brand-new on the market: the Super Nintendo. Another one of your products, obviously.

At first I was thrilled by the Super Scope. I considered it a major upgrade over the Zapper, which is now collecting dust in my bedroom closet. Instead of mere ducks, the Super Scope allows me to destroy tanks, aircraft carriers, incoming missiles, and the occasional whale.

Your Scope empowered me in the beginning. Like shooting ducks, I realized that it was small stakes to rob convenience stores and attempt cop-assisted-suicide. Revenge against the Man is piddling when you could be getting revenge against the Man's Building. Since the average post office dwarfs the size of the average man by a ratio of at least 500:1, and the Man is ten times larger than his mortal counterparts, I deduced that getting revenge on the Man's Building is therefore equivalent to 50 times the revenge I could get against the Man.

It was that simple.

Naturally, I knew I couldn't destroy the Man's Building with your Super Scope. I'm no dummy. My plan was to evacuate the building from outside the post office with the aid of the Super Scope and a megaphone. Once the building had been cleared, workers and patrons alike screaming hysterically, no one would be able to stop me from burning the place down with a lighter and a mail bag full of oily rags.

With the debacles of your phony-looking Zapper behind me, I took the bus down to the post office, stood outside the front entrance and unloaded all my gear. I aimed the Super Scope at the Man's Building and stammered into the megaphone: “Get the 'F' out the post office, all you...scum-guys. Otherwise I'm going to turn this building into a pile of pebbles with this bazooka! Which I assure you is 100% real.”

The passersby barely took notice, and through the windows I could see the workers and customers casually going about their business. Just then I was approached by the same redheaded punk whom I had strangled with the strap of my mail bag. Apparently his neck-brace was no longer precluding him from outdoor play, and in typical punk-kid fashion, his idea of play was sinister. He pulled a machine-gun on me! It was fluorescent green and yellow in color, with a pump-handle for reloading at the end of the barrel and a tank on top with some sort of liquid inside. I can only speculate that the liquid was some sort of corrosive acid that coated the bullets for added deadliness. These kids aren't playing with popguns anymore.

“Put down that toy, mister!” he squeaked.

Blast! Once again, one of Nintendo's “weapons” had been recognized as an obvious novelty. Feeling pretty suicidal but unwilling to give lil' Ginger the pleasure of offing me, I threw my hands up in the air.

In addition to realistic appearance, your products also lack durability. The Super Scope shattered into a dozen pieces against the concrete after I was forced to drop it from its perch on my shoulder. What sort of a pathetic weapon can't survive a five-foot fall onto the sidewalk? You should feel ashamed, Nintendo.

If your company had made but the slightest effort to ensure that their firearm-accessories resemble the real thing, my life would've been enhanced immeasurably. Not only would I be as rich as the contents of that cash register, I would also be the proud destroyer of a post office, and best yet, I'd be dead. Curse you, Nintendo! You can expect a lawsuit from me.

One of my town's most affordable attorneys, the esteemed Len Finklin, has vowed to spearhead my case. If my lawsuit is successful, I vow to use my settlement money to purchase enough C-4 to blow myself to bits along with everybody within a ten block radius. (My feelings about killing others have changed.)

Sincerely,

Stanley Ool

P.S.: Thank you so much for inventing the game Duck Hunt.
P.S.S.: I'll see you in court, jack-a-ninnies!

* I don't even play baseball; that's what I call a great disguise!

Casual Friday

INT. OFFICE

JULIE works inside her cubicle, typing on the computer and smiling contently. Instead of formal attire, she wears a pink t-shirt and sweatpants. Her boss KEITH approaches from behind and softly raps on the wall of her cubicle. He is a stout, cordial man with a beard, clad in a black tuxedo shirt. Julie swivels her chair to face him and beholds his gaudy clothing.

JULIE: Oh, Keith, that shirt is hysterical.

Keith throws up his hands and wiggles his head, nearly spilling some drops from his coffee mug as he does so.

KEITH: Casual Friday!

Julie caresses her cozy sweatpants.

JULIE: It certainly is one of the perks. My boss at the St. Louis branch would never allow sweatpants in the workplace.

KEITH: Oh, the nerve of that fascist. Lord knows distributing Fanny-Packs is serious business, but our philosophy is that if we didn't grant our workers a fun reprieve once a week, this place would turn into an unpleasant nut-house.

Julie grabs her lunch bag and stands up.

JULIE: That is such a refreshing attitude. Excuse me, I'm going to punch out for my lunch break.

KEITH: The heck you are! On Casual Friday, we kick all those strict policies right out the window. You sit back down and enjoy that meal. And make some cash while you're at it, kiddo.

JULIE: Wow. Thank you so much.

Before sitting back down, she throws up her hands and wiggles her head in playful mimicry of her boss.

JULIE: Casual Friday!

KEITH: Casual Friday!

STEVE walks into frame behind Keith, dressed like a member of the Sex Pistols. A necktie dangles from his zipper and he wears a trucker hat with a crude slogan stitched into it. He spots the apple Julie pulls from her lunch bag.

STEVE: Hey, new girl, will you gimme that apple?

JULIE: Uh...sure thing, Steve. I brought enough to share some. Savor the flavor; it's ripe and delicious.

STEVE: (accepting apple) Oh, I'm not gonna eat it. I'm not hungry. But I've got a hunch that'll change in about twenty minutes, if you catch my drift.

He laughs and nudges Keith.

STEVE: Hey boss, you got cigarettes, right?

Keith nods and produces a pack.

KEITH: Here you go. Just try not to light up underneath a smoke detector like you did last Friday.

STEVE: I won't. I just need to roll up some of the aluminum foil in here.

KEITH: Say, can you have those reports on my desk before four o'clock?

STEVE: I'll have those precious reports on your desk when I'm damn good and ready. How does that sound?

KEITH: What? How dare you speak to me that way!

STEVE: Casual Friday!

Those magic words placate the boss. All is forgiven as Steve darts away.

KEITH: God bless that knucklehead!

JULIE: (fazed) Well, that was certainly...bold of him.

KEITH: Yes, ma'am. On Casual Friday, the jesting is not always for the faint of heart. Steve in particular doesn't pull any punches. Last Friday he emptied a garbage can over my head while I was sitting on the toilet in the men's bathroom.

JULIE: What an awful thing to do!

KEITH: Tell me about it. Monday through Thursday I'd have fired him on the spot.

Keith takes a flask from his pocket and empties it into his coffee mug.

JULIE: What are you drinking? Is that...is that booze?

KEITH: No. Well, not entirely. I'm mixing it with cola.

A flush-faced and shirtless JEREMY enters the scene. On his bare chest are smears of lipstick. He holds a copied document in his hands.

JEREMY: Boss, I'm sorry you're not sitting down. I'm afraid I have some rather serious news to deliver. A jumbo Fanny-Pack that was advertised as “100% suffocation-proof” took the lives of ten handicapped boys yesterday. The grieving families are all threatening lawsuits and...well, the whole mess is detailed in this document.

Suddenly queasy, Keith accepts the copy face-down. Julie likewise shows grave concern. Keith turns the copy upright and bursts into relieved laughter.

KEITH: Wrongful death lawsuits, he says! Check it out, Julie: It's just a copy of a woman's bare ass!

Keith proudly displays the picture to Julie, who is not amused.

JEREMY: Casual Friday!

KEITH: You scoundrel!

JEREMY: You know it. Okay, enough kidding around, boss. Listen, Sue the secretary has been giving me the green light all day long. Do you have a rubber?

KEITH: Oh, of course. You got it, Jeremy.

He reaches in his other pocket for a condom and hands it to Keith.

Julie exhales with a righteous shudder.

JULIE: You're giving him a—What is wrong with you?

Jeremy takes offense to this question.

JEREMY: “What the hell is wrong with me?” I don't want to get Sue the secretary pregnant, okay? How is that wrong?

Keith delicately points to a conspicuous sore on the corner of Jeremy's mouth.

KEITH: Yeah, plus you've got that...

JEREMY: Yeah! (points to sore) Exhibit B. In the case of why I asked my boss for a condom.
With that he storms out of view.

JULIE: Keith. You're my employer and I respect that, but the things you allow on Casual Friday go far beyond—

Her lecture is interrupted by loud reggae music blaring from Steve's cubicle. Furious, she stands atop her chair and inspects over the dividing wall. The sight she beholds makes her even more irritated. She returns to her seat and addresses her boss.

JULIE: One of your employees is smoking pot out of an apple.

KEITH: He's smoking pot out of an apple? That's absurd! I told him last week he could borrow my pipe.

JULIE: I thought all employees were subject to random drug tests.

KEITH: That's true. Chuck is in charge of that, but he's only here once a week.

CHUCK strolls by, his attention focused on a Gameboy.

CHUCK: (groans) Enough of the square pieces; I need a damn long piece to get out of this clusterfuck!

JULIE: Keith, I think you're a bit confused about the definition of the word “casual.”

KEITH: What do you mean? “Casual” just entails all the things you'd do in the privacy of your own home that aren't acceptable in certain public places—like work, for example.

JULIE: This is insane. You are encouraging...decadence in the workplace, which is by no means the same thing as casual.

KEITH: (snorts) That's unfair on two levels. First off, you've got no right to scold me just because you don't appreciate the fun perks of Casual Friday. And secondly, I don't even know what "decadence" means, sister.

JULIE: Don't call me “sister.”

KEITH: It's Casual Friday; just be glad I didn't call you a bitch.

Julie is on the verge of an eruption when the wall of her cubicle is rattled in loud repetitions. She stands atop her chair and inspects the ruckus coming from the adjacent cubicle. She is appalled by what she sees. Her head lurches back. With subdued rage, she glowers at Keith.

JULIE: (icy and deliberate) Jeremy and Sue the Secretary are having sex in his cubicle.

KEITH: No way!

He hops on top of Julie's desk and peers down intently. Julie remains standing, in a near-paralyzed stupor.

JULIE: Having sex in an office, top of a desk, in plain view of others, while you should be working, is, to say the least, inappropriate. And it should be grounds for termination.

KEITH: Julie, I am in total agreement with you. This type of lewd behavior is unacceptable...

Julie releases a big sigh of validation and nods eagerly.

KEITH: ...On Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.

She hangs her head and smears her face with her hand, dejected and stupefied.

Keith offers her the concoction in his coffee mug.

KEITH: You want a taste?

She takes the mug, tilts the handle, and chugs down the last drop.

FADE OUT:

KICK HIS ASS!

The movie “Fight Club” has its merits. Brad Pitt and Edward Norton deliver exceptional performances that boast bad-ass intensity. Much of the film is shot in a way that is vivid and striking, in particular the scenes that portray acts of violence. The probes into the mindsets of psychologically besieged, deviant men is interesting.

But that's where my praise of “Fight Club” is just about extinguished. It's a clichéd term, but the Moral of the Story really does matter a great deal. At the conclusion of “Fight Club,” the Moral of the Story that author Chuck Palahniuk and director David Fincher leave the audience with is this: Man's purpose in the world is to beat the living shit out of each other and destroy everything. Women, as an afterthought, really have no choice but to acquiesce to the bone-headed destruction perpetrated by man. Bring on the downfall of civilization!

The message offered by “Fight Club” is one of nihilistic rubbish. Meritorious acting and cinematography are not enough to salvage a movie when the message is so poor. Walter Sobchak, best pal of Jeff “The Dude” Lebowski, had it right in his contention that nihilists are even worse than Nazis. At least Nazis have the courage to believe in SOMETHING, however amoral, despicable, and misguided it may be.

And so it is with some reluctance, considering my opinion of “Fight Club,” that I present an incisive quote from Tyler Durden as a sort of catalyst for this essay. Tyler Durden, if you don't know, is the manifestation of the main character's split personality. Evidently he was induced by the effects of insomnia. Fair enough, I guess.

Tyler Durden poses the question, “How much do you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?”

This essay deals with what I learned in the wake of a heinous fracas outside of a bar. I'm convinced that the Moral of the Story here, cryptic though it may be, is more meaningful than that offered by “Fight Club.”

****

The rest of this essay is featured in my book, which is titled "There Will be Blog." It's okay with me if you want to order a copy.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html