Burt's Threat

* I changed all the names for this column. A friend of mine told me her bad day got even worse after she read that her real name was used in "Kick His Ass." She recovered, but I've reconsidered the merits of ruining other people's days for the sake of authenticity...and laziness. If it's any consolation (and I'll be using that same phrase a little bit later), the aliases strongly resemble the actual names of the people mentioned in this next lil' ditty.

Unlike the names, the story is true, and I play the part of me.

My friend Marty is angry with me. We're still friends, but he probably won't return my phone call until this weekend, when we're going to the same wedding along with his wife and our friend Mitch. I'm going to ask if it's cool if I drive the four of us to Oshkosh for the wedding of our friends Tom and Elaine. Hopefully that will placate him a bit before I apologize for pointing out where Marty lives to a guy who vowed to shit on his front lawn.

The whole incident makes me feel like a lousy friend. Because of information I supplied to this scum-bag, my friend Marty's front lawn is at a greater risk of getting shit on. If it's any consolation, Marty, I wouldn't have told the guy where you lived had I known his intentions. Had I known the next words to come out of his mouth would be a threat to shit on your lawn, I would've kept my mouth shut when he asked where you live. Cut me some slack: How was I supposed to know this guy was a vindictive lawn-shitter?

He did look like a scum-bag, I'll admit, and his eyes were glassed-over, which is oftentimes a bad sign. But I remembered him from a few years ago, when he was dating one of your sister's friends. He used to bum around Cameron's garage sometimes when your band was nearing the end of a practice, asking if you guys wanted to drink some beers and hang out with him. He was a gregarious leach of the wannabe rock 'n' roll lifestyle. Shit, I knew he wasn't the most reputable person in town, but I had no idea he was a psychotic lawn-shitter with a score to settle for reasons unknown to me. And furthermore, I didn't know that in his deranged mind there was even a reason for him to shit on your front lawn.

***

Want to read more? Order a copy of "There Will be Blog."

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

Arm-Wrestling for the Right to be Mayor

* Important notice: This is a Fistpumps first: For the very first time, not one but two pictures will serve to compliment this particular entry. It's a special moment. The reason is simply that I couldn't decide which promotional poster for the film "Over the Top" was more bad-ass. Honestly, it's a toss-up. If you have a preference, I'm amazed by your ability to discern between minute increments of awesomeness. Also: I'm trying to expand as an artist. I'm breaking the barrier of my one-picture per column quota.

If, somehow, you're able to pick a favorite, e-mail me to let me know. Feedback is encouraged, except with the writing, of course, because I'm still going to do that even if you hate it.

EXT. COURTHOUSE BUILDING

A still shot of this somewhat ramshackle structure is shown in the rural south. An ANNOUNCER who typically uses his intense and booming voice to promote monster truck rallies sounds off, accompanied by a trite and repetitive heavy-metal riff. (Note: all words uttered by the Announcer that appear in CAPS are duplicated as graphic messages on the screen.)

ANNOUNCER: (VOICE-OVER) Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday—the place to be is the Lawn-dart County Municipal Building in Cooter, Mississippi. It’s gonna be an electoral extravaganza as two candidates of carnage arm-wrestle in order to determine, once and for all: WHO GETS TO BE MAYOR!

INT. TV STUDIO

A green-screen depicts a graphic of a muscle-bound eagle wrapping its mighty talons around the neck of a terrified Osama Bin Laden. In the foreground is the first candidate: Russell Stanke.

ANNOUNCER: RUSSELL STANKE is a part-time dune-buggy repairman and a full-time terrorist hater. He has worn the same Stone Cold Steve Austin shirt for almost one-thousand consecutive days. He claims he once lifted an obese foreigner WAY OVER HIS HEAD while surfing atop a van in the express lane, and he knows the words to all of Larry the Cable Guy’s BEST ROUTINES. His political credentials? IRRELEVANT.

RUSSELL: Get a load of your new mayor, Cooter! You know, if I had just one wish, I’d want to be locked inside a room with Osama Bin Laden for ten solid minutes. And don’t think there’d be any of that gay stuff goin’ on; I’d just be givin’ that Iraqi son-of-a-bitch the ass-pounding of a lifetime!

CUT TO:

In the background, a different backdrop. This one shows a blown-up photograph of the candidate Stiltsken Corverton riding down a steep and muddy hill, hollering elatedly, choking a live chicken in one hand with the other hand wrapped around the neck of a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. In the foreground, the candidate menaces and sneers in the same fashion as his opponent.

ANNOUNCER: STILTSKEN CORVERTON is a former pro-wrestling referee who turned his back on the sport once he realized it was not as authentic as he believed it to be. He is between jobs, and remains DISILLUSIONED. He has seen the film “OVER THE TOP” dozens of times, and has recently founded a non-profit organization called: FIST PUMPS FOR JUSTICE. His stance on budget reform? What kind of a pussy would even ask that question?

STILTSKEN: I don’t know much about how to boost tourism or cut down on Cooter’s high crime rate, but here’s something I do know: Russell Stanke quivers at the sight of THIS!

He flexes his biceps for the camera. The bulge is hardly noticeable underneath his red flannel jacket.

STILTSKEN: That’s right, Stanke, this here is your worst nightmare! You ain’t seen “Over the Top” half as many times as I have.

CUT TO:

In front of a backwoods shack, a MALE RESIDENT of Cooter holds onto a microphone with jittery and excited hands.

ANNOUNCER: Cooter is in the grips of election fever, fever, FEVER, and it’s more potent than HEPATITIS. Just listen to what THESE RESIDENTS are saying.

MALE RESIDENT: I used to live in Tupelo, and the mayor there was some nasal-talkin’ geek what couldn’t even bench-press 200 pounds, I’d reckon. It sure is nice to live in a place where the candidates keep in mind the real issues.

A FEMALE RESIDENT stands before a junkyard, equally exhilarated.

FEMALE RESIDENT: I figure if we got a mayor that’s strong like a juiced-up grizzly bear, he’ll protect us from them neighboring mayors that get violent when they’ve done had too much liquor. As a woman, that’s a real comfort.

CUT TO:

A solemn POLITCAL ANALYST appears on-screen. His cleanliness and formal attire are in stark contrast to the candidates and residents shown previously.

POLITICAL ANALYST: As a political analyst, and more importantly, a rational human being, I must say that the notion of two poorly educated men arm-wrestling for the right to be mayor is completely absurd. Furthermore, the public's fervent support of these shenanigans has tarnished my faith in the basic intellect of small-town America.

He is confronted by an irate Russell Stanke.

RUSSELL: Now, hold on a second, Professor PHD. Me and Stiltsken don't have no Ivy League degrees, an' maybe we'd rather watch the “American Gladiators” than read the instructions on the side of a TV dinner or pay child support, but DAMMIT, we love Cooter with our hearts an' then some, an' you best believe we want to make it a better place to live.

POLITCAL ANALYST: Well, I think your sense of community pride is commendable, but nonetheless, I must object to--

In the midst of his rebuttal, Stiltsken sneaks up behind him and bashes him between the shoulder blades with a steel folding chair. He slumps to the floor, moaning woefully, and the candidates loom over his unconscious body.

STILTSKEN: Now THAT was real! You don't know when to pipe down, poindexter!

RUSSELL: Damn straight. Finally, we agree on SOMETHING!

They scowl at the camera and clutch hands, mimicking the arm-wrestling pose. As their hands connect, an animated, fiery explosion consumes the screen, and the following graphic appears: “Lawn-Dart County Municipal Building. Tuesday. Door open at 7 p.m. Carnies drink for free!”

ANNOUNCER: The politics of pansies have failed! Be there on Tuesday to help usher in the politics of punishment!

FADE OUT:

Nobody Brought a Football?!

On the set of a commercial for a local truck dealership, a problem arises. Starting offensive-lineman Brock Walton is quick to voice his concern.

Okay, okay. That’s enough of the freakin’ eyeliner. Quit giving me the Howie Long treatment, for Christ’s sake. Let’s shoot this thing, already.

Oh yeah, and one more thing: Where’s the football? Come on, don’t play dumb with me. Everybody knows you bring a pigskin to a commercial starring a football player. It’s what you pony-tailed fairies call a “prop.”

Look at the three of you! You remind me of the fawns I plowed into with my big white Hummer on the drive here. Quit your dawdling and fetch me a pigskin.

What? You’re shittin’ me, right? Nobody brought a football? What in the hell, guys?!

God-dammit, how are the people gonna recognize me if I’m not clutching a football? It’s bad enough that I’m not wearing pads and a uniform. Now you don’t even have a Manning Missile for me to palm while I nod toward the camera and say, “Bunkley Trucks have the perfect game plan for low prices”?

The nobodies sitting in on milk crates in their trailers will say, “Who is that asshole dressed like the rest of us lowlifes, not holding a football, telling me where to buy a truck? Where does he get off?”

Jesus, why didn’t I bring a football from home? I’ve got like 50 of ‘em, and that's just in the garage. Actually, I know why I didn’t. Because any dipshit with a camera and a boom mic should know to bring a Pointy Oval to a commercial that stars a man who racked-up three pancake blocks against the Cowboys last year. Amateurs! How are the commoners supposed to know I’m better than they are if I’m not toting a Bo Jackson Rock? I’m overweight, bald as Mr. Clean, and missing a front tooth. You take away my Brown Lombardi and I just look like a bouncer at a hick bar, checking the ID's of the jack-offs that want to see some Poison cover band. I’m a fat, naked nobody without that pigskin!

What’d you say? Oh, that’s rich. In addition to me saying my name and the team I play for, one of your fancy “graphics” is gonna state that I play in the NF fucking L. Well, allow me to dust off my hands and breathe a sigh of relief, chickenshits. I shouldn’t have to introduce myself. Holding the Stitch-y Ditka should do that for me. When I want to skip the line at a fancy restaurant with both of my hot-ass dates, do you think I waste my breath telling the host why I don’t deserve to wait behind Johnny Puss-bag? Shit no, I don’t. I just palm a pigskin two inches from his beak and snarl and then the pip-squeak gets the hint. “Table for three, on three: Hut,hut, HUUUTTT!”

And the graphics idea? Oh, that really makes me wanna drown you in the pit-sweat of one of my headlocks. The people hate to read while they’re watching the TV. You ever see HDTVs inside of one of them lib'ary places? No way. Those bookworm pansies are holding up their end of the deal, and if this here company expects TV watchers to read instead of noticing a football being pumped in their faces, I'm outta here . To hell with your 20-grand. I make that much in three quarters-worth of gruntin’ and shovin’ and spittin' out some gay-bashin'. I got a little thing called integrity. OK? I won’t be no shill for a dealership that’d sooner make their piss-ant customers read than give their goddamn star a Spiked Gronkowski.

Is this the thanks I get for gulping eight Vicadins a day so I can help pave the way for the league's 19th leading rusher, is it? No football to thrust toward the camera while I promise that, “Bunkley Trucks will block your way into the end-zone for big savings”? Give me a break. This is worse than soccer.

Whoa, what have we here? Is that a pencil-necked intern carrying a pigskin like it's a radioactive turd? Dick's Sporting Goods, you say? Well. All right. Then—let's do this! Hey, give me a high-five, pencil-neck; don't worry, I ain't gonna hurt ya. You are the man, little guy! Big savings on one....HUUUTTT!

Jesus! His wrist just snapped like Theismann's leg. Dude, I pretty much Lawrence Taylored that shit--like, you're waving to the ceiling. You should be filming this. Roll on my cue, once I start pumping this here pigskin.

A Column Inspired by the Cookoo's Nest

This one requires an introduction. The problem is that--no joke--I have someplace to go in about two minutes and I'm not exactly sure how to preface "Cookoo's Nest." The italics are a good start. The column featured here was printed in January of 2007, as a guest column for the Advance-Titan. It was printed not long after I graduated, and the events described here stand as testament to the state of mind I was in before taking the plunge into the real world proper. For optimum reading of this piece, please remove your shoelaces and store them in a safe place; also, on the odd chance that you own an album by Jawbreaker, play the track "Accident Prone." Now I gotta split.

When I was asked by the newspaper to write an appropriate goodbye column, the offer seemed enticing. Considering how much I loved this humor column gig (excluding the issues in which I disliked what I wrote), it hardly seemed ceremonious that my swan song be another rambling about a plastic robot.

But when the talented and über-scruffy Tyler Maas wanted to know the topic of my final submission, I began to feel a bit gun-shy. I wanted to write about an extremely noteworthy experience, but doing so would require some hazardous honesty that is difficult to divulge, and even more difficult to convert into humor form. On the other hand, NOT writing about the ordeal and opting for tamer subject matter would be like choosing to write about a hangnail while a gang of naked mimes paraded out of the fireplace. (That sounds like something Dr. Phil would say.)


Therefore, in response to my colleague’s inquiry, I said, “The column’s going to be about my stint in the mental hospital…but with jokes.”


Now, I’ve done my fair share of playful fibbing in my columns. For instance, I have never interviewed pro football logos Bruce Buccaneer and Pat Patriot about their gay marriage. And I’ve never fashioned a ten-gallon hat using paper maché hate mail sent by the Amish—although doing so remains a lifelong goal. But not everything I write is bogus. One selection mentioned that I have obsessive compulsive disorder, which was not a fib. OCD is a confounding ailment, a constant and woeful fretting over the imperfections no one can escape, and I feel I have the right to knock the disorder in much the same way that Sacha Baron Cohen (Borat) has the right to make savage jokes about the Jewish population.

Everyone has their battles and, at the time I was admitted into the psych ward, an imaginary scoreboard would have shown me trailing something like 72-3 to my arch nemesis: team Neurotic Albatross. In the spirit of the LighterSide section, focusing on the redemptive qualities of comedy, we’ll give the worst of the ordeal the “yada-yada” treatment. Let me tell you about my first night in the hospital.


I’ve watched a couple episodes of the HBO series “Oz,” and from what I gather, prison is an unpleasant and ruthless place. Now, the facility I spent some time in is about one-tenth as dangerous as prison, but there still remained a very faint possibility that a mentally unstable stranger would bash my skull with a lunch tray because the ghost of Hilter’s dog told him I was a threat to steal his garbage bag full of toenails. To assert one’s place in the pecking order, it’s common practice to become the aggressor and brutalize another prisoner (or patient, in this instance). I am by no means a violent person, but in that potentially hazardous environment, I felt the primal compulsion to ensure my safety, and I did so with a happy compromise. Rather than attacking an actual person, I roamed the commons area flailing karate kicks into thin air as the other patients watched in confusion. My goal was to get lucky and connect my foot to the face of a schizophrenic’s visual hallucination.


Sleep was elusive that first night. The hospital odor lingered faintly in my nostrils as I tried to read from a book of short stories. I noticed a conspicuous smear of red paint on the white wall beside me, as if the wall was blushing because it too was embarrassed to be in the psych ward. From across the hall, I overheard a dispute between a nurse and a patient named Karen. Karen was being scolded for playing with her own poop in the toilet. Most adults consider this improper behavior, but with a series of unintelligible grunts, Karen defended her God-given right to dabble with her own doo-doo. During one of the spookiest nights of my life, Karen’s filthy eccentricity gave me solace that there will always be people crazier than me.


Room 13 was the closest to the receptionist’s desk, so I could hear the nurses talking about a new arrival who had allegedly locked himself in his bedroom with a loaded AK-47. His name is Mark and he turned out to be a benign and exhortative man, but at the time I heard about his misdeed, I remember thinking, “I’d have more faith in the American Justice system if the guy that was busted with a loaded AK-47 got sent to prison instead of the cot ten feet away from me.”


A few days later, Mark told me that—for reasons he couldn’t explain—a biker gang from Washington, D.C. wanted him dead. His eyes darting around the room, his voice lowered, he told me that members of the gang had been circling around his block, scouting the area, riding not on Harleys as one might suspect, but rather mini-vans. And although my heart went out to Mark and his bout with what was most likely paranoid schizophrenia, part of me really wanted to explode with laughter and call attention to the absurdity of a BIKER gang patrolling the neighborhood in MINI-VANS. If you’re the leader of a biker gang and somebody snaps a photo of you behind the wheel of a mini-van, your street cred has got to take a frickin’ nosedive!


The first night at the hospital, just as I was beginning to flirt with sleep, a lush named Dan was entered into room 13. Once this bastard’s head hit the pillow, he began snoring at an unbearably loud decibel level. It was the kind of snore that pries your eyelids open indefinitely. It sounded like the aural offspring of a lawn mower and a Whoopee cushion, and every nasal breath climaxed with a gurgling of saliva that sounded like a coffee maker. At about 5 a.m., I complained to a nurse about the commotion and asked if she could give me something to combat the noise. She offered some cheap foam earplugs, which were far less preferable than the loaded revolver I was hoping for. When it came to lessening the effects of Dan’s deafening snore, the earplugs were about as successful as using a sandwich baggie to protect your eyes while you stare at the sun. I slept for roughly 18 minutes on that first wretched night.


My stint at the mental hospital is too vast to encapsulate in a single column. I was held there longer than anticipated, and nobody wants tenure in a place like that. The absolute worst moment was also the funniest. After a week spent in the institution, I witnessed several patients rejoice when the doctors deemed them capable of rejoining the outside world. I watched numerous people sign their release papers anxiously and, with renewed appreciation, embrace the loved ones that had come to drive them home. Karen was one of these people. And for the first time in my life, I found myself feeling jealous of someone that had recently played with their own poop. I never thought that was possible, but surprises abound throughout this loony-bin existence.



Parting words: Thanks for reading.

And: "What's the closest you can come to an almost total wreck/ And still walk away all limbs intact?" --Jawbreaker

More Fist Pumps

I think an explanation for the name of this blog may be overdue. It depends on whether or not you're familiar with the humor columns I wrote for the Advance-Titan during my senior years at UW-Oshkosh. Almost three years ago I wrote a column called “Sixty-nine Fist Pumps” which you can find by grabbing a spade from your garage, strapping on a miner's helmet, and digging into the archive section to your right.

Fist Pumps are my unit of measurement for ratings systems. Two thumbs are paltry. Four stars are twice as meager. At the other end of the spectrum, the 100% offered by Metacritic and Rotten Tomatoes is excessive. Sixty-nine is the perfect number for a ratings system.

I don't merely rate movies, though. Or CDs, books, or episodes of “Erotic Confessions.” I rate EVERYTHING. Wispy cirrus clouds earn 61 Fist Pumps. Being told the restaurant where I just ordered a Coke only serves Pepsi gets 35 Fist Pumps because I'm good either way. Commercials that depict cartoon renderings of old people griping about their investment portfolios are lucky to receive eight Fist Pumps because dammit cartoons are not supposed to be stern and boring. I could rate anything on a scale of 1-to-69, from the potency of your burps to the way those jeans make your ass look, reader. (Second part of the promise not offered to dudes.)

As for why Fist Pumps were selected as my unit of measurement, they're more expressive than thumbs and percentage points, and as a fan of sports who has never been able to play them worth a damn, the Fist Pump is the only part of athletics where I excel. I'm not likely to drop a triple-double against the Pistons like Dwayne Wade, but I can match the nonchalant coolness of his Fist Pumps as he backpedals down the court after icing the game by swishing the second of two clutch free-throws.

But a mere explanation would fail to satisfy. Another comprehensive list is in order, another range of enthusiasm for topics obscure and universal. If it's true that everyone's a critic, then everything must be criticized, one righteous Fist Pump at a time.

69. God parts the Heavens and pokes his majestic face through the clouds to utter the profound words: “I think I lost my keys down there...”
68. The Cubs win the World Series. Afterward, all remaining members of the 2008 squad line up at Wrigley Field and bend over to receive swift kicks to the ass for the collapse in last year's short-lived playoff run.
67. The Cubs continue to not win the World Series but still promote “Ass-Boot a Failure” day at the Friendly Confines.
66. The Trix Rabbit, the Lucky Charms Leprechaun, and Tony the Tiger come to life and help me rob banks. We wear masks of former presidents a la “Point Break.”
65. Every woman I meet that I'm attracted to begins our conversation by saying one of the following words: “Single” or “Taken.”
64. “Trailer Park Boys.” This mockumentary-style import from Canada depicts the hilarious side of poverty and indignity while retaining compassion for its characters. That's no easy feat.
63. Not that I've ever seen it much less smoked it (AHEM!), but marijuana is legalized. Please. Stoners are every bit as irresponsible as drunks and they're one-thousandth as destructive.
62. The band name Space Canoe, whose first album would be titled “Up a Black Hole without a Paddle.”
61. At the mercy of a giant crane with a hook that pierces his underwear, lame-brain pundit Glen Beck gets dunked into a pool of his own tears until he confesses that he never graduated from high school.
60. The stretch of music on Cake's album “Comfort Eagle” that features bittersweet seediness of “Meanwhile, Rick James” and the serene writer's anthem “Shadow Stabbing.”
59. Cohen Brothers movies, on average.
58. Having a nightly bonfire fueled not by kindling and logs but rather ventriloquist dummies.
57. The “Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.” It's sweet erotic torture!
56. Mental illness. At least the part of it that helps provide strange ideas to write down.
55. The design of a can of Budweiser. The cursive Budweiser hints at an element of class, but the all-caps and bold GENUINE lets you know these brewers aren't fucking around.
54. A slam dunk contest in which all the athletes are required to have a blood-alcohol level that is double the legal limit.
53.Sporks. They're the perfect instrument for slurping the ranch sauce from the bottom of a bowl of salad while maintaining the prongs necessary to stab those last few shreds of lettuce. Sporks should have a place alongside the knife, spoon, and fork in every drawer of silverware.
52. The World Baseball Classic. For a baseball fan, anything is more compelling than spring training.
51. Instead of the traditional yellow sign that reads “Deaf Child Area,” somebody takes a chance on
a more direct alternative: “Your honking is useless against them!”
50. A plain old, sober slam dunk contest. Alcohol could do it wonders.
49. The term “Garbar,” which is not in fact a villain from “Battlestar Galactica” or some shit but rather the name I gave to the genre of bars in Knowles, Wisconsin, that is a garage converted into a bar.
48. “Mariokart 64.” Dammit, this should rank higher, but I've never been able to perfect the power-slide on those tight and winding corner turns.
47. Farrelly Brothers movies, on average. For every goofy masterpiece like “Dumb & Dumber” there's a bomb like “Say It Isn't So.”
46. Monster truck rallies. I've never been to one, but I'm thankful they exist. The promotional commercials are hilarious.
45. The defeated plummet of a fly freshly swatted.
44. My smoking habit. I'm resigned to the fact that sometimes I just need a break from people, and this bad habit keeps me occupied while I step outside for a bit. This would rank higher, but you know...lung cancer.
43. The rallying chant of “USA!” screamed by the fans at a pro-wrestling event as an American fake-battles a Commie during the waning years of the Cold War. When choreographed violence meets dumb patriotism, I can't help but smile.
42. Ranch sauce. It would rank higher if it was compatible with more deserts.
41. Eating fried chicken skin. A crunchy and crude treat, but it's impossible to munch without looking like a vagrant.
40. Banana-flavored Starbursts. They're not terrible, but only a soulless cyborg wouldn't rather chew on strawberry or orange.
39. Umbrellas. Sure, they're handy when it's raining, but once the sky dries up, you become a worrisome schmuck carrying around an object that isn't serving a purpose. Plus, like the “Piňa Colada” guy sang, sometimes it's fun to get caught in the rain.
38. Being Catholic and eating meat on a Friday during Lent. If that is the main reason I get sent to Hell, at the very least I think it'd be fun to argue with St. Peter or God about how stupid that rule is.
37. Staring at the change left on the table in desperate search of ideas as I try to think of another Fist Pump.
36. Tails, as opposed to heads, in a coin toss. The backside would rank higher if it didn't so often defy its own promise about never failing.
35. Being told the restaurant where I just ordered a Pepsi only serves Coke. (This is a recycled joke only if you factor in the transitive property.)
34. A clown getting murdered. I know that underneath that freakishly pale makeup they're almost human, but if there was a serial killer who targeted only clowns, it would be tough for me to root against him.
33. My annual choice to drop twenty dollars on an NCAA Men's Basketball tournament pool. I am so ill-informed that I cannot name a single player on the team I picked to win the championship. Hurray for gambling!
32. Now that I finally own a car, hovercrafts are invented overnight and all my friends immediately buy one. This would rank lower if the horns didn't blare the theme from “Back to the Future” to help subdue my rage.
31.Bedsheets. They're unnecessary! Here's an analogy: bedsheets are to a side of asparagus as blankets are to T-bone steaks. Asparagus doesn't quell our hunger and bedsheets don't make us warmer.
30. Stepping on cracks in the sidewalk. If I could avoid doing this without affecting an eccentric gait, I would, but as it is, I can step on sidewalk cracks begrudgingly.
29. Vampires. I say, if you can kill them by impaling both their heart and their head, they are more vulnerable and therefore less bad-ass than zombies.
28. Knowing there was probably a Microsoft Word function that would allow me to vertically arrange
the numbers 1-69 but not knowing how to do so when this column was a blank template. Still, I get a certain amount of nitwit-pride in foregoing shortcuts.
27. Getting sent imaginary fox glove and carrot plants in my Facebook account with the promise that clicking a button will somehow fight global warming. I know that global warming is real and perilous, but come on, people, let's be rational about this and realize we're not improving the environment by exchanging meaningless symbols over the Internet.
26. The aforementioned Garbar's lack of an ATM and refusal to accept plastic for payment, which forced me to borrow beer money from my friend Tony. If I lived in Knowles, I'd probably store my cash under the mattress as if it was 1929.
25. My friend Tim's Fist-Pump ranking of “Hitler & Mr. Dusseldwarf (featured in the archives) warranted a somewhat lackluster 59 Fist Pumps. Hey Tim, do you know what else is worth 59 Fist Pumps? Me, punching your face.
24. That conservative-friendly and humorless show about a federal agent who only has so much time to save the senator and his family that airs on FOX. I forget what it's called...
23. The high note Ringo star attempts to hit toward the end of “With a Little Help from My Friends.” After a respectable performance on a pretty good pop song, I cringe every time when he belts out the word “FRRRIIIEEENNNDDDS!”
22. Local commercials that feature two meatheads with gel-spiked receding hairlines who point at the camera like vindictive pro-wrestlers and promote their dealership by grunting: “We got the trucks!” These two stooges should try shattering a brick over their heads and declaring, “We carry the product we're known for!”
21. Shopping on-line. There is reason to be wary of the agoraphobic bend of technology and convenience.
20. The quality of music available on radio stations. Someday I plan on T-boning a semi at 65 mph because I'll be busy fussing with the tuner in search of a song that is tolerable.
19. A horror movie I saw recently called “The Strangers.” There is a juvenile term for masturbating with your hand while it has been put to sleep after twenty minutes of sitting on it called “The Stranger,” and if “The Stranger” were on this list, it would outrank its pluralized counterpart.
18. Having cold hands. I think the plate in my jaw conducts cold air and that Grim Reaper chill spreads to my extremities. The moral of the Fist Pump is Never try to break up a fight, kids.
17. Vanity license plates. Paying extra for a personalized plate doesn't mean you're unique; it just makes you look like a pretentious sap.
16. The plodding transformation from Sunday into Monday.
15. Phish. Forget why. I'm tired of explaining the reasons.
14. Centipedes. I'm not fond of any creature with more than four legs, and centipedes far exceed that number.
13. Millipedes. All those additional legs make them even more loathsome than their disgusting bug counterpart, the Centipede, which you may recall from Fist Pump #14.
12. Decaffeinated coffee. I always hate it when the key ingredient is removed from a beverage and marketed as being anything but a ripoff.
11. Non-alcoholic beer. You know why.
10. David Letterman's Top Ten List. This low ranking isn't due to comedic merit; ten just isn't an adequate number for a joke countdown routine. Multiply your trademark number by 6.9, Dave, so I can sue the pants off of World Wide Pants.
9. Mental illness. The part that keeps me owing hundreds of dollars to the hospital for an innate dysfunction.
8. World's tiniest violin solos.
7. Hiding underneath the bed when a machete-wielding sociopath breaks into your house. If you ever find yourself in this situation, reader, either grab a nine-iron and defend yourself or run the hell away. Hiding is futile and underneath the bed is a hiding spot familiar to even the dimmest serial killer. (This Fist Pump does not apply to clowns, of course.)
6. The Confederate Flag. Celebrating the failure of inhumane ideals since 1861.
5. The phrase “Everything is going to be all right.” It's possible to cheer someone up without bullshitting them by promising universal perfection.
4. Diarrhea on the first date. You know you've found someone special when you can tell them you've got diarrhea on the first date and they sympathize without questioning your tact. This is the prime reason, perhaps, that I still haven't really found someone special.
3. The Shingles. I used to laugh at cartoon characters such as Elmer Fudd when a phallic-shaped lump sprouted from their skull following a wooden mallet-flogging. But the humor is reduced when you experience a slew of pus-gushing lumps thrusting through the skin of your head. I hate it when cartoons are marred by reality.
2. Puristis Ani. Most of us have never wondered what it'd be like if invisible fire ants dipped their fangs in hot sauce and devoured the hallowed flesh of their o-ring. Those of us who have suffered from this anal ailment can give you the description you never asked for.
1. The Great Depression Remix, the stupidity and lack of regulations that created this bumbling, pathetic mess, the reelected cowboy dumbass who choked on a pretzel, everyone spending beyond their limits, unable to go ten minutes without mournfully mumbling words like “tough times” and “bad economy,” the sight of Uncle Sam all shriveled and wrinkled, ruddy patches all over his flesh because he spent too much time lounging in the hot-tub.