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.

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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.

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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.