Not More Top 10s... Kidding, That's Exactly What It Is

The Confederator *final

     Bad TV can take you down so many twisted rabbit holes. Jaimee Foxworth played Judith on the hit sitcom Family Matters, but after 4 seasons as the youngest Winslow daughter, she was retconned—meaning her existence was erased from the show for the remaining 5 seasons. Foxworth’s mental health was devastated when she was written off the show with zero explanation by the writing staff. Her next gig was on Celebrity Rehab, season 1. 

Serial killer Rodney Alcala claimed anywhere from 9-130 victims, and appeared on The Dating Game in 1978. Almost as troubling, the CBS sitcom The Big Bang Theory ran for 12 seasons and 279 episodes. And as we’ll learn in this story, a new character joined the American Gladiators in the final season of the show. He was a southern rebel known as The Confederator. 

Born in Woodley, Alabama, on the day of the moon landing, Richard “Richie” Taters was the 13th of 15 children sired by Trish and Travis Taters. Ma and Pa Taters played dueling banjos outside the local Cracker Barrel to support the family. The booming clan lived in a crowded shack at the end of a dusty cul-de-sac. The Taters were high on pride and low on biscuits, so Richie soon got in the habit of fighting, biting and scratching for table scraps and hugs from his Ma. In the Tater home, love often took a backseat to competition. 

Young Richie Taters achieved his lifetime goal as a freshman in high school when he gave himself a Daisy Duke tattoo on his back. But he wasn’t satisfied with that. He kept striving for that next biscuit—never content. 

He was the dreamer in the brood. He had many flaws—conceit, cruelty, and ignorance among them—but he was not lazy. From heaving tractor tires to digging ditches to saving up his paper route cash to buy a gym membership, Taters #13 was a hustler with a sun-scalded neck. 

Foul-mouthed, brash and buff, Richie earned a spot on Gladiators in the show’s twilight year. Like certain wrestlers from Nashville, he’s not widely known in the north, but in the south, plenty of folks will sing his praises. 

The Confederator is the most-arrested cast member in the history of the American Gladiators, but there’s a lot more to his legacy. For instance, the cops gave him dozens of warnings, too. 

But in order to best express all the triumphs and downfalls of this proud southern man, I reached out to Nitro, one of the most iconic Gladiators. I found Nitro on Instagram. His most popular video is one of him doing pushups beside a collection hat on the Vegas Strip. I asked for an interview in the comments. He said yes, on the condition that I fly out to see his one-man show, “Saturday Nitro Live.” 

I wish the man was less biased, but as it turns out, Nitro and The Confederator are bitter enemies. In the interest of fairness, I tried to get feedback from other Gladiators, but they’re all either dead or they don’t understand how cellphones work. Regardless, I’m grateful to get this insight from a credible, esteemed source named… Nitro. 

Hello and USA-USA-USA, everyone. It’s your bro Nitro here. If you wanna know my real name, you’ve got to come to the Vegas Strip and donate to my hat like everyone else. As for this bozo, The Confederator, he is a real stain in the gym shorts. I didn’t like him one bit. He once put superglue on my pugil stick. Hell, I had to stand up in my brother’s wedding holding that pugil stick. Folks got photos of my brother on his wedding day trying in vain to rip that pugil stick out of my hands—and that’s not funny! In the locker room, he’d flush the toilet when I was in the shower, and he never gave me respect for my ability in the crochet arts. 

Worse of all, I’m a proud citizen of these United States, and I’ll never forgive the Confederator for his rebellion against the American Gladiators. 

You may call him a hustler, but let me tell you, he was only hustlin’ to find some blow for the studio suits. But when it came to guys like me and Gemini, he wasn’t as fast finding coke. I get that he was party buddies with the show’s creator and also Jeffrey Epstein, and he could spin a pinball machine over his head like the rest of us, but I wouldn’t call those things credentials. Hell, I took a bullet for OJ Simpson just to get an interview. And I wasn’t even his bodyguard! I was just a guy at a club who loved The Naked Gun and saw someone draw heat on him. I did the right thing! 

On his first day, I gave Taters the grand tour of the Gladiator Arena. That meathead had the audacity to scoff at the Eliminator. 

“You call this the ‘Liminator?” he said. “Treadmills, balance beams—what, are we trainin’ for the Chick Olympics in Gay Paree? This here ‘Liminator ain’t no match for me: the Confederator.” 

Then he spat tobacco onto the sacred inclined treadmill. I lost track of how many times that slimeball spat on the Eliminator. Siren tried to reason with him. She told him that every time he did that, an angel would get paralyzed by a barbell squat gone wrong. But again, the Confederator only scoffed. He never shot a chew loogie at a contender directly because that was forbidden. But he got around that by spitting on one of the medicine balls and swinging it at a guy as he ran across the balance beam. Can’t lie, he could be a clever S.O.B.

Early and often, The Confederator raised heck. During practice, he used to shoot the tennis ball gun at folks. Custodians, maintenance, electricians, Make-a-Wish kids, children of Gladiators with names like Spark and Jab—it didn’t matter. When someone told him to knock it off, he’d holler back that he’d “done it for Shits and Giggles.” Shits and Giggles were his 2 best pals from Alabama. They were always doing lines off the Powerball cylinders and daring Richie to pull off some Chris Kyle shenanigans with that tennis ball shooter. 

For his morning commute, Richie rode a Honda 3 Wheeler to the arena. Was it street legal? Well, is Gemini a slouch on the Soloflex? The answers are no. He’d be chugging Jim Beam with one hand, blaring an air horn with the other, and steering with his knees. You call that professional?!

As the new guy, he sure had a lot of demands. Before the first event, the PA would always play “The Star Spangled Banner” to inject America into our Gladiator hearts. Well, Richie demanded an anthem for southerners, “Sweet Home Alabama.” And I don’t mean the studio version, which is almost 5 minutes long; I’m talking about the extra-long, 8-and-half minute live version from Southern by the Grace of God. He was the only cast member from Alabama, and besides, the rest of us were into heavier stuff like Poison and Bon Jovi. He was one selfish dude. 

We had a TV set up in the weight room. I cannot tell you how many times I had to break up a fight because The Confederator had to watch Dukes of Hazzard but Tower wanted to watch the A-Team. I took several weight-plate blows to the skull trying to be the peacemaker and my brain has never been the same. 

He hated the Atlasphere, just because of the name. He’d protest, “I ain’t gonna use no word what sounds like it been named by a Harvard boy from Europe!” 

Gold challenged him. “You got a better word for it?” 

“Yup,” The Confederator said. “I calls it a Roundy Cage, thank you very much.” 

His troublemaking was too much. We knew he was a threat to our Union of Gladiators when he attacked Gemini, our unitard-wearing brother in arms. He did something to a fellow Gladiator that we took a blood oath to only do to contenders. He tackled Gemini off the face of the Wall. In doing so, both contenders who got a head start successfully cleared the Wall and high-fived each other. It was a bad look for us. 

Gemini and The Confederator grappled on the safety mat, 2 bitter and defeated Gladiators. Gemini called him out. 

“What in the name of Carl Weathers is your problem?!” 

“You’s a slow climber!” Richie said. “It’s survival of the fittest—ha!” 

It took a combination of Turbo, Malibu, Jazz, Laser, Lace, Viper, Elektra, Sunny, Cyclone, Joe Theismann, myself, and a fire extinguisher to stop the brouhaha. 

What a disaster. Afterwards, we tried to get him fired, but he was still really good at finding blow for the suits—and Shits and Giggles took it to another level. In solidarity, the American Gladiators united against The Confederator, and we agreed to buy a little less coke from him too. 

One night he crashed a Jacuzzi party at Zap’s condo. Moonshine in hand, he taunted our girl Zap for “Doin’ the Human Cannonball like a giiiirrll.” She hammer punched him in the sternum and bit off his earring as he squealed like a tortured pig. Zap was one righteous babe you did not want to eff with. 

Around this time, The Confederator got dumped by his girlfriend. She happened to be the chick who played Snow White at Disney World in Orlando. Well, Jazz was dating the Evil Queen, and she got the dirt on the breakup. She left him ‘cause he kept inviting her coworkers into the bedroom to “Let the Dwarfs watch.” What a sicko! You can bet your butt we gave him heck about that. And he battled back. 

Only, he tried a sneak attack. That man landed a speaking part as Thug #3 on an episode of Renegade, so I’m here to tell you that he could act. He got into the character of a kind and calm man who had learned from his mistakes. He kept this up for a month, then invited the gang to his home town for a charity event. 

We should’ve known he was up to something. None of us had ever heard of a Civil War reenactment for charity. But inside every American Gladiator is a generous spirit. Plus he promised us some cheap blow. 

At first, the crowd at Robert E. Lee Park in Woodley gave us a warm welcome. I signed my John Hancock on so many Fanny Packs my hand started to cramp. But once we put on those blue Union uniforms, those southerners changed. They booed us without mercy. An old guy whipped his dentures at me. A kid in a wheelchair called Turbo a “no-good poopy pants.” It got ugly real quick. 

Then The Confederator and dozens of his cohorts stormed over the hill at us, waving that Confederate flag. We Gladiators took aim with our muskets and fired, but it was no use. 

“Southern Man can’t be hurt by no make-believe bullets!” Richie sneered. 

The blanks were useless if they refused to play along. 

The Confederator clubbed Gemini with his musket, then shoved Zap into a pricker bush. Meanwhile, Shits and Giggles hurled sacks of skunks at us. We were forced to retreat. It was the worst defeat the American Gladiators had suffered at the hands of The Confederator. Plus, we found out later that the “charity” was just a way for him to pay off his gambling debts to a Colombian drug lord. 

They chased us all the way back to the Gladiator RV in the parking lot. Fun fact: that RV used to belong to the cast of MTV Road Rules. Bloodthirsty Confederator-ites and their leader swarmed the vehicle. We gasped for air in terror as they smacked their muskets against the doors and windows of our sanctuary on wheels. Clad in a gray tanktop with his biceps glistening in the hot sun, The Confederator stood on the hood and taunted us with double birds through the windshield. 

Thankfully, we had a stash of pugil sticks and tennis ball shooters in the RV. We also had a safe with special supplies inside, for emergencies like this. We needed that instant boost of strength and aggression to save us. I don’t want to get into details, so let’s just say Popeyes ate their spinach. And when I say “Popeyes,” I mean “Gladiators.” And when I say “ate,” I mean “shot.” And when I say “spinach,” I mean “syringes filled with anabolic steroids.” 

I led the charge through the side door, bulldozing through a horde of Alabamans who had poked us Gladiator bears ‘til we gave them the beating of a lifetime. I found that toothless old man and crushed his groin with my pugil stick. Turbo had found a banana cream pie in our mini-fridge, which he smushed into the face of the kid who called him poopy pants. Malibu proved he was no sexist, as he pelted both men and women in the face with tennis balls at point-blank range. Zap, Jazz and Gold formed a beautiful yet vicious tornado-ballet attack with their pugil sticks that concussed a quarter of the adult population of Woodley, Alabama. 

On the roof of the RV, Gemini tossed one of his 2 pugil sticks to The Confederator, and they dueled one-on-scumbug. Legend has it that the moment before he was bludgeoned into a coma that lasted 3 weeks, Richie’s last words were, “Can I have some ‘roids too?” 

It was a proud day in American history when the Gladiators brought that sleepy town to its knees. And though we were sued by the people of Woodley for assault, battery, and pie-facing that kid, our lawyer Johnny Cochrane got all the charges dropped. 

“If it was in self-defense, then the prosecution relents,” Johnny argued. When he said that in court, we had no clue what that meant, but hey, it won us the trial. Best in the business. RIP, Johnny!

When he woke up from his coma, one of the suits told The Confederator that he was no longer a performer on the show. He got demoted to a custodian for the American Gladiators, so he stayed in the Union, so he was relieved to keep his paid holidays and dental plan. He would’ve been fired outright for his insurrection, but the suits still believed in him, as a good coke dealer. 

As much as I’d like to begrudge Richie Taters, in spite of my daydreams of pumping iron on his grave, I’ve got to admit he’s a resilient SOB. He’s outlived friends of mine like Thunder and Siren and even after his demotion to mopping floors and cleaning up our sweat in the weight room, he never lost his swagger. I’d taunt him with a pugil stick and challenge him to a duel when he had a broom in hand. He’d hold his head high as I snickered at him. 

The Gladiators got canceled. On my last day on the job, when our final show was a wrap, I lingered in the showers, all the memories washing over me. Suddenly the water turned cold and I yelped at the sound of a toilet flushing. I heard Richie’s laugh. I wasn’t even mad.

I had to ask him, how could he still laugh and joke around when we had put him in his place, made him surrender. 

The man once known as The Confederator shrugged and said this: “I’m just always fightin’ for my next biscuit.” 

I suppose he found one of those biscuits a few years back when he landed the job of custodial specialist for Kid Rock. He brought along Shits and Giggles too, because they were good at cleaning toilets, and finding blow. 

Back in the showers on my last day at work, I stood there in front of Richie nude and vulnerable. I didn’t have a response to his comment about the next biscuits. I didn’t need one. I gave him a nod of respect and that was it. 

We would’ve been cool to this day, but as I walked past him, he whipped my bare ass with a wet towel. It really stung! Then he ran like hell laughing and I never caught him. 

Eff you, Confederator! Just… eff you! 

Anyway, I hope this helps with your story, Nick. By the way, I’ve seen pictures of you on Instagram. I’d like to insult your body, destroy your self-esteem, then encourage you to lift weights. The problem is, I can’t decide which part of your body, which is quite bony and underwhelming, to insult first. I’ve got it narrowed down to your skeleton shoulders and sticklike forearms. To be honest, it might come down to a coin flip. Let’s keep in touch until I can figure this out. 

From the bottom of my heart beneath my massive, swelling pecs, I want you and your audience to hear these words of wisdom: USA, USA, USA!

Yours truly,

Nitro

ET Stories

1.

In the process of writing about the meaningful people in my life, somehow a name escaped. I’m changing his name to initials, 2 letters that speak to the way he can give me a laughing fit that takes me out of this world. ET became my friend when we were sophomores in high school. I missed the first month of school with digestive problems that were psychosomatic. It was all in my mind, which was beginning its bout with mental illness. 

I don’t think I ever spoke to ET in depth about OCD or the barrage of intrusive thoughts. I had a few therapists for that. What I needed was a friend who could make me laugh. We both did.

He didn’t offer much about his parent’s divorce. I had little to say about the way my inner monologue raced too fast, and sounded too loud. We were more likely to watch reruns of Saturday Night Live, flip through liner notes in CDs, and try to out-fart each other. Sometimes we’d argue about which was the better band: Green Day (IMO) and R.E.M. (IET’sO), as if that was the debate humanity needed. 

Many years after our friendship began, when I was compiling a bunch of stories for This One’s Got Pictures, I reached out to ET. He’s a well-read teacher with a background in English. I asked him if he’d be willing to edit a few dozen stories and give me feedback. I offered to pay him something like $300. ET said no—to the second part of the deal. His counter-offer was to help me out for free. He is that caliber of friend and human being. 

I feel like I owe him this one. And even if he disagrees, I know I’m going to have a good time telling ET stories. 

My friend shares a birthday on April 12th with comedy legend David Letterman. That happy coincidence has led me to format this tribute as a top 10 list. ET, if you’re hearing this, I’m not gonna say I love you; I’ll do you one better by quoting a passage from Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey. 

“To me, it’s always a good idea to carry two sacks of something when you walk around. That way, if anybody asks, ‘Hey, can you give me a hand?,’ you can say, ‘Sorry, got these sacks.’” 

Also, sometimes I lie. ET, I love you. 

#10:  Medieval Times. ET and I had Mr. Murton’s Speech class together in 11th grade. If you’ve ever seen the 2022 drama The Whale, Brendan Fraser plays a complicated man with intellect and compassion who struggles with overeating—and the character reminded me of Mr. Murton. 

And it’s too early in this story for an “anyway,” but anyway, our Speech class had a field trip in the spring of 2000, and Mr. Murton was kind enough to let us jerky teenagers vote on our fun destination. 

A classmate suggested that we go to a Milwaukee Brewers game. We would’ve had a 45% chance of seeing a winner that season, and they did have a player named Richie Sexson, but that idea only got a few votes. 

Someone else thought we should visit the Capitol building in Madison, but thankfully, that got the thumbs down due to our indifference to anything remotely political. Damn, I miss those days. 

The blah-blah-blah state park and nature trail—nope. The museum of who-gives-a-shit—also voted down. Then ET raised his hand. 

“We should go to Medieval Times,” he said. 

 Sitting beside him and smirking, I thought there was no way this would become the field trip winner. I’d vote for it, but it was just too weird. Plus, some students had no clue what Medieval Times even was. But ET was persistent. When he believed in a cause, he was a persuasive hype man. 

“It’s like a dinner theater with knights in full armor. There’s one in northern Illinois, a few hours away. They have jousting tournaments on horseback, to see which one can make that queen in the royal court swoon. All the while, we cheer and feast! Belly up for roasted chicken and sweet corn.”

“They got silverware?” I asked, setting him up for a line from The Cable Guy and its Medieval Times scene. 

“There was no silverware in Medieval Times,” ET declared. 

I said, “But they got Pepsi…” 

“Yes, sweet delicious Pepsi,” ET said. “Come on, guys, this is a once in a lifetime thing. Let’s go somewhere unique, just to have the experience. Let’s see some fair maidens and sword fights. Let’s go to Medieval Times.”

We put it to a vote. We weren’t going to a ballgame, a museum, or a park. ET’s idea prevailed. We opted for the time warp, the Medieval one. We were going to see scripted dagger-stabbings and pageantry with horseshit at MT. Mr. Murton made it official with his booming voice. 

“Then it has been decided. We shall go to Medieval Times. ET, I thank you for this rather distinct choice.” 

On the bus ride south, ET got the window seat. We only spoke a little bit. We both brought a book and a Sony Discman, with anti-skip buttons, which was the style at the time. ET got absorbed in a Nine Inch Nails double album and a Harry Potter book on a windy-brisk spring morning. I don’t recall my music-and-book combo, so let’s just say The Street Lawyer and Pearl Jam Yield and move on. 

In a shade under 3 hours, we made it from Goodrich High School to Schaumburg, Illinois. We passed a small, shabby house with tires in the front yard. I gave my friend a nudge. 

“I bet the jester lives in that dump,” I said. 

We arrived in the parking lot and marveled at the castle that was our destination. Tall spiers with flags blowing in the wind stretched into the sky. The walls were adorned with multicolored insignias one might find on a shield. The roof had square ridges fit for archers slinging arrows. I was hit with anticipation, sensing how much different the world would be inside that castle. 

I turned to ET. 

“Wow. You did it, man.” 

ET just glanced at me with his shiny blue eyes. He flexed his dimples with a quick smirk. 

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. That was it. 

“OK,” I said. “So, that was my speech. Now look, on the way back, I want that damn window seat.” 

Inside the castle bustled with fantasy, commotion, and slick American commerce. We checked in and our group waited for showtime in the vast lobby. A bellowing, town-cryer type tried to sell us his wares: T-shirts, hats, flags, and foam swords. 

“Heeeyyy,” I said to ET. “That foam sword looks… surprisingly expensive.” 

“Right, so you don’t have to buy one.” 

“Yeah…” I said, trying to agree. 

“Make thine countrymen envious with this majestic weapon!” cried the town-crier type, glancing at me. 

Minutes later, we were ushered into the arena. The entertainment took place on a huge expanse of dirt almost the size of a football field. Royalty dined at a table 50 feet long. Servants in fancy attire fussed to keep them happy. At the opposite end of the dirt field, knights petted their horses, mounted them, and went for a calming trot. 

A barrier around the perimeter and high-reaching netting separated us from the talent. Seating was divided into 6 different-colored sections. Each section was given a knight to cheer for. The red knight was the champion that we championed. We wanted him to win the championship, as champions do. 

I talked a lot of trash to that purple knight, just cuz he reminded me of the Minnesota Vikings color scheme, and I’d do it again. 

When the show started, I bought into the timeless story of brave knights wooing gorgeous princesses or whatever it was. I was won over by the grandiose dialog, corny old-timey puns, and well-rehearsed jousting battles on charging horses that, while scripted, looked real. I told ET that it reminded me of pro wrestling. He nodded thoughtfully. 

“If you can get into this,” I said. “You can get into the WWF.” 

ET shrugged. He never got into wrestling. 

We feasted on that roasted duck and sweet corn with our bare hands and drank cups of Pepsi. We even got a smile, laugh and nod out of our cute waitress by asking her if she’d ever seen The Cable Guy. On the ride home, I fantasized about watching Jim Carrey movies with her at night and getting to second base. 

In the end, our red knight finished second in the tournament. I forget which color-knight unhorsed him in the final round, but at least it wasn’t the purple knight. My man Big Red punked him out in the first round, so I couldn’t complain. As a bonus, I wanna say there was a surprise, epic sword battle as the whole thing went into overtime, because the king was an asshole, and had to get his ass usurped by the knight or something. Good times of the medieval variety! 

Our trip to Medieval Times was a resounding success. I left our seats without getting the waitress’ phone number, but that was to be expected. 

On our way out of the castle to the bus, I did a sweet spin move with my new foam sword. It probably made me look like Link from Zelda: Ocarina of Time, so that was extremely cool. 

ET didn’t think as highly of it. 

“Nick, that thing’s gonna last you like 3 days,” he said with a laugh.

“You don’t know that!” I said. “I bet I get like 4 days outta this bad boy.” 

The next night, my older brother found the sword and brought it to a party. I never saw it again. 

We pushed through the glass doors into the parking lot.

“Hey, we should come back to this place,” I said. 

“Yeah, we should,” ET said. 

It’s 2025. We never did. 

The bus awaited us. ET sprinted ahead of me. 

“The window seat is mine again! Hahaha!” he taunted, mere steps away from boarding the bus. 

Channeling Cable Guy I swung my foam sword and gave chase. 

“Come back here, so that I may brain thee!”

#9: Sabotage. Hanging out in ET’s bedroom at his mom and step-dad's place on 11th Street, we’d listen to CDs with his stereo cranked up. In high school, we were both big fans of the Beastie Boys. We had tickets months in advance to see the Beasties on the same bill with Rage Against the Machine in the summer of 2000 on the Rhyme and Reason Tour, but the tour was canceled when Beastie Mike D broke his leg in a bike accident. That one still hurts, but I digress. 

In ET’s room, as I said, a favorite album we shared was Beastie Boys’ Ill Communication. We loved the energy, variety, and fun of the Beasties. We knew all the words to “Sure Shot” and “Root Down,” but the banger we went the wildest for was “Sabotage.” It’s a blistering anthem of punk rebellion, and I suppose it helped that our rowdy teenage boy hormones were off the charts. “Sabotage” made us go bonkers. 

We had a routine, or perhaps a weird superstition, just after the 2-minute mark. We’d heard Adrock scream, “Whhhyyyyy?!” That was our cue to pause the Playstation and get in place. We each had to find an open spot on a wall and press our backs against it, because at 2:11, a lowkey voice declares, “Our backs are now against the wall.” 

How that became a bit, I’ll never know. Why that struck us as the most important part of the song is anybody’s guess. But it’s telling that we did that routine during the late breakdown of “Sabotage.” And I learned that a man’s psychology changes when his back is literally against the wall and he admits it. So when the song reignited its fury in act III, we understood on a subconscious level that when you’re pinned down like that in this life, you gotta bounce that wall with passion and purpose. Make no mistake, there’s nowhere else to go and no other way to do it. 

That, or we thought the bit was so dumb it was good, and it stuck. 

#8: The Ticket. ET’s sister CT was 2 years older than us. After she graduated from high school, she was quick to move out of the house on 11th St. She got an apartment above a nail salon on Main St. with a couple friends. She did her little brother a solid by giving him a spare key. 

The summer before our senior year, ET and I wanted to be where the parents weren’t. On a random afternoon, we let ourselves into her place. CT was at work, it turned out, but her roommate didn’t mind if we stuck around. This was not an invite to flirt with us, as she welcomed us but then retreated to her bedroom and shut the door. 

We snagged a few sodas from the fridge and lounged in the living room. We ended up channel-surfing the TV. Our options were limited, as the young adults there paid only for a few channels. The pretty roommate was ignoring us and TV was in a slump. The best we could find was an Arnold movie, but not one of his finest. You know about Terminator, T2, Predator, Total Recall and True Lies. Now let me tell you about Last Action Hero. 

Released in 1993, it was a heavily hyped, big budget action/ comedy, and it flopped. Arnold had an impressive streak of bankable movies, until Last Action Hero ate shit at the box office. So humbled by its failure was Arnold that he lost interest in pumping iron for 3 whole days. 

But the thing is, I have a soft spot for Last Action Hero, because 20 minutes into our viewing, the telephone rang. This was during one of the last summers before cell phones took over. So I mean, a phone with essential cords plugged into something called a landline was making an intermittent jingling noise on the coffee table. We thought it was totally normal! 

In a less normal fashion, ET answered the phone. He reached out to it slowly and cleared his throat, as if getting into character. He placed the receiver to his ear and waited for a beat. Then he spoke in his best Arnold voice.

“Hell-lo?” 

I grinned, admiring his mischief. I did not laugh, yet. ET listened to one of his sister’s unsuspecting friends on the other end. Then he spoke deliberately. 

“Do you have the ticket?” 

This was a reference to the plot of the dud we were watching. A teenage boy named Danny goes to the theater for solace from his troubles. He adores the Jack Slater movies about a gritty LA cop played by Arnold. Danny is gifted with a golden ticket to watch Jack Slater IV. As you may have guessed, Harry Houdini once owned the ticket and put a magic spell on it, so while watching the action flick, Danny gets sucked into the movie, right in the midst of a car chase with detective Jack/ Arnold. Some of the nonsense that follows shows the importance of ticket stub, as it can be used to transport between movie world and real life, for good or evil reasons, depending on of it’s possessed by our heroes or the villain, the ruthless Mr. Benedict. 

The hilarious part about wasting a minute of our lives to tell you all that, is that the poor sap ET was talking to had no way of knowing we were watching Last Action Hero, and had probably never seen the film. And on a shitty-and-giggly whim, ET decided to channel the Last Action Hero, and in a million years, there was zero chance of him breaking character.

 “I know nothing of this party you speak of,” ET as Arnold said. “I repeat, do you have the ticket?” 

At this point, I was ecstatic. ET was taking material from the movie, and outdoing it as the better form of entertainment. The caller was losing his patience. 

“You don’t have to call me names!” he continued. “I’m just a man who wants to find the ticket. At least answer me this. If you were the ticket, where would you go hiding?” 

I got into a hysterical state of zen watching this play out. ET barely cracked a smile. I think he truly believed he was Arnold trying to locate the ticket. He was giving the caller the most confusing argument a person had ever faced. 

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but how does that help us find us the ticket? Answer—it does not.”

For this reply, I heard a snarling f-bomb or 2. ET pulled the receiver away from his ear for a sec, the guy got so loud. 

“OK, agree to disagree on that front, Mr. Smarty Pants. Just one more question. I forget, did I ask you about the ticket?”  

The caller hung up. ET finally let himself smile. It was a classic performance. A few minutes later, I biked home happily. I’d seen a show for the ages and that was enough for me. 

#7: Uh-Oh Spaghettios: In the late ’90s, we fell under the influence of comedy prank shows on MTV, like Tom Green and Jackass. Wanting to do funny videos with his friends, ET bought a camcorder. It seemed like a shrewd purchase at the time because we all would’ve looked insane tryna record stuff with phones plugged into the wall. 

So, we made several videos, solid attempts at comedy, anyway. There’s one of me sneaking away from my friends to go play with Ninja Turtle action figures in my underwear. Another sketch shows ET looking bold in swimming trunks, emerging from a swimming pool like the lovely Bo Derek in the movies Ten and Tommy Boy. I’m convinced ET studied Bo Derek in a bikini many times to get her supple movements just right. As he towels off in the sun, a female voice quips, “Wow, he’s a 10.” 

Those bits were better than “Uh-Oh, Spaghettios,” which was a low point for our creativity that also got me detained by a police officer. 

We were spending the night at his sister’s place, or at least that was the plan, trying to come up with a bit that would make us overnight sensations. That night, problematically, our brainstorming led to zero good ideas. We knew we somehow wanted to mess with the drunks getting drunker at Klotz’s bar next door. The tavern’s back door was open, which seemed to invite a prank. Also, I had purchased a can of Spaghettios at the Kwik Trip, believing that the Chef Boyardi slop is funny, destined to be in a sketch. I gave my pitch in the writer’s room, aka ET’s sister’s kitchen. 

“How about I sneak across the little parking lot, Spaghettios in hand, press against the outside of the bar like a ninja…” 

“Ninjas wear black,” ET pointed out. “You’re wearing a white shirt and blue shorts.” 

“And I’m still sneaky like a ninja,” I said. “OK, so you’re filming me through the bedroom window. We build up the suspense of me getting closer to the door. Then I set the Boyardee can on the floor inside the bar. They’ll have no clue where it came from. Then I run like hell back inside.”

“Is that it?” ET asked. 

“No. As I’m running, I shout ‘Uh-oh Spaghettios!’” 

ET gave this punchline the mild chuckle it deserved. He may have been humoring me, but it was getting close to 10 pm and he couldn’t top Spaghettios on that fateful night. 

“Well, it’s something,” he said. 

“You can’t tell me it’s nothing.” 

“I didn’t say it was nothing.” 

With that vote of confidence, ET got the camcorder set up. He went to the bedroom window to make sure he could get a proper angle. Indeed he could. I did breathing and stretching exercises to calm my raging anxiety. I tapped the lid of the Boyardee can 4 times for lucky-number luck. But then I kept doing it nervously, so to the can it seemed like my lucky number was more like 56. Big mistake. 

Right before I went down the steep steps in the back that led to the parking spaces, ET held up a black shirt and black shorts. 

“You sure you don’t want to wear this?” 

I really liked my bright, white Pearl Jam shirt with surfers on it. 

“Nah, I’m good,” I said. 

That was a lie. 

Surprisingly, I had my nerves under control as I scrunched low and hurried about 20 feet across the lot. I pressed my back against the outside of the wall of the bar. That line from “Sabotage” ran through my head. I looked up to see a silhouette that belonged to my friend as he filmed this idiocy from a bird’s eye view. 

My main worry was more of a certainty: The bit wasn’t funny. I wanted to get it over with and rid myself of this stupid can of Spaghettios. We’d watch the tape, shrug, and watch Conan on a Friday night. We weren’t making an instant classic and I just wanted to live to fight another day. 

Hunched low, I took a step closer to the open door, then another one. “Pretty Fly (for a White Guy)” blared from the jukebox. A woman’s voice shrieked, “Give it to me, baby!” The song got louder with another step. I was within 3 feet of the door. 

Then I heard the siren. Suddenly my face lit up with cherries and berries. I froze, immersed in the headlights of a squad car. The cop had pounced. Where did he come from? I thought. The irony that the cop was more like a ninja than I was not lost on me. 

“Stay right where you are, kid,” the officer said, leaving his vehicle. “What’s going on here?” 

I already had my hands up, submittingly. I was not a badass in the face of Johnny Law, but hey, I wasn’t getting a gun pulled on me over Chef Boyardee. I looked miserably at the item in my right hand. The Spaghettios were not funny.

“Hi, officer,” I said. “So, this is just a prank that’s not working out. With Spaghettios.” 

The cop shined his flashlight in my eyes and looked at me quizzically. 

“OK… have you been drinking? Do you have drugs on you?” 

“No,” I said. “Just Spaghettios.” 

A second cop drove past, noticed us, slowed down, did a U-Turn, and joined us in the small parking lot outside of Klotz’s. 

“Hey Jim,” said the second cop. “Everything alright here?” 

“I think so, Steve,” Officer Jim said. “I spotted this kid acting funny outside of this bar. Looked suspicious, so I rolled up on him.”

“Is that a can of Spaghettios?” Officer Steve asked. 

“Yup,” I said. 

“What, were you going to throw it at someone?” 

“No!” I said. “Look, I wasn’t going to hurt anyone. I just wanted to set the can down inside the bar and run away.” 

“Why?” Jim asked. 

“As a joke.” 

“What’s funny about that?” 

“I don’t know,” I said. 

The same barflies we meant to mess with began to step outside for a smoke and laugh at me. A third cop car joined us. Then a fourth. The silhouette of ET was nowhere to be found in the bedroom above. I didn’t snitch. I wondered if there was a sweet old lady getting mugged 6 blocks away, crying out for the police. Then a fifth cop car rolled up. I think they were just enjoying telling the story to the newest cop, in relay fashion. 

Cop number 5 needed a recap. 

“So, is the kid drunk?” 

“Nope,” Officer Jim said. “He blew a zero on the Breath-o-lizer.” 

“Drugs?”

“Nope, not on him. And he doesn’t smell like pot.” 

“But the Spaghettios… Why?” 

“He said he doesn’t know,” Officer Jim said. “I’m getting him on a curfew violation. Gonna drive him home now.”  

Cop car number 6 parked on the street. I didn’t get handcuffed, but Jim escorted me into the back seat. Before he shut the door, he pointed to the newest cop to arrive on the scene. 

“Steve, can you tell Glen about this situation? I gotta run.” 

My dad, who was a cop, was waiting on the front porch when I got dropped off in the squad car. He was cordial to his fellow officer, and his gaze at me was devastating but quick. For the final time, we went over the facts of the case: No drugs, no booze, no motive, just Spaghettios. 

Officer Jim put in a good word for me. 

“Bill, I can tell he’s not a bad kid. He’s just a little… weird.” 

“Ha!” my dad said. “Don’t I know it.” 

I slinked inside the house, a humiliated teen who had alerted a third of Fondy’s active police force with my dumb Spaghettios. ET apologized profusely the next time we hung out, and thanked me for not giving him up to the cops. But that took a few weeks, because I got grounded. 

I opened my bedroom door, eager to slide into bed, hide under blankets, cry into a pillow, and put an end to this miserable night. But without mercy, my dad tapped me on the shoulder. 

“So what was funny about this?” he said. 

In his hand he wiggled the can of Spaghettios.

#6: Laser Tag: The summer after graduation, we rounded up a crew to play laser tag in Appleton. This one is fuzzy, but I do recall the punchline, so we’ll stick with it. 

Todd was the wheelman, with a car of his own. Wes rode shotgun. We had the windows rolled down in the warm twilight of late June. Wes’ dirty blond hair whipped in the soothing gusts of wind. Todd’s dirty blond hair stayed put beneath his backwards cap. I sat in the back, the least comfortable passenger, squeezed in between ET with the window seat again and Scooter. Scooter was the red-headed and thin son of a science teacher, awkward and likable. 

Going north on highway 41, we passed the skyline of Oshkosh and I started to relax. I had enough space to sit in the middle. The sunset was gorgeous. I knew I couldn’t live in this perfect space of the summer of 2001 forever, but I was getting good at savoring it. I felt at peace. 

Battle awaited us in Appleton, of course, but it c’mon, laser tag was a notch below paintball on the intensity scale. It suited our group. I’d never been to Zappy Gilmore’s like the others had, but for some reason I was getting confident. That night I believed that yours truly, Nick Olig, was sure to be the laser tag winner. 

Todd found a parking spot outside of Zappy’s. We escaped the car quickly, eager to stretch our limbs and unload pent-up farts in the soothing breeze. 

Inside, we paid our fees to the cashier and went to a second kiosk to get our zappers, sensors and belts. A second employee stood at a computer, not seeming to enjoy his job. He made sure we had our equipment on right. As a neat bonus, he asked for our code names, so we could see on a little screen on our zappers whom we zapped, or got zapped by. He entered our code names into the computer. 

“I’ll be Lloyd Christmas,” Todd said.  

“Ooh,” Wes said. “Well, if you’re Lloyd, then I’ve got to be Harry. Harry Dunne.” Wes even spelled it for the unsmiling worker. “That last is D-U-N-N-E.”

They got into character by pointing the mock weapons at each other and making laser beam sounds. 

“Do the tractor beam!” I called out. “Jjjjyoooooottt! Sucked me right in.” The laser tag employee was scowling at my foolishness. “Anyway,” I said. “I’d like to be Duffman.”   

Scooter was next. Since I was Duffman, he wanted to counter with the code name Fudd. But we found out later that the glum worker misheard him. 

ET was the last to get a code name. He looked indecisive, as if he couldn’t come up with anything. I know now that this was an act. 

“Hmm, I can’t think of one yet,” ET said. “Nick, you and the gang go on without me. I’ll be right there.”

Not realizing I was playing right into his hands, I led the 4 of us through a set of double doors into the small waiting room. This lobby was the last stop before entering the game arena, with its maze of corridors and hiding spots. ET soon joined us. 

“What’s your code name?” I asked.

“Uh,” ET said with a diabolical grin. “I forget, actually.” 

“What? Dude, it was like 10 seconds ago...” 

A booming robotic voice sounded on the PA.

“Laser battle will commence in 10 seconds. 9, 8, 7…” 

“Hey guys, is this gonna be fun or what?!” ET said. The guys cheered. I knew something was up, but not what. I know now that he wasn’t really flexing as a hype man here. He was changing the subject. The hype was but a diversion. 

The buzzer sounded. We were given 2 minutes to disperse, spread out, and explore the labyrinth. Charging through this cheesy, fake battleground in dark blue mood lighting, with a dash of smoke machine mystery, I got a jolt of adrenaline. I was so happy running wild in uncharted laser tag territory with my beloved jackass friends. 

At the end of 2 minutes, I was foaming at the mouth wanting to zap somebody, and at that point, I could. Ladies and gentlemen, at that 2 minute mark, the tiger was freed from his cage. 

Another tiger freed from his cage at that moment was ET. I was hot on the trail of zapping a friend—might have been Scooter—when I felt my harness buzz. I’d been zapped, and I never saw it coming. I turned around to face my attacker, but he was gone. I heard only a roaring, taunting laugh. I looked down at the screen on my zapper. This is what it said: 

“You’ve been shot by Nick Olig!

Nick Olig: 1

Duffman: 0”

The son-of-a-bitch had used my own name against me in laser tag! And he surprised me with it! At the same time as his surprise attack! He did a double ambush. He was playing laser tag chess whereas I couldn’t even play checkers at a laser tag place. 

He also put me at a disadvantage, because I couldn’t stop laughing and cursing at him, so I made a lot of noise and gave away my position. I did get a couple sharpshooter doozies on Scooter. On my zapper screen, my first successful zap said this:

“You shot Thud!

Duffman: 1

Thud: 0” 

“Who the hell is Thud?” Scooter, aka Thud, cried out in confusion. “I’m supposed to Fudd. Damn it, the guy got my code name wrong!” 

At this point, I was laughing hard about 2 things, and also cursing at ET, whom I could not find. Unlike a ninja, I made noise laughing when it might be more effective to shut up. 

Because I was truly having fun, perhaps, I was relaxed and mostly accurate with my zaps. I did alright, but by the end of the 20 minute game, I’d been bested by my nemesis.

When he zapped me a second time, it was with less than a minute to go. He got me from the side or behind again. As he chuckled and ran away, he said this:

“Nick Olig, strikes again! Haha!” 

Nick Olig won the laser tag battle on that glorious night. Only, it wasn’t me. It was ET. He stole my identity in a game of laser tag to make his victory that much sweeter and more disrespectful to me. 

I have another Jack Handey-ism for you, my friend: 

“To me, clowns aren’t funny. In fact, they’re kind of scary. I’ve wondered where this started, and I think it goes back to the time I went to the circus and a clown killed my dad.” 

(part 2)

In the year 2000, ET and I went to Madison to see Foo Fighters and Red Hot Chili Peppers. We stayed overnight in his step-sister’s dorm. It was my first concert, and the bands delivered. I lost my shoe in the mosh pit during a rowdy version of “Monkey Wrench.” I never got it back. That night I hobbled with one shoe alongside ET to a lowkey college party with chill college kids who greeted us warmly. I got buzzed on booze for the first time. 

Though I missed it, our mutual friends Todd and Wes told me about a legendary snowball fight that went down outside of the duplex ET shared with his sister. It happened the winter after we finished high school. For years, I heard tales of the Snowball Battle on Follett Street, as though its magnitude was up there with Gettysburg. A dozen or so young adults fought rambunctiously. It was bedlam straight out of Animal House, spurred on by ET’s joyful mischief. The fracas started on the front lawn and I’m told it ended up spanning 2 city blocks. Everyone got a long rush of winter bliss, even though Wes took an iceball to the head that left a weeklong bruise. It’s been 23 years and Wes still remembers the name of that prick. 

As seniors, ET and I smoked weed on a space cruise with 2 juniors I barely knew. ET was deft at introducing me to the tall dude and the shy girl. We soon bonded. After one bowl, we called ourselves the Fantastic Four. Tall dude was Mr. Fantastic, shy girl was a perfect Invisible Girl, ET had the closest build to Thing, and yours truly was the Human Torch. That night we got busted for loitering outside of a Kwik Trip. Mr. Fantastic took the fall since he was the driver, it was his weed, and his parents’ car. Sadly, the Fantastic Four never rode together again. 

These are just honorable mentions that didn’t make the top 10 ET Stories. These are more like deep cuts that would comprise a lesser guy’s greatest hits.  Before we cover the second half of the top 10, I have a Deep Thought by Jack Handey for ET and anyone else who cares to listen. 

“The crows seemed to be calling his name, thought Caw.”

#5: High School Lunch. Goodrich High School was adjacent to 10th St. On the other side of Main St., ET lived on 11th. Four blocks south, the Oligs resided on 14th. 

In the mornings, the 2 of us made it to school separately, but at noon, we’d walk together to ET’s house for lunch. Neither one of us had a car. To this day, I have to subdue my resentment when I hear a school kid brag about the set of wheels their parents bought for them. 

Hanging out in the kitchen, ET’s mom was so generous with their groceries. I gained a reputation for consuming cereal. I was a fiend for Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Lucky Charms, and Frosted Flakes. Many times, ET offered me leftover lasagna or meat loaf, and his mom was a fine cook. But I was stuck in my OCD tunnel vision, content with my cereal routine at lunch. ET could only shake his head and crack jokes. 

“My God,” he said. “You’re a regular Jerry Seinfeld.” 

I grinned and got into character, pointing at my bowl of Lucky Charms.  

“What’s the deal with these red balloons? They don’t float in the air; they float in milk!” 

ET’s mom might call out from the living room. 

“Is he eating cereal again?!” 

“Yeah,” I confessed. “But I’ll have a cookie or 2 for dessert.” 

On the walk back to school, we’d pass a house in the neighborhood that had a For Sale sign in the front yard. This home had been for sale for as long as we could remember, so we started to doubt the skills of the real estate agent pictured on the sign: Larry Cheswick. 

Poor Larry Cheswick was a man of about 60, with slicked back gray hair and a weasley grin. His smile was more cringe-funny than charming, and by no fault of his own, he gave birth to an ongoing bit between ET and me. 

ET was fond of running ahead of me, crouching behind the sign, and impersonating this man whom we’d never met. I’d snicker at the sight of ET’s jeans leading up to the rectangular slate that showed the headshot of Larry Cheswick. 

“Hey kid, do me a solid and buy this house!” ET as Larry said. 

“Larry, no,” I said. “C’mon, I’m only 17.” 

“Bah, excuses!” the real estate agent scoffed. “Why, when I was 17, I owned 3 houses, and a hotel! On Baltic Avenue.” 

I was within 10 feet of him at this point. 

“Oh yeah? Did you also own a railroad?” 

“How did you know?!” 

The routine would end just before I walked past the sign to see the puppet-master in hiding. ET was not about to let me catch a glimpse of the wizard behind the curtain. He’d quickly hop back onto the sidewalk and act as if nothing had happened. 

“Hey, man,” he said casually. “How’s it going?” 

“Not great,” I said. “Look, this might sound crazy, but for a second, I thought that guy on the sign was talking to me.” 

“Huh,” he said in stride. “Sounds like a hallucination. When you went to the bathroom, maybe somebody laced your cereal.”

“Was it you?” I said, keeping stride.

ET’s blue eyes got big and darted around the neighborhood. His head bobbled nervously and he scratched his hair. A few seconds passed. He sniffed, looked at me, and cupped his hand to his ear. 

“I’m sorry—what did you ask?” 

#4: Buttermilk Guilt. This isn’t a very funny or happy story. At best, it was a learning experience. I’m not sure if ET remembers this one, but I do. We weren’t the babyfaces in this match, we were the heels. Out of our element, yeah, but heels nonetheless. I hate to say it, but we did something mean. 

Buttermilk Creek Park is home to Buttermilk Hill. It’s one of the best sledding hills in Fond du Lac, and the go-to choice for sledding fans in our part of the city. 

The park includes an amphitheater for summer concerts, pavilions for events, multiple playgrounds, 5 tennis courts, and relevant to this story, a basketball court. 

On a Saturday afternoon in the winter of 2000, ET and I bundled up and made the trek several blocks south to Buttermilk, toting our plastic sleds. We were a couple of 16-year-olds still drawn to the boyish thrill of torpedoing down a snow-slick hill, but not extreme enough for snowboarding. 

We felt lucky at first, because we were the 2 on the hill when we arrived. 

“All right,” I said. “No people.” 

ET nodded. We weren’t always in the mood to make new friends, and we liked our inside jokes, with no outsiders to burst our bubble. 

Twenty minutes into our sledding sesh, we got company. A quartet of younger teens joined us, 2 boys and 2 girls. They weren’t rude to us, but they made no effort to say hi to us. In turn, we didn’t say hi to them. Subconsciously, it felt awkward, especially because in no time, they seemed to be having more fun than we were. Their treks up the hill and zooms down it were highlighted by laughter and playful smack talk. 

We coexisted with these strangers but it felt sorta weird. These outsiders were putting a damper on our once joyous Sled-o-mania, I thought selfishly. 

On this 20-ish degree afternoon, the tall boy in their group got a bad idea for a stunt. At the peak of the hill, he removed his coat, hat, gloves, shirt, jeans, and snowpants. No one coaxed him into doing it. He was just struck by the whim to sled polar bear style. As he undressed, his friends giggled and jetted downhill to wait for him. This left a 14-year-old boy in his boxer shorts and a pile of his winter clothes on top of the hill not far from ET and me. 

Then the tall boy got a running start and Superman-launched onto his sled. He landed with a soft thud. His boots vanished from my point of view. Almost nude, he took the chilly plunge down a slope of white powder. 

ET and I looked at each other, then the clowney kid’s pile of clothes. I have blocked out who said, “Basketball hoop.” But one of us did, and the other one grinned wickedly and nodded. We were out of view from the kids at the base of the hill, so they couldn’t see that we were into some mischief too. 

The 2 of us gathered the boy’s clothing, stuffed his hat and gloves into his coat, and we fled down the riskier treeside of Buttermilk Hill on our sleds. We both split the trees perfectly without fumbling our bundles, which was pretty badass for ET and me. Anyway, this path led to the basketball court. We took turns wadding up the kid’s attire and tossing it into the hoop. Eventually, every garment that would warm up that silly teen was suspended 9 or 10 feet above the ground in the net.  

Next, we ran a safe distance from the basketball hoop, to the fringe of the amphitheater, because we were afraid of getting our asses beat. We waited. 

Soon we heard alarmed shouting from the apex of Buttermilk. ET and I chuckled. Then someone from their party sledded down the treeside in search of the missing clothes. She spotted the bundle in the net and swore profusely. Again, we laughed, but not as hard. 

The girl called out to her friends. She searched the area for some way to reach the rim. She jumped at the lump of coat and snow pants in vain. Her outstretched hand didn’t come close. ET and I looked at each other. We barely laughed this time, noticing a trend. 

The others joined her. From afar, we could see that polar bear boy was visibly, uncomfortably shivering. The other boy took off his own coat and wrapped the poor kid in it, rubbing the sleeves up and down as fast as he could to comfort his friend. 

I can’t speak for ET, but this is when I officially started to feel like shit. Maybe the kid did have a foolish impulse, but so what? What we did was worse. It was cruel. We had no excuses, but I suppose we acted as if we did. 

“We should do something,” ET said. 

As if God planted it there, I spotted a nearby stick. It was long and sturdy enough for even a short kid like me to use a tool to poke down the boy’s warm clothes. I picked it up. ET and I had to salvage this shit show we had made worse. 

“Ah shit,” I said to my friend. 

We got closer but not too close to the group of teens and I tossed them the stick. 

“Use this,” I said. 

“Assholes!” one girl shouted. 

“Losers!” the other girl said. 

The boy who had given up his coat rushed to pick up the stick. I suppose he could’ve used it to attack us, but he quickly turned around, ran to the hoop, and jabbed at it. He seemed like a good dude. We were never friends. 

ET tried to save face for us, but it was a lost cause. 

“Why’d he take off his clothes? We wanted to teach him a lesson!” 

The girl who discovered the clothing hanging above pointed at us with righteous anger. 

“You don’t get to teach our friend lessons! He is our friend, and we will teach him the lessons.” 

“Losers,” the other girl repeated. 

 The boy with the stick freed the basketball net from its contents. A coat, a hat, gloves, a shirt, jeans, and snow pants fell to the ground. The polar bear boy stared at ET and me, suffering and full of hate. The time was ripe for ET and me to get the hell out of there. Sleds in hand, we tramped through the snow with great urgency. We had to escape this dreadful scene. 

On the sullen walk home, we barely spoke. I haven’t talked to him about this incident since the day it happened. 

Now, I did mention that perhaps this was a learning experience. What the 2 of us learned was that we were meant to be kind. When we tried the alternative on a dark impulse, we ended up feeling horrible.

I’m still a mistake machine, but my flirting with malice did not go well. I can’t speak for ET, but I do recall the dreary look in his eyes as we walked home quietly from Buttermilk. Cruelty didn’t suit us. That junior high kid stripping down to his boxers in the cold, in front of strangers, may have been a slight asshole thing to do, for the sake of argument. But if the world is a better place with fewer assholes, then why would ET and I join the club and expect to feel good about it?

If I may call back to the Medieval Times story in part one, I’d rather fail as a babyface than succeed as a heel. ET still doesn’t get into wrestling, but I think he gets the gist. 

#3: 13 Going on 30. On my 30th birthday, I got a call from ET. He wished me a happy one. We hadn’t talked in a while, so we needed to catch up. He was married, which I knew, but I was stunned to recall that he’d been with his wife for 7 years. Their daughter was a year old. He was teaching in Portage, but they were eying a move to Madison, and the couple was open to having a second child, which they later did.  

I had none of that going on in my life. I was a misfit when it came to relationships. I did have a job, but it was a dead-ender in the kitchen of a convenience store. But I liked my freedom, and I was content writing one short story after another. Plus I was stoked for my birthday party that night at a bar called Parrot Palms. I’d be sipping beers with a few dozen friends and family members, and I was looking forward to giving my toddler nephew a big hug. 

Before we hung up, ET told me he got me a present. Well, present was one word for whatever it was. To find it, I had to log onto Wikipedia, search for the movie 13 Going on 30, and look at the cast. 

I’ve still never seen this 2004 Fantasy RomCom starring Jennifer Garner and Mark Ruffalo. The synopsis reminds me a lot of Big, which I have seen, in that it’s essentially about a dissatisfied kid who makes a sudden, supernatural leap into adulthood. Freaky Friday and Vice Versa have similar themes, so it may not be the most original flick, but I could relate to a fish-out-of-water feeling in adulthood. Hell, sometimes I do feel like the test subject in a time warp experiment. 13 Going on 30 might be sci-fi, but I’m here to tell you that imposter syndrome is real. 

ET must have perceived some overlap between 13 Going on 30 and this guy. So I got on my laptop, went to Wikipedia, typed in the movie title, and scrolled down. Here’s what stood out about the cast.

“Jennifer Garner as Jenna Rink. Christa B. Allen as Young Jenna. Mark Ruffalo as Matty Flamhaff. Sean Marquette as Young Matty. And farther down: Nick Olig as Himself.” 

I was a movie star! Thanks to my old friend, who posted harmless misinformation, overlooking the fact that I didn’t recall appearing in the film, grateful the fact-checkers were asleep on the job, aware that not a soul on Earth had mentioned this Big clone in several years, I had finally arrived. 

Fifteen minutes of fame on Wikipedia would have sufficed, but 6 months after my birthday, I checked again. Still a movie star! Still 7 spots down from Jim Gaffigan as Chris Grandy. Rubbing elbows with the “Hot Pocket” comedian. What an honor! 

I turned 31, then 32. Every once in a while, I’d check. Yes! I was in this major motion picture, as Myself. I didn’t even have to pretend to be someone else. Seemed like easy money. What a badass! I turned 33, then 34. What a thrill it was to be credited in the same movie as the lovely Brie Larson, who played Sick Chick. By 35, I was starting to believe I really did appear in 13 Going on 30, and I was damn proud. 

ET’s birthday present lasted until I was 36. Someone at Wikipedia finally wised up and deleted my name. I have a sneaking suspicion it was that rotten Wayne-Rink-playing Phil Reeves who ratted me out to Wikipedia. Damn you, Phil Reeves! Your acting credits include Blades of Glory and Evan Almighty. Let me have this one! 

Setting aside silly delusions, to this day, I can see my name tied to that movie when I Google myself. Obscure websites that have clearly given up, such as GE.Movie, have me co-starring with Garner and Ruffalo as you might expect. And what language is that beneath my name? I have no clue, but my brilliant co-star J-Garn is a graduate of Denison University, so maybe she knows. 

With more certainty, I can say that ET knows how much I appreciate a good, long-running joke. I can recall a night of heavy depression, alone in a studio apartment on a frigid winter night. An impulse told me to search Wikipedia for an update on you-know-what. As it turned out, I was still a movie star. I smiled—my first of the miserable day. I didn’t so much as send a text to ET and he still cheered me up. 

#2: Newborn Baby. When I spoke with ET on my 30th birthday, he mentioned that he and his wife wanted to have a second kid. About a year later, my friend became a Level 2 Dad. His wife gave birth to a boy. 

For a brief time, I was roommates with Todd. ET was in town to visit his mom and stepdad. Without calling or texting ahead, he rolled up to Todd’s house and parked on the street. He got out and shut the car door quietly, as his newborn son was snoozing in a carseat in the back. 

Now, I admire ET’s spontaneity. He’s more willing to improvise than I am, and as a result, less afraid of fear. However, when he stopped by to surprise his friends by showing us his awesome new son, I was working at the convenience store. 

I am the type who will snip at the improviser: “A little heads-up would’ve been nice.” 

ET is the type who will shrug and reply: “Meh, what are you gonna do?”

We would have this exact conversation later. In the moment, ET was unbuckling his son and lifting the carseat by the handle. He shut the car door gently and approached Todd’s front porch. As he climbed the steps, he got an impulse. He looked down at his swaddled, snoozing boy and smiled. 

In the living room, Todd was lounging on the couch watching daytime TV. Someone knocked on the front door. He got up and checked his phone. Hmm, no one had texted ahead. Who could it be? 

Todd peered the door glass. At eye level, no one was there. Puzzled, he opened the door, revealing the wooden floor of the porch, where a baby slept in a carrier. 

“What the…” Todd stammered. 

He spotted a figure in his peripheral and turned his head. With perfect timing, ET was dashing down the steps. He turned back with his impish grin, his dark blond hair tossed in the wind. Todd got a glimpse of his face. The two men hadn’t seen each other in a few years. 

ET called out: “I think he just pooped—ahhh!” 

Todd started to laugh uncontrollably. This wasn’t enough for ET. Leaving his infant kid on the porch, he hit the sidewalk and kept running down 14th Street. He made it halfway down the block, still committed to the bit. 

On the front porch, the baby began to stir. Todd smeared his face with both hands, his laughter subduing to a chuckle. ET was still running away from his baby and friend. If I had to guess what was going through his mind, I’d wager it was: Past a few more houses ought to do it. 

Todd grinned and shook his head at the boy waking up on his front porch. 

“Kid, your dad is kind of a nutbar.” 

ET finally finished the bit. He walked back a city block to the porch, panting. He consoled his cranky son, gave Todd a hug, and the men spoke in the living room, giving the mandatory updates and reminiscing. 

Later that afternoon, ET came into the deli of the store where I worked. I had a 40 piece chicken in the deep fryer and I was serving customers. He introduced me to his son in the carrier. The boy looked cute but perturbed by the fluorescent lights above. I caught up with ET for a minute, but then a customer walked up behind him, waiting in line. 

I was happy to see him but annoyed to be stuck at work. I gestured my pointer finger at the customer: One second. 

“You know, ET,” I snipped. “A little heads-up would’ve been nice.”

“Meh,” he said. “What are you gonna do?”

#1: Colorado. We were in the living room on the second floor of the duplex when we heard ET charging up the stairs. 

Pot smoke hovered in the air. Wes had opened a window at his place. He was wearing his favorite hoodie, black with gold lettering that said Colorado, with a small Buffalo logo of the university. 

I was sitting on the couch beside Todd and Paxson. Paxson is new to these stories. His profile reminded me of an eagle with a full head of hair. He was a year younger than us but we went to the same high school. He reconnected with Wes during their time living in Madison. ET had never met him. 

I found a spot on the coffee table and set down a bulky green steamroller that we named Atari Big-Piece, after Packers safety Atari Bigby, who won our stoner hearts with his play in 2007. The pipe had nothing left to give but a weak trail of smoke. On that night not long after Thanksgiving, the weed had a soothing, giggly effect on us. We were primed for movie night. 

I’d gone to the movies a number of times with combinations of ET, Wes, and Todd. Wes, Todd and I legit saw No Country for Old Men and There Will be Blood back-to-back that year. We were hoping to keep the winning streak intact with a horror flick based on a Stephen King book: The Mist. 

Those first 2 movies still stand as dramatic masterpieces, if you ask us. The monstrous dread and chaos of The Mist fell short of that mark. We’ve all rewatched it with varying levels of appreciation, but we can agree that this flick about human-devouring monsters from another dimension wasn’t meant to be a laugh riot. Not everyone is a sucker for Stephen King like me, or nonplussed by the second watch but willing to reassess it with a third viewing like Wes, but we’ve all concluded that The Mist is actually light on humor. 

It’s a good-enough horror flick, at best. That night, however, it was hysterical. We laughed our asses off because comedy personified was charging up the stairs.  

We heard excited knocks on the front door. Wes opened it to reveal ET. Before I could blink, he was doing a bit. He spotted me first. I vividly remember him bounding into the room, pivoting left to see me on the couch. His eyes lit up and he gave me finger guns. 

“It’s this guy!” ET exclaimed. 

An instant later, he turned to Wes, whose hand was just leaving the doorknob. ET simply read the man’s sweatshirt in the most hysterical way possible. 

“Colorado!” he said, finger guns intact. 

Then he pivoted back to the couch to acknowledge the others. 

“Guy I don’t know!” he said of Paxson. 

“And the other guy!” he said of Todd. 

His delivery was faster than our laughter. Paxson was the last one to geek out, because it took him a few seconds.

ET could bring to a room a force of Farley energy. Jack Black might be a comparison, I guess, but Farley was our group’s first brush with love for a hefty comic. We adored the big man from Madison, and we were devastated when he OD’d just before Christmas, 1997. I knew my childhood was gone for good by the time Farley left us. When he died, I was 13 and it felt like getting kicked in the heart when I was already down. I think ET felt the same way. Maybe the other guys too. 

I digress. 

When the laughter subsided, we shot the shit with ET, which inevitably led to a resurgence of laughter. When we could get a mostly straight answer out of him, it occurred to me that he had his shit decidedly more together than I did. He was happily married to his wife to this day, starting his career path in education, writing and performing in plays as a side hustle in Milwaukee, and he even said “no thanks” when Paxson offered him a one-hitter. 

I was so proud of ET for finding his partner and putting in the work to succeed. I forget if I told him that, on account of the weed and Atari Big-piece. 

At the theater, we happily took seats in the back row. The place was pretty packed, so I’ll take this opportunity to apologize to the folks sitting around us watching The Mist at the Fond du Lac Theater on what my research suggests was November 23rd, 2007. Sorry we were loud, but we had a better time than you. 

We giggled through the previews, 4 stoney baloney dudes and ET, loaded with popcorn and sodas. The feature film finally started, and I soon realized ET was on some “not give a shit,” and it was contagious. Whatever The Mist was gonna be, whatever merit it had, ET put us in the mindset that we were in an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000. It could’ve been the best horror flick since Alien, and we were still gonna roast it until someone pissed their pants. 

The movie begins with a nasty thunderstorm battering the lakeside home of a commercial artist, his wife and son. The morning after, their house is damaged, and so is the neighbor’s car; it gets demolished by a fallen tree. The men opt to drive into town for supplies from the grocery store. Before they leave, the main character/ artist Dad surveys some ominous fog on the lake creeping closer, ever-so-slowly. 

“Honey, what is that?” the mom asks. 

“I don’t know… Mist,” Artist Dad says before kissing his wife goodbye. 

The actor said the name of the damn movie! We all noticed, but the rules for movie-goers state that we should take this postmodern wink in stride, with, at most, a knowing smirk. Play it cool! 

ET sitting beside me did not play it cool. He quickly poked me in the ribs with his right elbow. In a nanosecond, your high narrator giggled helplessly knowing he was destined to look left and behold an ET bit. 

His eyes grew alarmingly large and he kept a straight face with a deadpan look of mock surprise. He held my gaze for a beat, then pointed with a deliberate nudge-nudge-nudge at the screen. In my baked-mind, I could hear his psychic, silent message: They just said the name of the movie!! Then he carefully brought his finger to his lips to shush me. 

Next, he turned to his left and pulled the same stunt on Wes. Elbow poke, the nudge-nudge-nudge point, the hysterical outburst, the silent, ironic shush. In the next seat, Todd looked over, got a load of the routine, and completely geeked out. 

On the silver screen, the mist engulfed the grocery store where Father, Son and neighbor had gone for supplies. As you might have guessed, it turns out that the nearby secret military base was conducting experiments that tore a hole into a different realm of spacetime and unleashed predatory creatures who thrived in fog and treated people like food. 

Casualties start to pile up because of the asshole misty monsters. And a religious fanatic named Mrs. Carmody becomes convinced that the poor souls holed up in the grocery store, and beyond, are facing Judgement Day, as overseen and conducted by a righteous yet vengeful God. As you might have guessed, we’ve sinned a lot, and God is mighty mad. That’s basically Mrs. Carmody’s hot take. 

A few more poor souls get brutally murdered by big, nightmarish bugs, and the terror and the trauma deliver more survivors to the guidance of Mrs. Carmody. The vile zealot goes so far as to propose a human sacrifice to appease the wrath of God. With her Biblical batshit crazy wisdom, she picks the most innocent person to make the Man Upstairs and his monster minions to chill out. To the chagrin of Artist Dad, Mrs. Carmody’s bright idea is to sacrifice his boy.

With the Book of Revelations turning into non-fiction, Carmody starts to chant a vocab word: “Expiation!” It simply means atonement, or to make amends for wrongdoings. 

ET is no slouch with words, but that one had us both stumped. He nudged me for at least the 10th time with an exaggerated look of confusion on his face. He mimed thumbing through a book. 

“I’ll just look that up in my dictionary… Expedia dot com! Yeah!” 

“Expiration date!” I said, correcting him in a bad whisper. 

The call for expiation continued on screen. Artist Dad and his allies grew tense protecting the boy. They just kept saying the damn word. We couldn’t help ourselves. 

“That’s what I said,” ET said in a mock argument with me. “Expedia dot com!” 

“Expunge!” Paxson said, joining our bad whisper party. 

“Exposition!” Todd said. 

“Guys, shh. Please,” Wes said. For a moment, I thought he was really calling us out—but nope. “They’re chanting for an expedition.” 

“Expos, comma Montreal!” I replied. 

We did get shushed for real for that one from someone 3 rows in front of us. Again, if you happen to be listening, I’m sorry—we’re almost never like that in theaters, but we rarely hung out as a group anymore and we were having so much fun. 

Todd had a nice encore. 

“Experience, comma Jimi Hendrix,” Todd said. That was our last one until the closing credits. We giggled through some of the major characters getting killed. I’ve spoiled a lot, but I won’t spoil the shocking ending. The deaths range from justified to horrific to absolutely traumatic. My friends and I had a really good laugh. 

We stood up and stretched as people began to file out of the theater. ET had a stern look on his face, as if the brutality of the twist ending had actually hit home—but it was a bit. 

“I’m pretty sure that woman said ‘Expedia dot com.’” 

My man ET is so relentless with a good bit. A stranger gave me a dirty look as I shuffled down the aisle. I could not stop laughing. 

This is the last of the Deep Thoughts: 

“One thing kids like is to be tricked. For instance, I was going to take my little nephew to Disneyland, but instead I drove him to an old, burned-out warehouse. ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Disneyland burned down.’ He cried and cried, but I think that deep down, he thought it was a pretty good joke. I started to drive over to the real Disneyland, but it was getting pretty late.”