Jake Money-Money

^ Mike Jones...There's something commendable about a rapper who refuses an alias--unlike Dr. Dre, Notorious B.I.G., and Ice Cube. If nothing else, Mike Jones made a unique choice. Honestly, I can't name any of this guy's songs and yet I still think he's a badass.^

I promised myself not to post this until I no longer had a job as a cook at a gas station. That time has come. This is a rap I wrote for my former co-worker, whom I outlasted by three months laboring deep inside of Satan's asshole. This rap's namesake is 18, lanky, bespectacled, self-assured, and hysterical. We talked about sports and Trailer Park Boys quite a bit. He reminded me that regardless of how much I crucify myself for underachieving, there is still cause for hope and redemption in this life.


Anyway, I'm all done being sappy. Sometimes it's worth it, though. 'Cause everyone who can only laugh at cruel comedy that has no silver lining is doomed, you know.

Say hello to some flow and beats that mesh
The ladies and the playas call me Mint-E-Fresh
I got a day-job I won't have when I'm old
I'm just fryin' chicken 'til this single goes gold
We serve Mac 'n' Cheese out of metal pans
Which I collect 'cause I got a master-plan
To haul loads of tin to the recycling plant
Where I get paid like my name was Kevin Durant
Now I got extra cash to pay off a fine
I'm payin' my dues while a bunch of y'all wine
I'll breathe sick rhymes 'til ya'll feel stricken
Now check out my beats while I fry up some chicken

(Beats solo)

I might slack at work 'cause my heart ain't in the toil
When my bosses front, I say they best respect my foil
Twenty-two pounds!
I say that shit proud
Gonna toss metal-cash to the clamoring crowd
Gonna buy me a mansion and release some hounds
Buy a Ferris Wheel and shit
My dreams is legit
I'll buy 20 turntables and 10 microphones
When I cash in the gold grill of Mike Jones
I'm just playin'
Not naysayin'
MJ's got mad skills like Lebron
He's the African Don Juan
Leave the matter open for debate
Who's the best and which one's great
Some like 50 points but I'm down with triple-doubles
Now let me take you back to the source of my troubles

Last week the store changed providers
Went from ballers to bottom-divers
And they cut costs on the Mac
This new distributor was whack
They stuffed that Mac in bags
Which means no metal, no swag
I live large in a fortress of metal
And I won't let my empire wilt a petal
So I said I'm bouncin' in two weeks
'Cause I'm done swimmin' up shit creeks
I'll get paid for my metal, skills, and style
When I take my talents south on the Miracle Mile

(Sample of gun-shots solo)

Say, “Jake money-money, Jake money-money!”  (repeat a bunch of times)


* A line I scrapped goes: “My schemes be so greasy/ They go deep as for oil/ These ho's be so easy/ Pimp-protected and loyal.” BUT...I didn't want to promote the whole misogyny thing to a high school kid. On the other hand, his generation's grasp of what constitutes sincerity as opposed to farce is truly remarkable. Though I doubt the '90s babies will be as willing to fight and get killed in wars as honorably as those who preceded the Baby Boomers, they could be the generation to shrug so relentlessly that racism, homophobia, and religious fanaticism become lamer than an episode of Leave It to Beaver. '90s babies, your future could be bright if you work hard, stop submitting your souls to cell phones, and we don't nuke ourselves. Amen.

Tall, Dark, Handsome Men in Uniform are Overrated

^The one on the right is Ashton Kutcher. This was taken from the movie The Guardian, by the way, which was a drama, but remarkably, it was still funnier than That '70s Show. ^

For those reading this who don't know what I look like: I'm about 5'8”--which is by no means tall.


I've got brown hair—which is darker than blond but not as dark as black. Plus, my skin is white—so white that, during winter, when sunlight become scarce in Wisconsin, my complexion turns paler; it becomes even less dark.

In regard to handsomeness, I rank somewhere between dreamy hunk and sideshow monstrosity—and whether I'm deemed a '5' or a '6' or (on my most debonair days) a '7' out of 10 in the eyes of women is awfully tough for me to gage with any zest or accuracy because I've never had the urge to fuck myself. So, sure, let's just go with a '7' 'cause I guess confidence is kind of a big deal to women for some reason.

Finally, although my beloved fantasy football team could not exist without men in uniform, and regardless of the fact that men in uniform fight in wars on behalf of my country, on a personal level, there is nothing more demeaning than dressing in the exact same fashion as a bunch of dudes who don't at all represent who I am.

Obviously, I'm nonplussed by the way our culture gushes about tall, dark, handsome, men in uniform. But since I'm not genetically geared to smooch or fondle another man without choking down some of my own barf, I should at least try to bridle my scrutiny of heterosexual women and homosexual men. I am, after all, incapable of truly relating to their physical desires. For the sake of self-preservation, however, I can relay some reasons why the ideal man is not necessarily one that is tall, dark, handsome, and dressed in a uniform (which, by and by, will almost certainly compromise and corrupt his ability to think and act for himself).

Tall is attractive, eh? As a short guy, I'm supposed to concede superiority to all those self-righteous stiffs who blocked my vantage-point of Radiohead when they played at Alpine Valley in 2003—is that the idea? Fate dictates that I should bow down to their genetic inclination for changing the bulbs on ceiling fans?

Nuts to that. Tall men oftentimes get so complacent with their God-given ability to inform others when their uppermost cupboards get too dusty that they don't even bother trying to hone interesting personalities. Tall men become so impressed by how easy they can slam-dunk a basketball without jumping very high that they scarcely consider the feelings and thoughts of others doomed to live at less freakish heights. Tall men flourish on the same superficial premise as women with double-D breasts because tall men are expected to have sizable penises—to the extent that every time I hear a woman pine for tall men, I strip her statement down to a likely longing for large cocks, and once that becomes clear, I really don't see why it's so offensive for a man to admit that his ideal woman “has some big titters.” The language is draped in a degree of tact by the finer gender, but the sentiment remains the same: Big cocks, big tits, go BIG or go home. That has become the American mantra on sex.

Now, if I'm exaggerating too much, ladies, if I'm mistaken that the appeal of a tall man has a whole lot to do with the size of his penis, please lure back to your bed a tall man who, unexpectedly, is not especially well-hung, and candidly report back your assessment of getting it on with that guy.

Particularly for short women who desire tall men, the penis has got to paramount. When those couples hug, the scene looks like a baby orangutang with her arms looped around her male caretaker. Who would want to endure such a farce in public without the boon of a big wiener?

Tall, dark, handsome men in uniform must necessarily be DARK—and that's an especially vexing expectation in a country who gave its first black residents such a cruel introduction to the workforce. If “dark” is truly idealized in the eyes of heterosexual women, there really should be more interracial couples. And I'm OK with that, but racially conscious women just might assert that—and hey, no offense—the longing for “dark” men does not imply a longing for African-American men, but rather for Caucasian men with black hair. When those dopey idealizers say “dark,” I guess, they don't necessarily mean to say “black,” even though “black” is as dark as a color can possibly get.

Ultimately, these women thirst for an inverse-version of the Arian race. Whereas Hitler had a creepy, Nazi hard-on for blond-haired white boys, advocates of the dark=sexy persuasion seem to have a bias against men who were born with light-colored hair.

If I were to substitute a synonym for “dark,” why on earth would it seem edgy to assert that the ideal American man is tall, BLACK, handsome, and dressed in uniform? Because perhaps more than half the nation would jump at the chance to replace such a man with yet another rich white asshole with dark hair.

And as far as the quality of handsomeness is concerned, do we really need to devise more ways to make ugly people feel inferior? Does it have to be a priority to make homely dudes feel even less special than they already do by gushing all these platitudes about, “tall, dark, HANDSOME men in uniform”? Jesus. At least give the mutated underdogs a chance.

The “men in uniform” part of the worshiping is the funnest to debase. In most cases, a man in uniform is but an average guy who's willing to scream, “YES, SIR!” And he doesn't find the experience humiliating since all the others in the group are screaming the same thing, and anyway, once the war is over or the game ends, he knows he can go home to a woman who will fuck him because her sex goes gaga for men in uniform. We have the appeal of anatomically correct Ken dolls to them, dressed fancily in a neat and tidy row.

I realize men have been culpable for just about every global catastrophe throughout history, but women could do their part to reduce ongoing plights like warfare and concussions in the NFL by simply gazing at the occasional man in uniform and shrugging: “Meh...I don't see what all the fuss is about.”

And if just ONE less 18-year-old quits the army or his high-school football team, thereby avoiding death in the cross-hairs of a foreign soldier (who is also fighting with the main intent of impressing a chick who digs men in uniform) or sparing his brain from 6 concussions in the span of a month that will cause him dementia and depression later on his life...it will be worth it.

Tear down the self-esteem of a man in uniform every once in a while, will ya? I can't do this alone, ladies; most people don't care what I think.

That's why I think tall, dark, handsome men in uniform are overrated. If I failed in my argument against them, however, I have a request to all the women reading this: Bang LeBron James. He's got to be the gold-standard of tall, dark, handsome men in uniform, and if you're gonna tune out my rhetoric, don't be middling about your desires. Bang Lebron James so that his tall, dark, handsome, uniform-wearing seed spreads all across America. Bang Lebron James until he surpasses Wilt “The Stilt” Chamberlain's record of 10,000 bedded women. Make The Stilt feel like an emasculated sissy in comparison to Lebron James. Bang Lebron James as lustily and as often as you can. Live life to the fullest.

Go big or go home.



“I couldn't care less if she never came back/ I was gonna leave her anyway/ And all the good times that we shared/ Don't mean a thing today/ Say 'Sour grapes'/ You can laugh and stare/ Say 'Sour grapes'/ But I don't care” --John Prine

Too Many Facebook Posts

The legendary Steve Martin released a book of Tweets earlier this year. It eventually occurred to me that if that iconic Jerk is OK with peddling digital fluff, amateurs like me shouldn't be deterred, either. And so I scoured through every status I've posted on the damn Facebook with the help of that overrated Timeline feature that's never going to make any of us even a little bit happier and selected the choicest jokes.

Experience has taught me that no one should ever do such a thing, but hey, amidst all the regrettable failures, disgusting self-indulgence, and idle threats to kill Lebron James, I found some keepers. For instance...

(Nick) has found that adding two simple words to pleasantries really darkens the tone of the sentence. Here's what I mean: "Have a nice day...or else." "Take care of yourself, and each other...or else." "Peace be with you...or else." It helps to smile glowingly for the first part and then narrow your eyes and scowl for the second part. Try it some time!

I dozed-off on the couch while a boring tennis match was on TV, but the players woke me up with their noisy grunting. So I turned to the screen and shouted, "Hey! Keep the racket down!"

(Nick) recalls watching Nightmare on Elm Street as a kid. I felt struck with bad vibes by that Freddy Krueger guy right away. "I don't trust that fellow with the claw-hand," I told my siblings. "Maybe I just need to give him a chance, but then again, I'm pretty sure he's up to no good." I was right, of course, and ever since then, I have considered myself a capable judge of character.

Wait. So, Titanic was based on actual events but Independence Day WASN'T? Whoa! I've had that ass-backwards for YEARS...

At a certain point in a heat wave, you're just asking to be punched in the face for asking the question, "Hot enough for ya?!"

At work today, I thought I heard a flawed and absurd weather report on the radio ...but as it turns out, 97.7 FM was just playing "It's Raining Men."

I wonder how Fred Flinstone settled on the catch-phrase, "Yabba-dabba-Doo!" Why, that's nothing but caveman gibberish, if you ask me.

In the '60s, women used to burn bras. It was an act of liberation, I guess. Far out. If I had to burn an article of clothing to make a statement of some sort, I'd set some neck-ties ablaze. They don't really serve a purpose other than fulfilling loopy social norms about formality. If a man doesn't have a vertical strip of cloth tied around his neck, all-too-often he is considered a slob. It's senseless! Someday I'd like to torch a neck-tie.

A nihilist once asked me what time it was. I replied, "What the fuck do you care?”

Earth Day. The one day a year I feel bad about dumping grease from my George Foreman grill into the neighborhood creek.

It'd be funny if, underneath every Easter Bunny costume at the local shopping mall, was a Jesus lookalike. He could hand out toys and candy to kids, then remove his bunny head and say, "And don't forget about ME!"

A flurry of snow in mid-April is almost more incomprehensible than the lyrics to "Informer" by Snow. (People stuck in 1992 are sure to like this one.)

I love it when Piggly Wiggly has a sale on bacon because their cartoon pig logo is shown grinning and presenting a package of pork. He should have a word bubble that reads, "Eat my cousins. They're delicious!"

Apparently some Christians believe it's a sin to do yoga. This means the following conversation may have taken place in Hell: "What are you in for?" "Rape, Theft, and Murder. You?" "One-Legged King Pigeon Pose.”

All the Mollys have been Flogged. All the Murphys Have Been Dropkicked. St. Patrick's Day is over, but I'm looking forward to April Fool's Day. Spoiler alert: I'm going to fake my own death.

Thanks to everybody for the birthday greetings. Did you know March 6th is also Shaq O'Neal's birthday? I only mention it because Shaq and I are starring in a buddy-cop flick together this summer. (Working title: Alley-Oops!)

Today's top story: "Would-be Sniper Pleased by Early Spring, Spares Groundhog's Life." (February 2nd, 2010. Get it?)

There is no harsher weather forecast than "Bitter Cold." I wish the weathermen acted bitter when telling us to prepare for Bitter Cold. "This is George Graphos. You're gonna have a God-awful time driving to work in the Bitter Cold of this frozen wasteland, you scum-bags. Now here's a babbling jack-ass to tell you about high school sports. Yippee!"

Weathermen name winter storms, which means that if 15 winter storms occur in the same season, we could be hit by an actual Blizzard of Oz.

I celebrated the New Year by screaming, "I'll see you in hell, 2009!"

Have you seen the new AMC series The Killing? It's about the investigation of a sordid murder mystery, and although he has yet to be introduced as a character, I'm pretty sure O.J. did it.

Whenever I cash in a massive jar of spare change at the bank in exchange for dollar bills, I say to the bank teller, "It's time to turn these caterpillars into butterflies!"

"Too weird to live, too rare to die." I think of that Hunter Thompson quote every time I spot a bald guy sporting a pony-tail.

I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button in rewind so the story was more conventional.

(Nick) goes to Wal-mart whenever he needs to feel less ugly.

(Nick) is loyal to the people he cares about as long as they don't turn into zombies. If or when that horrific transformation happens, then I'll be the first to smash your noggin with a shovel.

White supremacists must have terrible Fantasy Football teams.

Here's my impression of a morbidly obese person venting angrily on Facebook: "Dambn thease styubby fringers of mi9ne!”

Look, Smokey the Bear, I realize that forest fires are terrible, but as far as this accusation goes that we're the only ones who can prevent forest fires, I'd like to see you bears step up your game, too.

Amelia Earhart? The Wright Brothers? Sure, they've got their perks, but the only aviator to make the bold career move into peddling frozen pizzas is the Red Baron. And that's why he's my favorite pilot.

(Nick) only juggles chainsaws when no one is watching.

What ever happened to the VH1 series Where Are They Now? The conundrum is: We have no way of knowing.

King--no, wait--Queen James is never going to win a championship. My hand-grenades and I are going to make sure of that.*

(Oops. I was supposed to omit that one. Oh, well. Standards have fallen.)

Anyway, here's the last one I posted: I came into this digital world in much the same way that I'm leaving it: With zero Facebook friends.

Twist ending! Sorry, Facebook, but I'll be taking my talents to the same remote cabin in the woods that was once inhabited by the Unabomber. There I will live in seclusion, grow a beard down to my chest, and vent a scathing manifesto about modern times...on Twitter.

*Kidding. Please don't try to murder Lebron James by throwing hand-grenades at him.

The Timecrowave Infomercial

Gather 'round, both of you. Nick is poised to preface another script from his past that he rediscovered in a desk drawer.

I spent much of the summer of '09 in Chicago, enrolled in a class at the Second City and writing scripts for a nascent webisode series called The Furries. A reductive description is along the lines of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia meets Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The premise was that a sleazy, ruined banker named Brendan lost his job and wife in the wake of the previous year's economic crisis. Forced to his rent-out his once-lavish apartment in order to make ends meet, three creatures move in—a squirrel, a bunny, and a bear. It remained a mystery, by design, whether they were humans in costumes or anthropomorphic animals.

The Furries had their own names, traits, and quirks, of course, but for my first treatment, I opted to focus on Brendan. He struck me as an embittered and remorseful character who would like nothing more than to relive his past in order to rectify the poor decisions he made. In a comedy with fantastical, sci-fi leanings, the ideal storyline for him involved time travel, naturally.

The ongoing, morbid gag, however, was that Brendan was doomed, that he could never overcome his past transgressions and return to the cushy lifestyle he once knew. Minus the charming mystery and redeeming qualities, I thought of Brendan as a socialite with swagger like Jay Gatspy who devolved into a slovenly loser like Al Bundy; his fate wasn't the sparsely attended funeral of Gatspy but rather a life of continual failure—and that was that.

With themes of dystopian technology and cruel fatalism, I decided that he should purchase a faulty time-machine from a shyster named Handsome Randy Carp—a kind of devil in disguise who behaved, yammered, and dressed like a smooth-peddling radio magnate from the 1920s. It was a fun challenge to write lines befitting of a sinister shill who makes esoteric references in outdated language.

The script went over well, long before the project petered out (as far as I know). The creator of the show—an eccentric 40-ish man with penchants for compassion and grandeur—asked me to write an infomercial to tie in with the story—a mock-promotion for the helmet-like device that made voyages to the past possible, The Timecrowave.*

I said yes and here it is.

###

EXT. BACK ALLEY – DAY

FRED carries a large disposal bag marked “Dead Rats.” He is understandably nonplussed by this activity. A cigarette dangles between his lips. He spots another carcass, gingerly bends over to pick it up, and lets out a grave sigh.

FRED: These lousy rat carcasses are everywhere. And who does the city pay minimum wage to clean 'em up? Me, that's who. For God's sake, I've got a degree in Communications and now I'm doing this for a living.

From a second floor balcony, a RUDE MAN turns over a garbage can stuffed with dead rats. A few of them bounce off of Fred's head and then plop onto the concrete.

RUDE MAN: Hey, chatty Cathy, I got some more rat carcasses for ya. Next time try majoring in something more useful, like Philosophy.

Repulsed and demeaned, Fred buckles his knees to scoop the latest batch into his disposal bag. HANDSOME RANDY CARP enters the scene, pushing a wooden wagon with squeaking wheels. Its load is box-shaped and concealed by a black cloth.

HANDSOME RANDY: Does the plight of this poor sap ring true for you? Have you found yourself stuck in a joyless existence, as forlorn as Herr Hitler the day his Aryan race was bested at the Olympics by the noble savages of Africa? If so, old Handsome Randy Carp has the solution for you.

FRED: A bottle of rat poison?

HANDSOME RANDY: Rat poison? Nay, perk your spirits, Hemingway; nary a soul fancies the company of a quitter, as the popular saying goes. What I've got for you is a doodad that can transport you into the past where you can make all the sound decisions you blundered years ago. Why, you can transmogrify from beggar to tycoon, Tom Joad to Mr. J.D. Rockefeller, with this wondrous contraption: The Timecrowave!

With brash showmanship, he pulls off the sheet to reveal his invention.

FRED: Timecrowave? Sounds ingenious. But how does it work?

EXT. STEEP HILL – DAY – CONTINUOUS

At the hill's apex, Handsome Randy stands beside his latest customer.

HANDSOME RANDY: Simply place this doohickey atop that noggin of yours, crony. Then press any odd day and time you like—say...August second, twenty-naught-one, when you made that odious choice to pursue the Telegraphy racket at the university. Next, shut the door of the Timecrowave and clod-hop down this hill quicker than Willaim H. Harrison's stint in the White House.

Fred obliges, but not without expressing misgivings. With his head stuck inside a microwave with a hole in its bottom, his trembling voice sounds in a muffled echo.

FRED: Isn't that dangerous?

HANDSOME RANDY: Jelly-necked cowards seem to think so. But just as picture-show star Marty McFly's time-auto won't work unless it speeds four-score and eight miles an hour, the Timecrowave won't conduct its abracadabra without the declination and acceleration offered by hoofing it down a steep hill. Now, off you skedaddle, Zelda.

With that he shoves Fred, who maintains a frantic and barely upright gait for a few strides before toppling over and tumbling Timecrowave-over-heels several times. He barrel-rolls twice, bashes his knees and hips in rapid succession, and mercifully approaches flat land. On the brink of nausea, he treacherously regains his footing, walks a few steps with aim akin to that of a demagnetized compass, and then collapses with a thud onto the grass.

HANDSOME RANDY: Wait for it...

Seconds later, Fred is consumed in a cloud of ashy and polluted smoke. Once it dissipates, his body has vanished.

HANDSOME RANDY: But our chum Fred isn't the only chap who's gone from philistine to phenom thanks to the Timecrowave. Have a look-see at these gratified patrons.

EXT. LAKE MICHIGAN BEACH-FRONT – DAY

Flanked by two buxom, bikini-clad WOMEN, CHUCK revels in the sunshine with his hands placed on the back of both ladies. He's in a neck brace and his face is severely bruised.

CHUCK: I went back in time and spent the money my past-self paid for my fat kid's braces on three hours with these high-class hookers. Thanks, Timecrowave!

INT. CASINO – SPORTS BETTING ROOM

His legs encased in rigid casts, BUCK grins broadly. He fingers a pile of loose change in his right hand. He sports a Lebron James jersey.

BUCK: I went back in time to bet my life-savings on King James and the Heat to beat the Mavs in last year's NBA Finals!

A nearby BOOKIE frowns, approaches Buck, and whispers into his ear. Buck's eyes bulge with sudden horror. He fumes and curses.

BUCK: Aw, son-of-a-bitch! Really? But they looked so good after game one...

EXT. GOLF COURSE – DAY

Fred has returned to the present, enfeebled by his nasty tumble, paralyzed below the neck and bound to a wheelchair. He speaks with the aid of a voice modulator a la Stephen Hawking.

FRED: Seeing the error of my ways, I traveled back to 2001, forgot to warn everyone about 9/11, and got paralyzed in the process. Since then, the scientific community assumes I'm a genius because of my stoic disposition and monotone speech. My proposed discovery of Alf's true home planet has generated shock waves in the field of astronomy. I consume two gallons of delicious orange Tang everyday and have learned to play games of Tetris with my tongue. I owe all this fortune to the Time, Time, Time...

The word repeats like a note of music from a broken record. A NURSE enters the scene to rap the malfunctioning modulator with her fist. When that does the trick, she promptly scoots off-screen.

FRED: ...Crowave.

EXT. STEEP HILL – DAY

Handsome Randy Carp poses with moxie. He cradles his diabolical product.

HANDSOME RANDY: Much obliged for the kind words, invalids. Now that your peepers have feasted on the splendorous effects of the Timecrowave, what's to stop you from purchasing one, viewer? Get off that ample keyster of yours and dial Handsome Randy on your rotary phone. Call within the next hour and I'll guess your body weight—free of charge. Bid good riddance to the present and give salutations to a sunnier future with the Timecrowave.

FADE OUT:



* While Google-searching “Timecrowave” for the hell of it, I discovered that Saturday Night Live featured a sketch about a product with the same name. Confoundedly enough, this is the second time I have written a piece I thought was original only to learn later on that—whether before or after the fact—SNL has done it, too. The other one, “Listen Drooly, I'm Going to Sue,” was about a dopey man who pursues legal action against a dog because of the animal's bad behavior. (The dog bit him but the man deserved it). Hmmm...Coincidence or fishiness? For now, it just feels like yet another kick to the creative nuts, but let me know if you spot a Lonely Island version of “Coach, the Short Story.” Together, we can take Lorne Michaels to court.