Nestled with Kooks (Book Sample)

http://www.lulu.com/shop/nick-olig/more-stories-and-additional-stories/paperback/product-23222168.html

          If nothing else, I was lucky to have been granted some spare time to read. Circumstances allowed me to neglect confounding accounts of Cinematography and lifeless books on Literary Theory in favor of a hefty collection of short stories. The stories were written by an author best known for his children's books, but this collection was for adults. I'd been brought to a place where grownups had no use for the farce found in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

          Then the snoring started. The din came from a drunk with mental problems who laid on a bed cocooned in blankets at the far end of the room. My back was turned to him in a futile denial of his existence when I looked up. I noticed an anomaly on the egg white walls, a curious smear of bright crimson, as though the wall too was embarrassed to be inside of a psych ward.

          My unwanted roommate had staggered into room 13 not long ago. He didn't notice me as he plopped onto his cot and hastily formed his cocoon. Then he was out. Now he was bellowing a snore that would pry my eyes open indefinitely. The drunk made strange and heinous noises, aural blends of lawn mowers and Whoopee cushions. Every nasal breath climaxed with a gurgling of saliva reminiscent of a gagging Mr. Coffee.

          I groaned as I peeled off layers of blankets and stepped out of bed. A rectangle of light guided me to the commons area. I walked past a skeletal weeping woman sitting at one of the tables. Wadded tissues were strewn before her—seemingly one for every painful memory she had. There was a mostly full box of Kleenex at the center of the crumpled satellites and I didn't want to know what she had stored in her mind. I sought the nurse at the front desk.

          “Hi,” I said. “Can I make a phone call?”

          The nurse turned away from her computer screen, revealing a kind but careworn face. The tribulations of the moment determined which of the two features would prevail, for her patience and her compassion were fated to duel forever. She was a lot like every other nurse in that regard.

          “It's almost one,” she said, pointing to the clock.

          I fidgeted and scratched my chin stubble.

          “Yeah, but this friend I want to call... He's a night owl. Like me.”

          The nurse rolled her glowing amber eyes.

          “He'll be up. Trust me,” I said.

          She wordlessly placed the phone onto the counter.

          “Thank you.”

          “You are to be on that phone no longer than five minutes,” she said.

          My friend was really more of a disgruntled acquaintance from college. He had reluctantly agreed to be my partner for our final project in Cinematography class. I knew nothing about the subject and I still don't. He was disgruntled because I wasn't fulfilling my end of the deal due to personal problems. He had problems of his own and still does, I'd imagine—only he's the type with a knack for avoiding the psych ward.

         

          We share the same first name, so when he answered on the second ring, our conversation became like an absurdist psychodrama.

          “Nick!” I said. “Man, I'm sorry to tell you this—and this is seriously not a sick prank—but I'm in a mental hospital right now, so you might have to do that final project with the lenses and the filters and whatnot without me. Again, I'm so sorry, Nick.”

          There was a long pause. I got the nurse's attention and nodded triumphantly while I pointed at the receiver to show that I was right. She was not amused or interested.

          “Are you OK, Nick?” the voice said at last.

          “Not really. I'll level with you: there were some dark and depressing things I said and did recently. But if you could let Professor Porter know about the situation, I'd really appreciate it, Nick.”

          “Jesus, Nick...”

          I imagined him yanking a handful of his Lego-man hair and scraping his fingernails against his beard while I grated my scruff. Though I could not commit to a beard at the time, or life or death, both Nicks had that scraping and grating of facial hair in common.

          “I will be the messenger,” he went on, “But school is probably not the main thing you need to concern yourself with, OK? You have to get well, and if you're where you feel like you need to be right now, it's good that you checked yourself in, Nick.”

          “Ooh,” I countered. “Technically, I didn't check myself in, to be clear... But thanks for being cool about this—uh—misfortune, Nick.”

          “Look,” he said with a sigh. “Don't worry about school. Try not to worry, Nick.”

          “That's good advice,” I said with a shrug. “All right, I'll probably see you later, Nick.”

          “Goodbye, Nick,” Nick said.

          I hung up. Another nurse had approached the one behind the counter.

          “It's Karen,” the other nurse said ruefully. “She's been handling her own crap in the toilet again.”

          A textbook case of Turd-grope-engitis, I surmised.

          “You've got to be kidding me,” her colleague replied.

          Nurses say that all the time.

          They vented their dismay while I stood there. Then the nurses resumed their professional train of thought.

          “If she does that again, we'll have to put her in restraints.”

          “Agreed. She's too much of a sanitation risk, otherwise.”

          “Excuse me,” I hazarded. “There's a guy in my room and he's snoring—I mean, really loudly.”

          “We can hear that,” said the first nurse.

          “Yeah... So, do you have something to help with that?”

          She tugged open a drawer, reached inside, and slapped a tiny package of cheap earplugs onto the counter. I was really hoping she'd give me garrote wire. I nodded somberly and slinked back to room 13. Between curtains of oily blond hair, the woman with tissues to match her memories wept.

          Doodoo-fondle-itis? I thought, still pondering Karen's ailment. No. Turd-grope-engitis is better.

          My slender frame battled against my roommate's breathy sonic booms and I crawled into bed. With tremulous hands, I opened the tiny package. The earplugs did nothing.

So It's Come to This: Author Self-Interviews

Short of roaming the streets, hollering through a megaphone—which is really more of a summer activity—there is little I won't do to promote a book I wrote. When I relayed this sentiment to my editor at Scene, his response was unexpected. In essence, he said, “Go interview yourself.” I took that as a positive since there were worse words he could have used in place of “interview.”

Since I self-published More Stories, and Additional Stories, I suppose the next logical step in publicity is to self-interview. Right?! Honestly, I'm just trying to figure life out as I go along.

Now, before readers lose their patience and dare me to do something to myself that has nothing to do with interviewing, it’s worth noting that before I begrudgingly settled for me, the top three Q & A maestros I had in mind were Oprah, Conan, and my own mother. All three declined and threatened a lawsuit if I ever called them again. I kid! She is a truly amazing woman worthy of infinite gratitude... and now that I think of it, the same goes for my mom.

My fourth choice was, at least, willing to talk to me—and so here we go.

N.O. 1: Thanks for setting aside an hour or so to do this interview.

N.O. 2: You're welcome. Once we realized that we both have Wednesday nights free, the puzzle pieces just sort of fell in place.

N.O. 1: Let's get down to brass tacks, Nick. To promote More Stories, and Additional Stories, is there some kind of an ugly jumble of letters that can be put on this page, newspaper or otherwise?

N.O. 2: I'm so glad you asked that question. Yes. http://www.amazon.com/More-Stories-Additional-Nick-Olig-ebook/dp/B00PJB4XPS

N.O. 1: Whoa! It looks like the alphabet got into a car wreck and then staggered out, spewing characters.

N.O. 2: I never thought of it that way...

N.O. 1: Do you remember stuff about the book that you could—oh, I don't know... maybe describe to people?

N.O. 2: Definitely. It's a collection of funny short stories, loosely formatted like a newspaper. That means it's sectioned into topics one might find in a newspaper: Top Stories, Entertainment, Local News, Opinion, Personal Ads, Obituary, and Bottom Stories. And within every chapter, I'm mostly trying to get laughs, but a lot of sincere emotions and revelatory thoughts went into the book as well, and so everyone who reads the book will ideally laugh, think, and have their emotions moved. In a quirky way, the book was partially inspired by Jim Valvano’s “Don’t ever give up” speech.

N.O. 1: I'm sorry man, but what the hell kind of a summary is that?

N.0. 2: Well, there are 34 different stories (plus a foreword by my editor, Tyler Maas, who was incredibly helpful throughout the process), and each story has its own summary, so that's where it gets tricky to summarize everything. I can give you examples, though. “The Cat Lady and the Munsons,” one of the Top Stories, is about childhood adventures, sneaking into the soon-to-be condemned house of a mythical cat lady in my best friend's neighborhood, having slam dunk contests on an adjustable hoop with mini-basketballs, and staging X-Men battles at the park, pretending to be superheroes alongside the incorrigible Munsons, who really set the bar high when it came to bad behavior.

N.O. 1: I trust you just a little bit more. Go on...

N.O. 2: In the Entertainment section, I deliver stories about TV shows, movies, and popular music. There's one called “Billy Joel Is My Generation's Dad,” which I like to think is a pretty self-explanatory title for the children of Baby Boomers. Local News shows my fondness for the kind of fake news one gets from The Onion or Weekend Update. I included a story about a vacuum cleaner outlet going out of business. During his final commercial, the owner laments that he just wanted to compete with Dirt Devil, which isn't necessarily a bad idea, only he misguidedly named his vacuum line Soil Satan, and his store became swarmed with Satanists and Christians protesting each other.

N.O. 1: Whoa. I like it but it sounds pretty bonkers. Maybe dial down the crazy a tad.

N.O. 2: Sure. Admittedly, I do have some satirical, offbeat tendencies, but redemption is very important to me as well. I write a couple kooky yet heartfelt letters to my three-year-old nephew, explaining to him the realities of Santa and the plight of the Chicago Cubs. Another one, “The Mario 2 Outlook,” gets goofy-philosophical and explains why daydreamers and misfits have long-preferred Mario 2 to its more popular counterparts for the Nintendo. “The Appendix Is a Lazy Psycho” is in there because the vermiform appendix needs to be protested. Finally, the Bottom Stories are the most personal and vulnerable pieces I’ve done so far. That’s part of the reason why I originally wanted Oprah to be on the other side of this interview.

N.O. 1: Well, we’re stuck with each other, so deal with it. This is better than nothing, right?

N.O. 2: That’s true! And it’s a nice segue to an endearing theme of the book: Something is better than nothing. So, learn to love something, because nothing is for nihilists, and nobody is worse than a nihilist. In the Bottom Stories, especially, I wanted to acknowledge all the heartache and resentment in this world, and still affirm that it’s all completely, 100% worth the trouble.

N.O. 1: That’s beautiful. You know, at first I thought you were a flaky smartass, but I’ve warmed up to you—so much so that I’m going to try to set you up on a hot date.

N.O. 2: Awesome. I’ll shower and brush my teeth and be polite and everything. But I should pass along that if she hates The Simpsons, then there’s a good chance the date would be doomed. 

What We Talk About In Case We Ever Start Talking about More Stories, and Additional Stories

There aren't many happenings that incite me yank out clumps of my own hair and scream, "These deals are INSANE!" like some shill from QVC, but get a load of this: a Kindle app can easily be procured on newfangled smartphones ranging from the iPhone to (I forget their competitors but I'm pretty sure those indestructible Nokias from 2002 are out of the running).

http://www.amazon.com/More-Stories-Additional-Nick-Olig-ebook/dp/B00PJB4XPS

I should have brought a celebrity on-board to help me peddle this product. Did you know "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan made an appearance in Fond du Lac, WI, recently? Was it for purposes of wrestling, brandishing a 2 x 4, and promoting the Stars and Stripes? You're damn right, it was. And I didn't even think to kidnap him by leading a trail of rare Bald Eagle coins and steroids into a commandeered van. Idiot! My next opportunity won't arrive until county fair/Walleye Weekend season, summer 2015, when my options will be limited to the drummer from Whitesnake and that regionally semi-famous carnie known for his ability to go down on himself.

Anyway! I guess I have to steamroll ahead on my own. My eBook is titled More Stories, and Additional Stories. You want more reasons to buy it already? Damn. It's never easy.

Well, for starters, I've had an inclination for writing comical stories since I was in grade school. From that time to high school, through college when I got my first paychecks for winning contests and contributing to my college's newspaper, continuing into a post-college era in which I've freelanced and published a rookie effort (There Will be Blog), and enduring into my late 20's and beyond when I finished a much better second book, I have always been improving and borderline freaking obsessed with writing funny material. It's both leisure and work to me, and I love the challenges. Basically anytime I check my account balance or hear somebody nonchalantly saying they never read (which sometimes elicits a high five), I am reminded of those challenges I have forced myself to love.

Do you want me to rip out more clumps of my already depleting hair to get you to purchase something that clearly has less value than paying your multitude of bills or buying groceries and meth? Phew! OK, here are some more words. Holy pot of coffee, this calls for a breakdown of all 34 chapters.

Top Stories: Narratives, two-thirds of which relay personal calamity and nostalgia, 33.3 repeating percent of which are impersonal, outrageous farces.

1.) The Cat Lady and the Munsons: I reminisce about childhood visits to my friend Willy's neighborhood, which were immortalized by the titular characters: a decrepit old woman who supposedly shunned the material wealth she inherited in favor of crashing in her dingy garage and surrendering her house to feral felines and secondly, an endearingly white trash family (in memories, anyway) known for stealing Hi-C juiceboxes straight from the factory and devoting Friday nights to watching murder-porn.

2.) The Knife Salesman: Mired in an employment slump I thought college graduates were supposed to be immune to, I venture on a Greyhound bus south to Chicago for a job interview at Pierce Marketing, a company that sells knives. During a demonstration at headquarters, surrounded by a younger and equally desperate crowd, I realize I'm basically part of an infomercial hustle. The prospect slowly devolves into an obvious scam and I'm left to crack disillusioned jokes and explore my big city dreams (mostly in my mind).

3.) April Fool's Day: As the proud possessor of a job, albeit a crummy one that was teetering on bankruptcy, and a revamped interest in women--especially the ones out of my league--I scheme to move out of my parents' house by asking a friend if I can move into his house. He says yes. What could go wrong? Is it remotely possible my friend's bachelor status could change within a 72-hour time span in which he agreed to also let his new girlfriend and her baby stay at his modestly sized house too, and that I would have no idea this was going to happen, but I'd find out on April Fool's Day? You bet. I have a knack for finding myself in comedyz of errorzzz.

(I've never cared for Spellcheck when I was trying to prove a point.)

4.) Coach, The Short Story: For the first time in this collection, I check myself out of the action, probably watching the proceedings from the penalty box. This story is about actor Craig T. Nelson's trip to the Daytona 500. The star of Coach encounters Mike, an awestruck fan whose vocabulary becomes shockingly limited in the presence of his idol. The two become fast friends and the friendship quickly leads somewhere a bit more R-rated than friendship. Whether that "R" stands for "Romance" or "Regret" is up to the reader to discover.

5.) White Knows Candy: An affable yet naive candy shop owner named Skip White finds himself embroiled in a local controversy in the wake of the slogan he expresses in his TV commercial: "White Knows Candy!" Though the third-person-speaking White has no comprehension of cocaine-lingo, he is forced to defend himself on Hard Focus, a local news expose replete with a conniving host, a moral crusader, a disgruntled coke-head, and a comedy legend who got defamed about a week before I released my second book. Nice timing, Cosby!

6.) Hammer Plays Monopoly: Intertwining personal and impersonal narratives, I play a game of Super Monopoly with my two best friends--only I imagine myself in the role of MC Hammer, living large (at first), then haplessly overspending and making poor investment choices and agreeing to property trades sure to haunt Nick as Hammer as he nosedives into bankruptcy in a three-act tragicomedy.

Entertainment: A nice jumble of impersonal and personal topical pieces about television, movies, and music--starring the Ultimate Warrior, Batman, Billy Joel, and Brian Wilson (the new face of Mount Rushmore?)--with a lot of narrative structure.

7.) Pitches for Reality Shows: Yes, I know my enemy, as the Rage song goes, and for a writer in a prolonged audition period, the popularity of stupid reality shows (I'm leaving out Cops but that's about it) is a source of frustration. Thankfully, revenge comes easily, if not profitably, since those stupid reality shows are incredibly easy to ridicule. I devise three of the monsters, getting into the minds of three men who offer pitches to once-respected cable channels. "Loose Cannons in Cleveland," for one, expresses the appeal of Hal Galboni, a brash and uncontrollable cop who gets transferred to Cleveland as part of the new "Loose Cannon Exchange Program," in which all of America's aspiring Dirty Harry's are traded for mild-mannered cops to the city LeBron makes famous.

8.) When Jersey Shore Ruined Fist Pumps: A couple years after I started a blog, this one, Jersey Shore became a phenomenon more readily associated with fist pumps than I am. Now, that was a perfect shit-storm for some South Park reminiscent, ruthless comedy vengeance, so I envision how quickly those sleazy oxygen-wasters would be torn apart in the "so popular I should never do this again" zombie apocalypse hypothetical. For good measure, I include myself in such a cataclysmic SITUATION (see what I did there... huuuhhh?!), and my plight becomes unwillingly similar to the cast of that program my friends should be embarrassed to have watched.

9.) Ultimate's Upbringing in Parts Unknown: Included in the beginning is an email I wrote to the then-living wrestling legend, to which Mr. Warrior replied, and I'll always be grateful for that gesture. That intro segues into an overview of what his formative years must have been like in the fantastically kooky town of Parts Unknown, from where the Ultimate Warrior claimed he hailed.

10.) A Slow Night in Gotham City: Eschewing epic bouts with the likes of Bane, I picture Batman during a surprisingly innocuous shift in which he busts some "baby-faced burners" smoking pot behind a gas station and fails to bring to justice The Littering Menace.

11.) Bad Zombies vs. Worse Zombies: In this more scholarly but still funny essay, our new-found cultural interest in the undead is explored retrospectively in a breakdown of The Return of the Living Dead, known for its intelligent corpses who are invulnerable to brain bashing. An indie horror filmmaker I know from college said he really liked it, so you know it's legit.

12.) Billy Joel Is My Generation's Dad: To the children of Baby Boomers, I have found this title to be completely true. The Piano Man has so much to teach about the human capacity for both greatness and embarrassing crap. He is portrayed in the story as an every man Boomer Dad at various points in his life, beginning with the startling promise of the aforementioned "Piano Man" through his fleeting years as an awesome husband in "Just the Way You Are" to his gut-wrenching infidelity in "A Matter of Trust," with a conclusive "River of Dreams" hint at redemption.

13.) Brian Wilson's Sgt. Pepper Journal: Also a narrative about a fascinating rock star, this chapter imagines the journal entries the Beach Boys visionary wrote while listening to The Beatles psychedelic foray with a head swelling with acid. The account of Wilson reducing his boundless talent within the four creeping walls of a drug-fueled shut-in continues the book's recurring trend of providing pathos in unexpected moments... between jokes, of course.

14.) The Danger Zone Mix: Having watched Top Gun the night before, musings about "The Danger Zone" expressed by Kenny Loggins are fresh in my off-kilter mind during a lengthy conversation I have with my friend Willy. With me spearheading the subject, we cover what kind of vehicle we'd want to drive on the highway to the Danger Zone, ponder what monstrosities lurk in such a perilous place, and discuss which songs we'd like to listen to on the way there.

15.) We're an American Band, For What It's Worth: In this ambitious essay with some narrative elements, I hike up my rock 'n' roll nerd suspenders and get down to the sordid business of best identifying America's most accomplished answer to The Beatles, or greatest band. It's arduous, maddening, and everyone who responds to my big question disagrees. Some people downright hate the idea. But I power through the A-side and work out a decent compromise on side-B, a deeply controversial (to those with rock 'n' roll suspenders) lineup of America's most superlative bands, formatted like a baseball lineup

Local News: Impersonal accounts not unlike the fake news in the general style of the detached smart-ass material you might have read in The Onion, only I introduce them all in my own voice to prove maybe I'm not a total lunatic for doing this.

16.) The Soil Satan Goes out of Business: Founded by Vince Wally Vincent, whose viewpoint is expressed in the filming of the commercial for his going-out-of-business sale, the Soil Satan, which was meant to be a clever display of oneupsmanship to that other vacuum company, the Dirt Devil. Sadly, the Soil Satan outlet quickly became the battle grounds of raging Satanists and protesting Christians. They engulfed the store in turmoil, and while engulfed, few purchased vacuums. VW Vincent tells the world what else went wrong with his Soil Satan venture and drunkenly ponders his future as a brick is hurled through the window.

17.) Grunk Gets Ink Done: After leaving a heavy metal concert, the main character Grunk (I never got his birth certificate) has dragged his girlfriend to a 24-hour tattoo parlor in downtown Chicago. In his pretentious and indecent bluster, Grunk rambles on about the various images he might want etched into his flesh forever, which include remarkable visions like a Ford peeing on Calvin as he pees on a Chevy.

18.) Bitch Objects to being Called a Ho: Filming of a rap video goes awry when the MC, Choco Ballz, mistakenly refers to one of the bitches as a ho. The bitch mistaken for a ho, Bajama Jones, unleashes an attack on the rapper for his faux pas, and rookie rap video director Jake Hostetler, a Northwestern film grad, simply lacks the savvy and street cred to control the situation. It's a sad day for not only bitches, but hoes as well.

Sports: When I'm beside a TV, there is always a portion of my brain that is wishing I was watching Sports Center. Using a lot of jokes, my fondness for baseball, football, and basketball are expressed, as are some thoughts on pro wrestling. (Because pro wrestling has a sense of humor, and I honestly do like it more than soccer.) If you're absolutely not into sports whatsoever but you'd still care to read the rest of More Stories, and Additional Stories, by all means, skip around, and demand that I owe you $.50 the next time I see you.

19.) Sportsball Entertainment: I explore the trend of more-mainstream and legitimate sports leagues like the NFL, the NBA, and Major League Baseball becoming so dubious and sketchy that it's possible to compare them to pro wrestling. Brett Favre's NFL career was basically a pro wrestling character arc, for instance. The NFL's short-lived replacement refs of 2012 may have been WWE transplants. Steroids and NBA refs convicted for fixing games are other parallels cited in this essay that's mostly for just fun but does have its genuine moments of sports-disillusionment... But IT'S STILL REAL TO ME, DAMMIT!

(Sorry. I had to. Inside joke.)

20.) Nobody Brought a Football: With a huge shift in tone, this story is a total farce and can be appreciated by anyone who has seen a car dealership commercial starring a regional football star and noticed that A.) the football player is a lousy actor who reads hackneyed lines, and B.) the football player is invariably brandishing a football. Moments before filming such an ad, Brock Walton, the vile and foul-mouthed star, demands that a football be brought to him, and when the production assistants are slow to produce one, the lineman launches into a tirade and berates the pigskin-forgetting crew.

21.) The Day Job Basketball League: In response to the naysayers of the NBA who claim the Association is bunk even though it's played by some of the best athletes on the planet, I provide a proposal for a league composed of teams with regular jobs such as barber, janitor, and police officer. The strengths and weaknesses of said vocation-teams are covered, like the Migrant Workers' ability to endure for 48 minutes and three overtimes without keeling over and the Painters' dependence on ladders to reach high elevations.

22.) Cubs Fan's Plea to Nephew: In spite of the fact that Teddy Roosevelt was the president when the Cubs last won the World Series, I offer my baby nephew reasons why he should cheer for them. I sentimentally interweave a story about my mom recovering from a stroke at the same hospital when my nephew was born and ask him to consider lessons about hope and perseverance.

Opinion: Specific outlooks on a range of topics are expressed by me or a character in the deranged form of an Opinion column in the newspaper.

23.) The Appendix Is a Lazy Psycho: I vent my frustration with the vermiform appendix, truly our most useless organ, and if that wasn't bad enough, that squirmy freeloader also has violent impulses that can manifest in a dreaded appendicitis--the messenger of death of Oregon Trail infamy.

24.) Down with Santa: My denouncement of the odd tradition we have of lying to kids in order to commercialize Christmas and later disenchant them with the truth culminates in a letter to be given to my nephew when the time comes to break the Santa-news. In this letter, I apologize for all the other lies, including the one about Uncle Nick owning a Gumdrop Hovercraft that would disappear whenever he said the magic words

25.) Phony Write-in Candidates Are No Joke: My personal regret for voting for write-in candidates with obscene names segues into a letter written by (fictitious) guidance counselor from high school. Mr. Dinkle oversaw many elections for class government tainted by the "not-at-all-funny" likes of LeBong James, Nelly Fartado, and Mike Hawk.

26.) Porn Parody Titles Are a Serious Problem: I relay a personal story about passing written tests and shining in two interviews only to be denied acceptance for a job at Family Video, which segues to me consulting with the returning Mr. Dinkle for words of encouragement. He explains why an upstanding young man like me should be thankful about the rejection since Family Video has warranted his scorn for renting dirty movies to his teenage son. The atrocities wrought by the video store and its offerings of Ho Malone and RoboCock  are decried in absurd fashion by a righteously misguided Mr. D.

Personal Ads: Quirks more so than opinions of mine about how I relate to the world around me are mused on with humor, thought, and emotion.

27.) The Mario 2 Outlook: Using the iconography of Mario as a backdrop, I argue for the merits of 2 over its more popular bookends 1 and 3. But this piece is really about the personality traits we can discern from someone based on what their favorite Mario-for-Nintendo game is. I make a heartfelt case for the Mario 2 personality, because it recognizes misfits, teamwork, variety, democracy, strengths and weaknesses of character, levitating princesses, no time deadlines, bottles of potion we can smash to open a door to a new dimension, and in the end, it was a lot of fun but we find out it was only a dream.

28.) Online Dating Misadventures: With that good old "laugh at my pain" sentiment, I cover the longing for company that comes to single folks on Valentine's Day, and that transitions into me exploring dating sites in frivolous, haphazard fashion. Christian Mingle is ruled out because I don't want to date some dude named Christian.

29.) Fear of Motorcycles: A narrative thread of my time in Chicago resurfaces (before the big finish in the Windy City), as I recall how much a former roommate of mine swooned for men on motorcycles. Personally, I hate motorcycles 'cause they're so damn loud and dangerous, but ultimately, I acknowledge that it's the sexual appeal of a Son of Anarchy that really irks me (since that's the opposite of me and I would prefer to do the deed more often). Both motorcycles and Nick are torn apart and recycled for parts.

30.) Too Sad to Dance: The woeful history of my dance moves is chronicled, starting with shoddy performances in junior high but improving (slightly) to attentive-yet-sometimes-rhythmless cover band follower to capable-enough-to-earn-some-post-reception-smooching-on-a-party-bus level. My description of the ageless and lovely tradition of shaking your booty and meaning it at a wedding reception is a redeeming way to offset that occasional and haunting feeling I get that I'm simply too sad to dance.

31.) Blow Sucks: I compare and contrast alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine, and conclude that it doesn't take a genius to determine that cocaine is the worst by far. It's a horrible drug and an easy PSA with jokes. I explain the logistics of importing and exporting through our orifices and deem the nose a bad importer, ramble how the differences between a weed movie like Half-Baked and a coke movie like Scarface CLEARLY favor the former, and spin a little narrative reflection at the conclusion.

Obituary: You recall that "Nick is dead" craze that thrilled roughly forty people until they realized it was only a hoax? Well, maybe this is what gave them the wrong idea.

32.) My Dumb Eulogy: In the preface, I reason that I'll soon be delving into darker territory regarding death--yes, harmless death--and offer an account of how I think my eulogy would read many years from now (provided the robotic eulogizer lies a lot).

Bottom Stories: The most personal, best, darkest but I'm still cracking jokes, darkest but sometimes I don't even crack jokes, and painful but totally worth it stories I've done so far.

33.) Nestled with Kooks: When I was 23 and on the cusp of graduation college, a mental breakdown that had been building for a while culminated in regrettable (yet ultimately just sad) behavior that led me to a two-week internment in a mental hospital. I encounter a fellow-patient with terrible bathroom etiquette, a paranoid schizophrenic with a heart of gold (and a mind that might as well have been protected by a tinfoil helmet), and visit with friends and family who eventually provoke me to spill my guts about what torments me most in this life.

34.) Love and Dread in Chicago: Back in the 2nd City, I've found the closest thing I've ever had to true love luring me into a bedroom in her bra and panties, only Maggie and I get interrupted. By a wide array of problems that I have either caused or seemingly been cursed with. I see no solutions. But in the end, I see otherwise--or at least, I still see no solutions, but that's beside the point.

Did you make it this far? HOLY FUCK! High five. Please buy More Stories, and Additional Stories--or if you don't, then just force 20 people to do it instead.

Thanks!

My Dumb Eulogy (More Stories and Additional Stories version)

^ This is a decent picture of me. Much better than the ones that have captured me: 1.) upchucking on that poor dog, 2.) chasing a rolling quarter into the oncoming traffic of a NASCAR race, and 3.) spray-painting "overrated" on the tombstone of William Shakespeare. Many, many years from now, I hope I'm remembered for a picture like this, and that you disregard all the bad pictures of me, such as visual evidence of 4.) the time I shoved all those kids out of the way so I could be the first one to order ice cream from the truck.

I feel that creative writing is an honest way to make a living even though it still feels like robbing a casino—and perhaps not getting away with it as the crew from Ocean's Eleven did. With that stated, my second collection of short writings, More Stories and Additional Stories, should be available as a reasonably priced eBook by the time you read this. I don't where I get the audacity to keep trying, but I kind of like it.

Since I loosely formatted the whole thing like a newspaper—with sections for top stories, local news, entertainment, sports, and so forth—this story fulfills the obituary portion, toward the book's conclusion, which comes just before the deeply personal and painful-yet-funny “bottom stories.”

And don't fret about the title of this story. I'm not dead—not yet, anyway, and for that reason, we all owe it ourselves to never give up on the people and causes that matter to us. Anyway, here's “My Dumb Eulogy.”

The year was 1982. A young MTV shockingly aired music-related programming. Ronald Reagan led the country on an outrageous roller coaster ride of ultra-conservatism. And a man and a woman had some baby-makin' sex. Their names need not be mentioned, but the youngest child of Mr. and Mrs. Olig turned out to be the greatest human being of all time.

The talented visionary showed verbal promise at an early age. His first outburst of communication was not a mere word but an elaborate sentence: “Whoa, Jesus, Mary, and the Holy Ghost, I'm lugging around a 10-pound load of crap here; somebody wanna change me or what?!”

In 1987, he became the youngest person ever to be shot out of a cannon through a series of blazing rings. His parents would later apologize for the reckless act.

At age nine, Nick won the Nobel Prize for coming up with conclusive evidence that Spiderman could indeed beat Batman in a fight.

On his graduation day, he solidified his reputation as class clown by accepting his diploma, pulling out a toy gun from under his gown, and pointing it at the principal before declaring, “JUST KIDDING!” He pulled the trigger and a small banner unfurled from the barrel which read, “School Pride.”

Nick's legacy of peace and nonviolence was firmly established at age 22 when he pummeled Saddam Hussein in a steel cage wrestling match.

The following year Nick made the move to New York and won a Tony Award for his stirring performance in the musical adaptation of the Jamie Foxx tour de force Booty Call.

He made his contribution to the world of science by renaming that hanging ball in the back of the throat to something plain and easier to remember. Since then, it has been called the “Chankakitanuevenhoto,” the Cherokee word for “simple.”

Before game 7 of the 2017 World Series, Nick was so determined to see his beloved Cubs win that he knocked out, gagged, and stole the uniform of the Yankees' center fielder in an effort to sabotage the opposing team. Incredibly, nobody detected his ruse, but he accidentally hit three home runs and the Cubs lost.

It was Nick who finally solved the gas crisis when he discovered “Oligass” on Mars. The substance polluted three times worse than regular gas and cost an overwhelming $40 per gallon.

In 2026, he was stricken with a rare terminal illness that he contracted by sharing close quarters with Wookies. When asked by a reporter at a press conference if the doctors had found an effective treatment, a surly Olig replied, “Yeah, it's in my pants, jackass.” Scientists were so impressed by the witty response that they rallied and worked tirelessly for two months until they discovered the cure.

Nick is probably best remembered for what he did on that fateful day on December 2^nd, 2029. A man claiming to be Jesus Christ came back to earth to judge the living and the dead. It was Nick who boldly put the man in a headlock, tore off his mask, and revealed that it was only the prop comic Carrot Top starved for attention.

The blue-eyed visionary once convinced his good friend Swinkle to stop drinking Mountain Dew for Lent. When asked about this period of temperance today, an emotional Swinkle acknowledged those six weeks as the most agonizing and pointless of his entire life.

Always a rascal, Nick once “hacked” into the opened Facebook account of his friend Willy while he was away from his laptop. “Van Halen is lame,” the rascal wrote, “But I sure do love me some Van HAGAR!” When Willy returned from the bathroom, he spotted the fraudulent post and was immediately overcome with rage. He Superman-tackled Nick through the living room window onto a pricker bush. The fallout persisted and the two refused to speak to each other for decades. A month ago, when Nick and Willy crossed paths at a benefit concert to protest the controversial Genocide of the Gingers, the pair finally reconciled. “You'll always be my best friend and I love you,” Willy told the departed. He then added, “Even though it's a dick-move to misrepresent a man's feelings about Van Halen.”

At age 50, Nick deemed the phrase “drunk as a skunk” inaccurate since skunks don't traditionally consume alcohol. He explained, “Skunks actually prefer the dizzying highs of sweet, sweet crack.”

A cleaned up and sober Olig opened a daring-yet-effective rehab center at the age of 56. The program actually allowed patients to drink booze, but the liquor was only available in a room haunted by the chattering ghost of Joan Rivers.

Toward the end of his life, Nick successfully argued to atheists worldwide that since they believe in intangible things that can't be scientifically quantified—entities such as love, hope, dignity, and so forth—they should at least acknowledge the possibility that another intangibility, God, can rightfully be believed in as well. Later that day, he also convinced pious people everywhere that since the message of God is subject to the prophets and all human beings are flawed, the true message of God will inevitably include some errors, and therefore, no religious ideology is going to be 100% correct. At the conclusion of that monumental Thursday, spiritual and secular harmony was achieved for everyone. Except the Scientologists. Nick and everyone else still considered them a bunch of shameless creeps.

On June 8, 2045, Nicholas John Olig was tragically killed. With a hairdryer in hand, he plunged into the bathtub in a misguided attempt to blow Bubbles. He is survived by two brothers, a sister, six elated ex-wives, an attic full of old nudie magazines, and a robot who mostly just farts. He is not survived by his mysterious companion Rodrigo Bubbles.

I am that aforementioned robot, of course. And thank you all for keeping your composure during this eulogy in spite of all the farts I have been programmed to expel.

As I look into the vast sea of tears before me—excluding the ex-wives—I can only hope Nick's words of wisdom may console you.

“Yeah, it's in my pants, jackass.”

Sure it is, pal. Sure it is. Rest peacefully, little guy...

Now who's up for some space-wings at the Hooter's on the moon?