The Knife Salesman

From the I-pod we hear Bono’s voice mourning, “The more I see, the less I know.” While I’m filling out my personal info on a job application for Vector Marketing, it strikes me that the Red Hot Chili Peppers expressed that very same sentiment in their song “Snow.” For a moment my thoughts are amiss, trying to figure out which song was released first, who ripped-off who. Then it occurs to me that the “originator” probably just paraphrased a well-known adage I’ve never heard of. I return my focus to the application in front of me.

There are almost twenty of us crammed into this small, white room at Vector Marketing headquarters in a suburb just north of Chicago. Chicago is where I want to live again, the fear and paranoia have ebbed and the regret has set in. Writing is what I want to do, but even the best aren’t likely to make a living doing it until middle-age. Selling knives to potential buyers in their homes is not something I yearn to do, but the ad on Career Builder vowed that this place pays $18 per hour. I am skeptic about selling knives door-to-door, but this business is only ten minutes outside of Chicago, accessible by public transportation, and it pays well, so I am willing to listen to what the recruiter has to say about CUTCO brand knives and the (wink-wink) opportunities Vector has to offer.

The applicants are not allowed to talk to one another, possibly because the recruiters sense that scams are more quickly unearthed in a sociable group. Conversation leads to speculation. As I glance around the room, I realize that at age 25, I’m one of the oldest people in attendance. I wonder how many people in this room, the recruiter who included U2 on his shuffle mix and myself excluded, can name five songs by the savior –rock quartet from Dublin. I guess two, then remember the application I have been neglecting.

As it turns out, the application hardly matters. When I first entered the headquarters of Vector Marketing, a minute or two late because of the lack of leeway I allow for delays in the Chicago Transit Authority, I was handed an application by a strikingly gorgeous secretary and ushered into the presentation room. I hadn’t even reached the past employment portion when I was called into the manager’s office for an interview. When I explained that I wasn’t quite finished with my application, he assures me it’s no big deal, as if applications for this job are as unneeded as name-tags for the cows at a slaughterhouse.

He reads what I have completed on the application, which might as well have read, “Name: Nicholas John Oli.” He seems distracted while I tell him about my Communications degree and—although it bares no relevance here—my work at the college newspaper and public access television. It’s as if my words are being drowned out by the chunky riff from “Even Better Than the Real Thing” at a U2 concert and all he can think about is stealing the secretary away to the men’s bathroom before the start of the first encore. After a minute or two of jabbering about my moot accomplishments, he decides the interview has run its course and he tells me to return to the room with all the other applicants.



When the presentation starts, we are finally allowed to speak, but only in response to the questions the hiring manager is asking us. The questions seldom require a thoughtful response; we are expected to supply answers merely to prove we are not timid wallflowers incapable of naming two words that rhyme with “knife.”

The hiring manager looks like a model for Axe body wash. He asks if anyone has a penny and when the group is slow to produce one, he remarks, “No one has a penny? I guess you really are poor college students.”

But we’re not all poor college students. Some of us are poor college graduates.

His comment induces a laugh from the group, and even though I know most of the kids who say yes to a job offer will be slighted and exploited, I laugh, too. To prove that I can handle a playful ribbing from one of the Corporate Bros. Later that night, sleeplessly lying supine on the couch at my friends Chris and Mike’s apartment, I will scold myself for snorting at the Axe model’s wisecrack.

When someone finally gives him a penny, he proceeds to peel its perforated edge as testament to the sharpness of CUTCO-brand knives. He has done this many times before and the demonstration is fairly impressive. We react like the audience in an infomercial, some of us rubbing our eyes in gaudy disbelief, others mouthing the words, “Holy Mary Mother of God.” We’re quietly awed, because we all need jobs.

I am jotting notes and raising my hand to answer an occasional question even though I know I’d be a stooge to work for Vector Marketing. Here is a sample of the notes I wrote down.

“CUTCO knives stay sharp for 7-10 yrs. Cutting edges are between the points, not on the points. Knives can be sold individually or in a set. Extendable flaying knife for the fisherman.”

“Representatives are given $540 worth of CUTCO supplies, used as long as rep. wants the set. Deposit of $135.”

The second sample of notes refers to the $135 deposit required to become a sales representative for Vector Marketing. In addition to paying for these shiny murder weapons, the four-day training seminar pays nothing. That means if you’re a lousy salesperson, or the customers just aren’t feeling profligate ever since their 401-K plan went broke faster than Bernie Madoff, an employee could work seven appointments and still fall short of breaking even with Vector Marketing.

As my gnarled hand moves back and forth across a piece of scratch paper, I am simultaneously eager raise my hand to offer proof that I’m not an imbecile and cursing myself for being dumb enough to ride down to Chicago on a Greyhound to explore a mediocre prospect such as this. Even if I was somehow provided with enough appointments per week for a few months, I’m no salesman. An exchange between a potential buyer and I would be comparable to this…

“Hello, there, Mrs. Epstein. Um, I have here, in my possession, some amazing knives courtesy of the good people at CUTCO. If you’re ever struck by the fancy to peel the ridges off one of your hard-earned pennies, I’m told these knives will do the trick. So, would you—uh—like to purchase a set?”

“No,” Mrs. Epstein says. “We’ve got no need for these kinds of luxury items right now. The economy is in the shitter, as I’m sure you know.”

“Right. I’ve heard the news reports about that. The economy is the main reason I’m trying to sell people like you knives in the first place. Because the economy is, you know…”

“In the shitter. Yes, I figured that’s what brought you into my kitchen for this uncomfortable demonstration.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I guess it’s a no-sale, then. Hmmm. We’ve still got 58 minutes to kill before the end of this appointment. In the meantime, if I shredded my belt into pieces with one of these CUTCO-brand knives, would that maybe persuade you to reconsider?”

“No. It would not.”

“Okay. Jeez, I feel like a turd for even asking you that. Plus I really need this belt; it’s the only one I own. I guess I’m just trying to be more—uh—persistent with making sales. Anyway, at least I still get paid eighteen bucks for this appointment.”

“Sure. And along with the other appointments you’ve arranged today, you’ve made…”

“Eighteen dollars.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. Suddenly my throat is feeling parched. Can I have a glass of water?”

“Get out of my house.”

“Right then. Okay. I’ll see you later—er…goodbye. Forever. Sorry.”

I would sell knives with as much deftness as Bob Newhart propositioning a stripper for a blow-job.

But the crux of the entire process was that I still wanted to be accepted for the job, even though I knew damn well I had no business selling knives part-time. This was a corporation that accessed its customers through desperate college students; the poor kids were one step up from bottom-feeders. If I wasn’t qualified enough for the approval of the CUTCO shills, I was seriously going to have to rethink my career options. I would have no choice but to take the plunge into the carnie racket, guessing people’s weight with 10% accuracy or modeling for the gawking carnival-goers the world’s longest leg hairs.

****

When he offers his hand to shake and tells me the job is mine if I want it, I am elated. I thank him effusively and revel in the moment of artificial triumph. I’m grinning broadly as I light up a cigarette and walk across the street to the bus stop.

The bus drops me off at the train station. On the el ride back to my cousin Eliot’s condo, where I slept last night, I don’t invest much thought into what I will say tomorrow morning when I dial Vector headquarters to announce my abrupt resignation, or rather, my unwillingness to attend the four day training session worth a net gross of -$135. Instead I write notes on a scratch piece of paper concerning vampire fights. Specifically, when the blood-suckers are engaged in battle with each other, is victory attained by chomping the opponent’s neck or thrusting a stake through the opponent’s heart? The el-train provides a wondrous setting for expounding on inane ideas.

At Chris and Mike’s apartment later that night, I’m eager to guzzle a six-pack of Budweiser and play a few competitive games of Madden Football. When I tell Chris about the Vector Marketing prospect, he responds with indignant empathy and, with righteous bluster, explains all the reasons I shouldn’t become a part-time knife-salesman in terms much more trenchant and elaborate than I have previously described. His input assures me that I’m making a prudent decision in continuing to be unemployed.

****

Because Christmas is in a few days, the Greyhound station is packed with impatient travelers. I walk in alongside Annie, a cute and bookish blond I met on the el-train not ten minutes ago. Brought together by a common destination, we’re making conversation suitable for a first date. Annie is the secretary for a professor at DePaul University, and she’s traveling home to Iowa for the holidays. We discover a number of remarkable coincidences about the other. Both our mothers are named Ruth. Both our fathers are retired police officers. We’re the youngest in our families, with two brothers and a sister apiece. We both love baseball and especially the Cubs. When I call attention to all these surprising happenstances, she merely shrugs and says, “That’s just the way life is.” She is used to the stars aligning in a familiar and comforting way, a feeling that only strikes me in rare moments of hopefulness.

Annie’s parents live just outside of the town where the movie “Field of Dreams” was filmed. For awhile we discuss the baseball museum located there. Even though I’m not even sure which door the bus to Milwaukee will be parked outside of, I stand alongside Annie as she waits in line for her bus to arrive. Without any wrangling, she gives me her phone number. Her bus arrives and the appropriate door opens. A gust of cold air rushes through the terminal. Through a shield of glass doors, I watch her lug her cumbersome bags onto the bus and wish I could offer to carry them. But I’m not traveling to Iowa, with good reason, perhaps. The sigh I let out is overpowered by the chilly gust from outside. I realize that my phone number triumph won’t amount to much while I’m living in Fond du Lac.

With Annie gone, I turn my focus to learning exactly how the hell I’m going to make it home. The line to the information desk is comparable to that for a new roller-coaster ride at Six Flags, and I figure I can determine which gate to go to by listening to the announcements on the public address system.

The voice that comes through the P.A. system is muffled and submerged in static. We are not listening to an announcement of vital information on schedules and delays; we are listening to a comedian’s impression of the speaker box at a fast-food drive-thru. The omniscient voice that is supposed to edify and subdue our uncertainties is unintelligible. And persistent, too. The ordeal is like listening to a thorough oration from God Himself, who is stinking wasted drunk off the blood of his only son.

Shortly before my bus arrives, I start to ask around the long lines of impassive soon-to-be passengers and finally a frowzy woman of middle-age named Flora informs me that the bus to Milwaukee will be arriving outside of gave 13. Mere feet away from the arcade room, where the moaning of arcade zombies and booming explosions mingles with the indecipherable voice of our Greyhound God, I rest my back against the storage lockers with my luggage resting by my feet.

****
I’ve taken a window seat on the bus when a bubbly Asian girl with flakes of dandruff dotting the strands of her hair asks in broken English if she can sit beside me. I have no qualms with that, and once she has stored her luggage in the overhead compartment, the Asian girl introduces herself as Nee-ying. I say hi. She then summons her dogged determination to hold a conversation with me.

Now, at the risk of making a severe understatement, Asia is a pretty big continent. I’d like to be more specific in regard to Nee-ying’s origins, but when I ask here where she’s from, her response is coy laughter. After “Would you like to super-size your order?” and “Are you familiar with 2 Live Crew?” the question “Where are you from?” ranks at the top of the list of phrases Nee-ying should have learned to answer right away. All this is not to seem xenophobic, but to reiterate that she was just learning the rudiments of the English language the day I spoke to her on the Greyhound bus.

Although I don’t know which country Nee-ying calls her homeland, I CAN provide an exhaustive list of Asian countries I’m fairly certain she does not hail from: Russia. No something-Stans, either.

Aiming her cell phone past the window to my right, she snaps pristinely vivid pictures of downtown Chicago, and later in the drive, she captures the majestic skyline as we escape its wonder. When I steal a glance at her phone as she cycles through her list of contacts, I notice that all the entries are comprised of squiggly and ornate characters. The symbols bring to mind the reverse side of a fortune cookie strip, featuring the ambitious command: “Learn Japanese! Dog = a phonetic translation, cryptic mutations of the pi symbol, the New York Mets logo, and an ink blot rendering that, according to your analyst, represents the suppressed rage you feel toward your seventh grade football coach.

But enough about that smug, pig-faced motherfucker who chomped into self-esteem like it was a Slim-Jim.

With her ticket stub in hand, Nee-ying nudges me and indicates that she’d like to examine mine. I reach into my pocket and produce the stub for her. Her brow strained intently, she examines the cities I’ve traveled to the last few days, along with departure and arrival times and the total cost of my ticket. Having rode from Fond du Lac to Milwaukee to Chicago, now en route back to Milwaukee and on to my final stop in Fond du Lac, she reasons that I’ll be making four stops total.

“Twenty-two dollars, each stop,” she says, leaning over and pointing to the total price of my voyage: $88.00. It takes me a second to realize that she has just used my ticket stub to display the simple arithmetic of a second-grader’s story problem.

English minors despise the adage: “Math is the universal language.” This is partly because numbers can’t be used to evoke wisdom, beauty, or humor. But it’s mainly because the D’s we received in Algebra class made us feel stupid, and well-read people hate being misled into believing we could avoid this meager feeling by means of explicating the shit out of Hawthorne and Ibsen.

But when Nee-ying’s savvy math skills proved valid and I actually understand what she meant, we become overjoyed and bond momentarily.

“Yes! Eighty-eight divided by four is twenty-two,” I proclaim, cheerfully.

“Twenty-two times four is eighty-eight!” Nee-ying returns, glowingly.

That part of the conversation was glorious, but once all the points concerning my ticket stub were exhausted, we are left with nothing else to discuss. In no time I am once more asking where she is from and again she is laughing at my question. In fairness, it was pretty funny—the two of us trying to have a conversation.

Months later, while listening to a John Lennon album, a lyric from the song “Borrowed Time” reminds me of the rift in communication I experienced with Nee-ying. It goes, “The more that I see, the less that I know for sure.”

Riding the Greyhound is humbling and a bit seedy, but the bus has to offer a destination, a place where the outcasts congregate, far from the home that stifles you. I’m riding back from my destination, having gained nothing but more confusion. As the Asian girl feigns a nap beside me, I tell myself that my destination hasn’t changed; I’m just traveling to it in reverse.

Burt's Threat

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

Arm-Wrestling for the Right to be Mayor

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

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

EXT. COURTHOUSE BUILDING

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

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

INT. TV STUDIO

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

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

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

CUT TO:

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

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

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

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

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

CUT TO:

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

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

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

A FEMALE RESIDENT stands before a junkyard, equally exhilarated.

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

CUT TO:

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

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

He is confronted by an irate Russell Stanke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FADE OUT:

Nobody Brought a Football?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Column Inspired by the Cookoo's Nest

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

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

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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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



Parting words: Thanks for reading.

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

More Fist Pumps

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Seafood Casserole

To the uppity roommate who threw out the seafood casserole that had been stored in our fridge since we moved into this place three years ago: Dude, what's your problem? Don't you have any respect for history? Don't you remember how, at the six-month mark, we all agreed it would be classic if we just left it in there 'til the lease ran out? Why did you sell us out? I'm not, like, super-pissed about it, but bro, that was so lame of you. I thought we were in this together. You, me, Shroomy, Fat Sully, and the Seafood Casserole. I guess I was wrong.

You remember the pact, right? We were gonna save it 'til our last night together at this place, get severely crunked, and then dare Mushy-P next door to scarf the whole thing. We agreed—all four of us—that we'd chip in a maximum of $20 each in order to witness this awesome sight. And don't tell me you forgot that conversation, because I brought it up the next morning, too. We were all hungover at the IHOP and Shroomy kept trying to get that hot waitress's digits. And then Fat Sully threw up all over your Belgian waffles. HA—you remember that?! I laughed so hard I snotted all over that rack of Sweet 'n' Low. That was so funny!

But don't let my nostalgic tangent fool you. I want answers, bro. Seafood Casserole-related answers. We pretty much just use that fridge to store beer, ranch dressing, and the occasional ice-ball during winter. It's not like we're all snobby about the sanctity of the fridge. (Ha, I said “'titty.”) When did you turn into Martha Stewart, bro? When did you get all limp-wristed and prissy? Not to cross the line, but you used to rave hard with us, and now it seems someone has shoved your once-treasured glow-stick up your butt. Maybe it was that fiancé of yours.

And dude, speaking of your fiancé, you're hardly ever here anymore. You're always at her house—painting Fabergé eggs or gabbing about Sex and the City DVDs or whatever it is you two do together. My point is, what right did you have to toss out our beloved three-year-old casserole that wasn't yours to begin with, especially when you only show up once or twice a week. Checkmate: Me.

What's that you say? Oh, sure. Suuurrreee. Look at the English major, using big words like rancid and noxious and unsanitary. Bro, listen, it boils down to respect for the belongings of others, and that casserole never belonged to you. And I'll have you know—that rancid casserole never tainted the flavor of one of my New Castles. The stink waves from that unsanitary seafood casserole never made my ranch sauce taste less delicious, I'll tell you that much.

Not to sound like an ass, 'cause I want to drink for free at your wedding next month and I'm not out to burn any bridges, but bro, that fiancé of yours has got you whipped. Whipped like a henchman from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Not to sling accusations or anything, but I'm pretty sure she put you up to it. I think she nagged you into throwing out the Seafood Casserole.

When I look at you now, it's hard to see five years of friendship. All I see is the food-snob who trashed a memento from our apartment. All I see is the traitor who killed the dream. And for what? For your precious fiancé? For a steady lay, the prospect of a loving family and, as you put it, “the enrichment of the soul that can only be achieved through devotion to one's soul mate”? God, you sound so gay when you say that!

Now, the best-case scenario is that we retrieve the Seafood Casserole from the dumpster, rip some shots of Cuervo, maybe spark up a doobie, and try to find a homeless guy to eat the thing. It would be pretty classic, but nowhere near as classic as seeing Mushy-P scarf it down as we had originally planned. Mushy-P said there was absolutely no way he would eat a three-year-old casserole out of a dumpster, even if he was bonkered off his ass. He said: “Three-year-old casserole when I'm wasted? Maybe. Three-year-old casserole out of a dumpster when I'm wasted? That's where I draw the line.” So I hope you're happy, bro.

Like I said, I'm not super-pissed, though. Just disappointed. If you want to set things straight in apartment 8, all you have to do is get the casserole out of the dumpster and coax a homeless guy into eating it. How does that sound?

Whoa, whoa. What was that? I'm blowing this whole thing way out of what? I'm making a mountain out of what kind of a hill because I'm addicted to what? Listen, bro, I am not the one at fault here; you're the one who changed. You haughty, self-righteous fairy. You're whipped like a henchman from Raiders of the Lost Ark by a conniving, fun-hating B-I-T-C-

What's that? You're going to beat the living WHAT our of me?! Ouch! That hurt like hell! NO, NOT AGAIN! OWWW! Shroomy, call the cops; I'm being assaulted! But hide the bong first.