The Dark Knight and Brett Favre

Originally written in September of 2009.

A few things to keep in mind, since this work is being published in 2010 and therefore requires some updates...

The Minnesota Vikings had a very successful run in 2009; they lost in the NFC Championship game to the New Orleans Saints, who ultimately won the Super Bowl. The loss to the Saints was due in large part to an overtime interception thrown by guess-who.

Aside from that predictable yet (arguably) tragic ending, Favre was undeniably terrific, throwing for over 4,000 yards and boasting the league's most impressive touchdown-to-interception ratio. The Vikings' offense thrived; opposing defenses dared Favre to beat them with his arm and, more often than not, he did just that. These developments astounded me.

My appreciation for Brett Favre is a powerful force that will remain dormant for as long as he wears a Minnesota Vikings jersey. I can't get over my subjectivity as a fan of the Green Bay Packers, nor do I want to. Favre is one of the top ten football players the NFL has ever produced. But defecting to the Vikings to spite the franchise you were almost entirely responsible for rejuvenating? That's a dick move, Brett, and many Packer fans will always hold that against you.

"You either die a hero or else you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."


This is the most profound quote from The Dark Knight, the blockbuster superhero flick that is thought-provoking in ways both intentional and accidental, calculated and tragic. In addition to foreshadowing Harvey Dent's mutation into Two-Face, this quote not only summarizes Brett Favre's decent into villainy in the eyes of the Green Bay Packer faithful, it also cements the impact Heath Ledger's flawless swan song as the Joker had on his legacy.

By playing a deranged villain so adeptly in the final film he was to star in (completely), Heath Ledger died a cinematic hero, but ironically and fittingly enough, he never got to bask in his own triumph; by the time The Dark Knight opened in theaters, he had been buried for four months. Devout Favre fans in Packerland wanted the same from their rowdy gunslinger. We craved the same bittersweet—but unequivocally final—end to Favre's career.

The 2007 season, Favre's last with the Packers, wasn't perfect: it ended in the NFC Championship game with an overtime loss to the New York Giants, who went on to upset the undefeated New England Patriots in the Super Bowl. But the team won 14 games (including the playoffs), and notwithstanding one last confounding interception from Favre, it was the best season the team had had in a decade. Packer fans were both mournful and celebratory in March of 2008 when Favre choked back tears to announce his retirement. Among many other things, we exalted his consecutive games played streak, the way our guy made his fair share of mistakes, but never missed a single start due to injury. He was still the seemingly indestructible country kid who tackled his wide receivers with boyish delight after zipping a touchdown between two defenders. He brought the Lombardi Trophy back to Titletown, set records for passing yards and touchdowns thrown, led his team to the playoffs despite a broken thumb on his throwing finger, threw a six-point strike while in the woozy throes of a concussion, and had one of the most sensational games of his career on Monday Night Football the day after his father died. We remembered all of that, and always will, I hope.

***

This essay is featured, in its entirety, in my book, titled "There Will be Blog."
To order a copy...

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Pluto's Letter to Earth

Hello, Earth. It's Pluto. It's been a long time since our last correspondence. Ever since you saw it fit to revoke my status as a planet, the two of us have lost contact with each other. Oh, and speaking of Contact, the Jodi Foster sci-fi flick, how the hell is Jodi, anyway? I've been an avid fan of hers ever since her precocious debut in Taxi Driver over 30 years ago. She never replied to any of my letters. I hope she received that chunk of my crust that I sent her as a gift to honor her Oscar nomination for Silence of the Lambs. It's not like I'm stalking her or anything. How could I—without severely altering the course of my orbit in order to collide with violent passion into Ms. Foster and the planet she seductively inhabits? I could never do that. Christ knows I've tried. Okay. Enough about Jodi Foster. If she wants to play hard to get, that's her own whorish business.

About two years ago, a team of Earth's astronomers who all lost their prolonged, middle-aged virginity in a horrid gang-bang of the cleaning lady at their observatory agreed that I should no longer be considered a planet because I'm not up to your standards of size. That's hurtful, Earth. My 900 days of winter have gotten even colder since you stuck that knife in my back. Do you have any idea what kind of damage that demotion has reeked on my social life? Fucking Neptune was the only planet to send me a Christmas card this year, and when I opened the card, the only line written was, “Sorry to hear the news. What a shame! Hope all is well.” Jesus. It's not like my surface is fitted with a shirt that reads, “I crave Neptune's sympathy.”

If I am no longer a planet in the bespectacled eyes of your scientists, then what am I? This wretched demotion is causing me a serious identity crisis. What do your nerdy astronomers call me now? How am I categorized?

Am I a satellite? No, because I don't orbit around another planet. Demote me all you wish, but I'll never be Neptune's bitch. I orbit the Sun, just like you. So, how are we any different?

Do you think I'm a meteor? Because I've got news for you: I'm not. I've got more class, esteem, and regard for life than any of those Jihad-shrieking, suicidal mavericks. If I was a meteor, however, I'd probably propel myself in the direction of Earth, shred through your depleted o-zone layer, and demolish the observatory responsible for revoking my claim to planet-hood.

Am I some sort of an unconventional star to you—barren and frigid and modestly sized? No, I'm too small to be classified a planet, much less a star, which is why I got demoted in the first place. Asteroid, black hole, comet? No, no, and no. I'm running out of space-words here! What the hell am I? Since being demoted, my self-esteem has plummeted. At my lowest moment, I got loaded on moonshine and ether with one of Uranus' moons—shit, I can't even remember which one—and got so depressed hanging out with that galactic nobody that I tried to float into the path of a meteor shower.

But that ultimately brings me to my point. I recall Uranus' moon slurring the words “Dwarf Planet”--it was either that or “Smurf Gadget.” But “Smurf Gadget” was senseless within the context of the conversation, which was all about Earth's big “Fuck you” to old Pluto.

I can live with being called a Dwarf Planet. Do you know why? Because you can't spell “Dwarf Planet” without the word PLANET! Dwarf is merely an adjective to describe a noun, which in this case is a planet. We don't need to get bogged down in semantics here, but obviously, a dwarf planet still qualifies as a planet, doesn't it? Just because something is small or dwarfish in size doesn't mean you need an entirely different noun to categorize it. Just as a small penis is a penis nonetheless, a small planet still counts as a planet. A penis can't be kicked out of the League of Penises by a larger penis; that wouldn't make any sense, so I don't see how Earth—which isn't even big compared to planets like Jupiter—can possibly dismiss a long-time member of the club because of a bias in size.

And actually, it's pretty cool being the only planet in the club with an adjective to modify it. While the rest of you, from that kiss-ass of the Sun Mercury to Neptune with its two bull-dike moons, the whole sorry lot of you all are just planets. But me, I'm a rare breed, a dwarf planet, which is a point of pride and distinction.

So, thanks for going through all the trouble to reclassify me a dwarf planet, Earth. It makes Pluto feel special. Oh, and please let me know when the telescope, scented candles, and bottle of lubricant I sent to Jodi Foster three light years ago arrives. When the night is right, I'm going to give that sultry broad the show of a lifetime.

Jokes Instead of a Column

Occasionally I run out of ideas. When this happens, a damn shame occurs because comedy writing is what I typically do to force my mind's focus to stray from the fear of disappointing everyone I love, stepping on cracks in the pavement, and pterodactyl attacks—oh, God, in the Real World, the damn pterodactyl attacks are endless.

Although at this time I have not been able to come up with a cohesive column about a single subject in the 1,000-word range, I do have a slew of topically unrelated jokes to spew forth at your consent.

Think of this as a series of nonlinear stand-up jokes, minus the audio and any trace of visual flair (excluding this awesome font-style.) That's not so bad, is it?

If life is really all just a dream, think of how many times you've unknowingly peed the bed.
Whenever an athlete who wears the number '69' engages in mutual oral sex, it's got to mean a little extra something.

The following are bad ideas for bumper stickers:1.“My kid shot your honor student three times in the chest.”2.“I brake for child pornographers!”3.“Share the road with pedophiles on unicycles!”4.“I you can read this, you're not from Alabama.”5.“Follow me to where I hide the bodies!”

My secret to happiness? I owe it all to that pillow I own with the phrase “Hooray for Love” sewn in the fabric. It's just that easy, people.

Why do the Spanish feel the need to attach gender to inanimate objects? The Spanish live in absurd fantasy world where the computer menstruates and the hammers obsess about baseball to keep from prematurely ejaculating.

***

You can read the rest by purchasing a copy of "There Will be Blog."

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

A Translation of Zooey's Meows

A few years ago I wrote a column for my college newspaper entitled “Professor Radington.” That was the name I christened a plastic robot I found discarded beside a heap of curbside trash in Wrigleyville, following hours of PBR-chugging with my friends in Chicago. Moments after lugging the Professor into my friend's apartment, I was grasping hold of his plastic claws, spinning in a circle, his stumpy frame in rotation around mine in the way that a planet orbits its Sun. P-Rad's novelty did not wear off when I sobered-up in the morning. He made the trip with us back to Oshkosh and I decided that, in addition to serving as a bizarre decoration and apartment mascot, I was going to pay him tribute with a humor column.

The idea for the piece was that I was eagerly awaiting fatherhood (which wasn't the truth), but I wanted to be sure I could meet the daunting challenge before undertaking such a major responsibility. And so I tired my hand at dog ownership, with poor results, and consequently lowered my standards down to comatosed dogs, houseplants, and finally, after all these endeavors had failed in one way or another, plastic robots. Dogs, coma dogs, houseplants, and plastic robots—that was the chain of ownership in Bullshitland. In the column, I did prove to be a worthy father for P-Rad. Inanimate objects are safe in my care. As for creatures with a heartbeat, I am less adept at meeting their needs.

Oddly enough, for several years I really did own a pet, a (semi-) legitimate stepping stone on the path to fatherhood. It never occurred to me to apply this life experience to an absurd column that proposed a hierarchy of care-taking that ranged from plastic robots to children. On this scale, aquatic frogs rank somewhere between houseplants and coma-dogs.

My frog, named Kermit, with little creativity, survived for about eight years, provided ten minutes of entertainment in that time, received virtually no affection (mainly because human touch could be damaging to this breed of frogs), and required sporadic maintenance. I came to acquire Kermit when I was eleven years old. For Christmas in 1994, besides Chicago Cubs attire and Super Nintendo games, with brash ambition, I asked for a dog. Deep down, I knew it was a forlorn wish since my dad has a disdain for pets. As kids, we were allowed to keep goldfish, because they were quiet, cheap, and dispensable, but any creature with four legs was simply out of the question. My dad reasoned that six life forms under one roof was sufficient. The Olig household was kept in a state of sterility—all walls were painted white, as if vibrant colors would incite neuroses and thuggery, the Oldies station played at a barely audible volume, providing familiar background noise while my dad filled out his crossword puzzle, and my parents generally believed it was foolish and impractical to feed yet another irresponsible stain-creator.

The reason why Kermit was excluded in my column about Professor Radington is that I hardly considered him a pet; he was more of a living, breathing afterthought. Once a day I had to scoop two crusty food pellets into his tank. Once a month I had to provide him fresh water to swim around in, dumping him into a smaller container temporarily until the change was made. In his twilight years, Kermit croaked in loud repetition throughout the night and became a real nuisance. Apparently, the lesson my parents were trying to teach me by giving me Kermit for Christmas was this: Pets are a pain the ass, son, and they're not worth the trouble.

For the month of July in 2009 I sublet an apartment in Chicago's Logan Square neighborhood. I shared a two-bedroom place with Anna, a thoughtful and cute earthy girl without pretensions who had recently graduated from the Roosevelt Acting Academy. She was becoming a strong-willed, independent adult, which is a very serious business, and so she liked to keep a box of crayons, a sheet of drawing paper, and a hash-pipe nearby whenever possible, as sort of a reward to the struggle. She owned unicorn's head attached to stick that the make-believe rider could straddle, which she kept on the back porch, leaning against the glass table where we placed our ashtrays and drinks. I named the unicorn Rhonda, a name Anna loathed and rejected, though she never offered an acceptable alternative. Rhonda was to Anna what Professor Radington was to me. Anna's kitten, whom she had owned for eight months, had ran away not long before I moved into the apartment, and perhaps Rhonda the unicorn filled the void in some capacity—in that hollow, unsatisfying way unique to inanimate objects.

***

The rest of "Zooey's Meows" is available for your reading pleasure within my book. In case you'd like to order a copy...

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The High School Reunion

“The High School Reunion”
Characters:
Russell Stanke: Underachieving yet womanizing redneck, expert angler, late 20s
Chad Deiner: Prominent lawyer, same age
Bruce Jenson: Successful advertising executive, same age
Diane Worthy: Famous actress, same age

Drinks in hand, Chad mimes munching on hors d'oeuvres when he is approached from behind by Bruce. Both are dressed formally. “The Thong Song” plays softly in the background but fades out once the dialog begins.

Bruce: Holy Shit-snappers! Chad, is that you?

Chad: Bruce? My God, it's been ten years since we graduated high school and you look almost exactly the same.

Bruce: You too, bro—aside from the receding hairline, of course.

Chad: Ouch! Taking shots below the belt right away, are you? Well, it's a real comfort to know you're still a ball-breaker after all these years. Hell, I've grown so accustomed to getting my ass kissed by all the underlings at my law firm the last few years. Thanks for telling it like it is, you cold-hearted prick.

Bruce: I keep it real, just like our main man Coolio. (Singing) Slide, slide, slippity-slide/ When you're living in the city it's do or die. We dug that song! Remember bumping that jam in my parents' Dodge Dynasty, puffing out of that piece I crafted in wood shop class the day we had a substitute?

Chad: Dude, that thing hit like a champ! God, it really doesn't feel like all that long ago...

Bruce: I know; it's such a head-trip. The other day I was shot-gunning a can of Blatz right before an important meeting with some new clients and I thought to myself, “This reminds me of ditching 7th hour Chemistry to get my Blatz on with my buddy Chad. I mean, it feels like high school was only yesterday, for God's sake.

Diane enters the scene, gazing about uncertainly.

Chad: Diane? No way—I can't believe you made it. It's awesome to see you.

Bruce: Hey, it's Miss Topless on the Cover of Maxim herself! You have no idea how many props I got around the office when I told everybody I went to high school with you.

Diane: Hi, Chad. Hi...Bruce. Wow, the crew from eighth-hour algebra has reunited. Good times. So...what are you two doing to pay the pay bills these days?

Chad: Well, I graduated from law school a few years ago. Since then I've been working at a law firm, and it might interest you to know that a couple months ago I became a partner at Crocker, Pitt, Marshall, and Deiner.

Bruce: Quit hogging the spotlight, bro. You're not the only one living the dream. I'm an advertising executive. I just made a cool hundred-grand by writing a catchy jingle for Anal-Aid hemorrhoid cream.(Singing) Anal-aid, Anal-aid, it's the greatest cream, ever made.Ring any bells?

Chad: Wow. You wrote that jingle?

Bruce: Shit yeah, I did. Damn near drove myself bonkers trying to come up with a word that rhymes with “aid.” But three months into the struggle—BAM—it finally hit me like a ton of bricks.

Chad: Sweet. And Diane, for the latest updates on your career, all we have to do is tune into an episode of “Access Hollywood.”

Bruce: “Summer Camp Confidential” was the bomb, Diane! You played that mousy chick who gets contact-lenses and then learns how to be all hot and stuff. How did you learn to act like someone who wears glasses? You must have done a shit-ton of research.

Diane: Oh, it wasn't quite as challenging as it looked, Bruce. Well, I hope this doesn't sound haughty, but it's good to know that not everyone here is intimidated by my success.

Bruce: Yeah, Fife High School's class of '99 has got it going on! Not a failure in the bunch.
Russell Stanke enters the scene, wearing a torn tuxedo shirt that reveals his tattooed biceps. He is brandishing a massive walleye that is still dripping water.

Russell: Hey fuckers, check out this fish I done just caught. It's twenty pounds if it's an ounce!

Bruce: Oh, God. It's Russell Stanke. The biggest redneck in Lawn Dart County. Did he even graduate?

Russell: Took six weeks of bustin' my hump in summer school, but I done learned me my times-table and all umpteen of them planets. Now get out of my way. This pretty lady has gotta get a load of this walleye.

Diane: Wow. That certainly is...big, Russell. Pungent, too.

Chad: Pungent? Jesus, that's putting it mildly. If swamps had assholes, they would smell like that fish.

Russell: Don't sass me, lawyer boy. You might've taken me for ev'ry penny I got with your fruity court case, but redemption is mine. This here walleye prob'ly weighs quadruple-times that schemin' Ivy League noggin of yours.

Diane: What is he talking about?

Chad: Stanke was running an illegal daredevil stunt show that starred a bunch of junior high kids. One of the boys—

Russell: Once a boy decides he wants to become a daredevil, he turns into a man. And men got the right to make their own damn decisions.

Chad: Don't interrupt me, Stanke. One of the boys split his head open trying to back-flip over a septic tank on his bike in the town junkyard. The kid's parents sued Russell for reckless endangerment. We won the case.

Russell: You won the battle, but I won the war, college. If you can't catch a fish what's bigger than mine 'fore the end of this shindig, then I'm the better man.

Bruce: (Scoffs) That logic is totally fucked, Stanke.

Russell: And you. Six months ago you was visitin' home for Christmas when I spotted you outside Sheldon's Liquor Store. You was tryin' to smoke some reefer out of an empty can of Sparx, and done told you, “Hey man, you gotta poke a carb into the that bad boy.” So I got out my Swiss Army Knife and we got to talkin', and you says for the life of you, you can't think of no words that rhyme with “Aid.” Couple hours and bowls later, it comes to me: “Made.” Now yesterday when I switch on the TV I see you done stole my word-idea for that fancy butt cream.

Bruce: You can't prove a thing, Stanke!

Russell: Maybe so, but I know the truth, sure as I know this walleye put up one helluva fight, enough to snap your pansy wrists in half if you was trying to catch it.

Chad: Enough about the fish, Stanke. You know, I've caught some pretty big walleyes, too. And you know what else? I'm a lawyer!

Diane: Boys! Please. I didn't fly home all the way from Los Angeles to listen to childish arguments. Be civil. We only get to see each other like this once every ten years, and this will be my final appearance if you keep it up with this clash of egos nonsense. Now. Russell, aside from the walleye you've recently caught, which is indeed impressive, what are you doing with your life?

Russell: 'Fore the recession that all the minorities brought on, I was a part-time dune buggy repairman. When dune buggies got too ritzy-like for the locals, I ran a daredevil extravaganza for young men at the junkyard, but we all know what happened with that. Now I spend my time impressin' ladies and embarrassin' chumps with the fish I catch. And business is damn good.

Diane: I see. And what kind of bait did you use to catch this prodigious walleye?

Chad: Come on, Diane. Don't indulge him.

Diane: I'll do whatever I please, Chad. Russell has done something remarkable with brute strength, determination, and guile. He's interesting to me. He doesn't just sit in a chair behind a desk in an office all-day long.

Russell: Well, since you asked, I done used night crawlers that was almost as juicy as them pretty lips of yours, sugar.

Diane: (Giggles) Oh, Russell. Behave yourself.

Chad: Diane, for Christ's sake, this hick just compared your lips to slimy worms that get impaled by hooks. He's disgusting!

Bruce: Yeah, no shit. Catching huge walleyes? Is that what trips your trigger? Really? 'Cause I guess the six-figure salary I rake in every year doesn't mean squat, then.

Chad: Right. And what about becoming the youngest partner in the 80-year history of one of the most prestigious law firms in the South? I suppose that doesn't matter, either, since I didn't show up to a formal event hoisting up the smelly carcass of an animal I just killed.

Bruce: Hey, bro, let's go fishing.

Chad: That's a great idea. First we go to Dunham's to buy some rods, then it's off to the bait shop, then Gallagher's Pond. Then we'll see who's the most successful guy at this reunion.

Bruce: Damn right. We'll be back around midnight, Diane, with a couple of twenty-five pound walleyes!

Snarling with determination, the two men stomp their way offstage.

Diane: Don't they realize that late in the evening is the absolute worst time to go fishing?

Russell: Na. But don't fret 'bout them loser, beautiful. Now how 'bout you and me mosey on out of here, grill up this tasty beast, and get down to stokin' some hot coals by the fireside?

Diane: Russell Stanke, you complete me.

"How's It Going?"

The “How’s it going?” exchange is pretty meaningless. You know the drill. In passing, you spot someone you know fairly well, and, in a simplistic show of politeness, you acknowledge the other person’s presence with this benign inquiry. The acceptable reply, regardless of the mood you’re in at the time, is of course, “Good” or “Can’t complain.” In an effort to really sell their happiness, some people even say, “Couldn’t be better.” If we’re being watched by space aliens that strictly pay attention to our “How’s it going?” exchanges, they’ve got to think planet Earth is a near-utopia. Which is far from the actual truth, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now.

I’m astounded by how often we fib when asked, “How’s it going?” The positive, honky-dory response is really just a time-saver. “We’ve both got places to go and an in-depth description of my actual state of mind would just hold us up. I mean it’s not like you’re my shrink for crying out loud. So let’s cut a few corners and go with the traditional response and then part ways so as not to interfere with our schedules.”

The question “How’s it going?” doesn’t give you much insight into the struggles and joys of another person, to put it mildly.

Have you ever dared to defy convention and bluntly answered something unexpected like, “Please kill me or at least hand over some Vicodin” or “What ever happened to Plan A?” It really throws a wrench in the machinery of everyday greetings. That kind of sullen retort will brand you with a pretentious label. “What do you mean, ‘Why do I bother leaving the house?’ You’re not supposed to grovel like that in passing. We have a time-honored system here, and you’re meddling with it, fancy-pants! You think my life is perfect? My teenage daughter won’t talk to me and my fantasy football team is ravaged with injuries!” To some people, the soldiering productive-types mostly, a gloomy answer to “How’s it going?” lofts your problems over theirs…and they hate that.

Let me tell you a story about a guy with a very distinct and plaintive retort to “How’s it going?” His name was Kyle, and he was a melodramatic and surly character who lived purely to rebuff pleasantries. Every time he was asked the question, he would say, without inflection, “I’ve got a terminal illness.” Which was a lie. Kyle attended college, and between classes, when asked, “How’s it going?” he’d say, “I’ve got a terminal illness.”

And a lot of times, the person headed in the other direction tuned out his answer. “Good to hear. Keep on truckin’, Whatsyername,” they would say, without breaking stride, bustling toward yet another appointment on yet another busy day.

Kyle’s “I’ve got a terminal illness” response persisted for quite some time. At joyous occasions such as weddings and baby showers, his matter-of-fact catchphrase never wavered. He never let you down in his role as a downer. It became a real nuisance to his friends, who often questioned why they hung around with Kyle in the first place. The last straw came at a twenty-year high school reunion. An old associate of the gang approached and made the mistake of casually asking Kyle a certain question. You can probably guess what that question was, as well as Kyle’s reply. At this point, his closest friend snapped.

“For God’s sake, you’ve been milking that line for twenty years now! If you’ve got a terminal illness, then why aren’t you dead yet?”

I used to think there are two kinds of people in this world: “More-miserables” and “Less-miserables.” In hindsight, that’s excessively bleak, but for the sake of this column, we’ll go with it. Obviously, Kyle is a “More-miserable.” On the other end of the spectrum, you have the “Less-miserables.” Rudy was such a character.

Whereas Kyle was a self-pitying curmudgeon who transmitted his unhappiness to anyone who would listen, Rudy would rather die than trouble others with his piddling problems. Regardless of his temperament, in times of elation, despair, and everything in between, when asked the question, “How’s it going?” Rudy would reply, chipper as a regret-free newlywed and without irony, “Every eye blink gives me a rush of joy!”

It wasn’t easy to maintain such an upbeat response to the question “How’s it going?” One day, in a bizarre board game mishap too complicated to fully explain in an article less than 20,000 words, Rudy accidentally swallowed a 23-sided Scattegories die. The die was naturally too large to squeeze down his throat, and as it protruded from just above his collar bone, his face turned a ghastly shade of purple. Things were looking bleak for Rudy, until his roommate—a Nursing major with a soft spot for weed brownies—returned home and casually asked Rudy, “How’s it going?” Unable to speak and barely conscious, Rudy scribbled onto a Scattegories answer sheet: “Every eye blink gives me a rush of joy! Now, if it isn’t too much trouble, I have a favor to ask: could you please be a dear and give me the Heimlich maneuver before my life is cut tragically short by a Scattegories die lodged in my throat. Please help me before I choke to death. XO, Rudy.”

Another time, during a tumultuous visit to the aquarium, an ill-tempered jellyfish leaped out of its tank and attached itself to Rudy’s head. After a mighty sigh, Rudy left the aquarium and made for the hospital. On his way there, he encountered a few casual acquaintances, and when they asked a certain question that rhymes with “Cow’s tit sewing,” he reasoned it impolite to pester them with his trifling problems.

“Every eye blink gives me a rush of joy!” he proclaimed. And as the other person bustled without breaking stride toward yet another appointment on yet another busy day, they felt invigorated by Rudy’s optimism. “Man, I think I’ve got it rough, but whatshisface is wearing a damn jellyfish for a helmet and he’s doing just fine. Maybe life isn’t so bad, after all.”

Rudy died of head trauma on his stroll to the hospital, but he inspired more than a few people on the way there.

The “How’s it going?” pleasantry doesn’t work for me because almost everyone is far too comfortable with a bullshit reply. For just one day, I’d love to see “How’s it going?” replaced by the far more straightforward inquiry: “Any nervous breakdowns today?” If you ask someone how it’s going and they respond negatively, you don’t know if they’re being melodramatic about having a pebble stuck in their shoe or if they’re having a legit nervous breakdown, and you may very well waste your time sympathizing with a former Geology lab partner that isn’t even having a nervous breakdown. The question, “Any nervous breakdowns today?” will save you that time and cut through some bothersome red tape.

And you’re much less likely to fib in response to, “Any nervous breakdowns today?” The nervous breakdown inquiry is hard to take lightly. I’ve fibbed about how “It’s going good” on countless occasions, but I can count the number of nervous breakdowns I’ve had using just three hands.

In closing, let me just say that if you ask someone, “Any nervous breakdowns today?” and they nod, try not to bustle toward yet another appointment on yet another busy day—not right away, at least. Walk with them to a nearby restaurant and do your part: in an act of compassion, buy the poor soul a sandwich of their choosing.

And if the person doesn’t like sandwiches...hell, maybe they deserve to have a nervous breakdown. The anti-sandwich people cannot be saved.

Job Fairs and Prank Applications

*I've done it before, but this time it is especially blatant: this column was written while I was still in college. Two-and-a-half years later, I'm discouraged by how little has changed in my attitude toward the job market, but grateful the personal zest I put into "Job Fairs and Prank Applications" still resonates today. I haven't made the advancements in responsibility that I'm after, but at least I still identify with myself.

Throughout my lengthy college tenure, I've exerted much energy fending off the malaise presented by entering the work force. Truth be known, if I had another semester left to stubbornly procrastinate, there's no way in hell I'd ever attend a job fair. The very phrasing, “job fair,” is an oxymoron. A JOB typically connotes repetitive labor driven less by passion than the pressing desire not to sleep inside an abandoned fireworks stand. A FAIR, on the other hand, hearkens to mind delightful spit-experiments on the Gravitron, scrumptious caramel apples, and a performance from the deceptively-spry Cheap Trick on the main stage. The words “job” and “fair” are paired together about as fittingly as “diarrhea” and “jamboree.” (Interestingly enough, “Diarrhea Jamboree” was the name of my first garage band. I operated the smoke machine and harmonized into a Fudgesicle I pretended was a microphone).

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t completely abhor the transition from college to career. It’s just that most jobs favor the practical mind as opposed to the type of mind that stays up until dawn trying to think of amusing song titles for a Freddy Krueger-themed rock opera. (True.) I mean to say that telegraph repairmen have an easier time finding employment than comedy writers do.

And don’t let this job-bashing lead you to believe I’m a hippie that yearns for capitalist exile on a commune. I’ll admit there are some allures to the collectivist lifestyle, but when I garnish my salads with Bacon-Bits, I would prefer not to be dowsed with a bucket of fake blood. In addition to that, communes feature a high-percentage of Phish fans. My desire to avoid an area densely populated by this inferior breed of humanity overshadows my misgivings about working a trade I have little enthusiasm for. In a roundabout way, my distaste for pompous soloists with lyrics like a Weird Al tune minus the punch line motivated me to attend a recent job fair.

Don’t expect a carnival atmosphere when you attend a job fair. While I navigated the aisles in a state of aloofness, I mused about how great it would be if the recruiters wore silly hats and screamed at passersbys with the cadence of an auctioneer. As I walked past the Cumulus broadcast booth, a mustachioed man in an American flag vest would yammer in my direction, “Hey there, Slim, you look desperate for employment. Well, today’s your lucky day, fellow. If you can topple this pyramid of empty milk bottles with THIS ping-pong ball, I’ll hire you on the spot. It’s the chance of a lifetime, junior, and it only costs five blue tickets!”

But alas, my imagination proved too lofty. There was nary a pyramid of empty milk bottles to be seen, and the only bearded lady there tended the Kwik Trip booth. Yes, a Kwik Trip booth was set up at the job fair, presumably for applicants that want to look dapper and confident before landing a job that requires them to scrape off encrusted nacho cheese inside a microwave.

I did stumble across a booth that really interested me. Located far away from the other booths, it attracted me like the one girl at a bar that shuns the dance floor while that retarded “Skeet, Skeet” blares. But when I asked the man behind the counter about the employment opportunities his business had to offer a vigorous go-getter such as myself, he just frowned and replied, “Sir, you’re holding up the line. Just tell me what kind of soda you want.”

Even the concession stand had high standards I couldn’t meet. I stomped out of the Kolf Center disgruntled and hopeless. Job fairs had become the latest annoyance in my experience with the work force, continuing a wretched tradition that includes applications.

Filling out job applications is both tedious and dreadful--like using a credit card to color-coordinate a puddle of vomit. Applications are nosy buggers that burrow into your skull and demand concise answers to meaningless questions. “What is the address of the high school you attended? Oh, you don’t remember? Well, then you don’t deserve to vacuum dead lake flies in the district manager’s pool house for minimum wage! No, the privilege of sucking-up dead lake flies with a deafening Shop-Vac will go to a DIFFERENT desperate schmuck--one that actually remember the address of his old high school.”

I endured a stint of unemployment this past summer (fuck you, Exclusive Company), and after two weeks of dead-end applications, I began to feel worthless and desperate. It’s my understanding that vengeance is more appealing than both worthlessness and desperation, and for that reason I resorted to filling out “Prank Applications.”

Prank Applications flout the restrictive stuffiness of the job hunt with a healthy dose of dark comedy. On a recent Prank Application, I was asked to provide three references. I listed the following notorious characters: abusive husband Ike Turner, lackluster comedian Carlos Mencia, and everyone’s favorite taboo punch line Osama bin Laden. I even provided an exhalant quote from each.

Ike Turner praised, “I’ve beaten a lot of women in my day, but you can’t BEAT Nick Olig’s work ethic!”

Carlos Mencia screamed, “Take it from ME: Nick is really funny. P.S.: dee-dee-dee!”

Osama bin Laden raved, “I thought I hated ALL Americans, but after expert worker Nick Olig cleaned out and reorganized my basement clutter, I can name at least one capitalist monster I would not wish a Jihad against!”

If I’m not going to get hired, I want to do it with morbid style.

In the employment history section, applicants are asked to cite the reasons why they left their former jobs. Typical answers include: “Insufficient pay” or “Didn’t receive enough hours.” Such responses, while legitimate, will fail to sabotage your chances of securing employment.

Here are some of my farcical former vocations and my reasons for leaving.

Police officer: Terminated for repeatedly enforcing a law that does not exist. Much to chagrin, it is in fact legal to be cross-eyed in a school zone.

Prime Minister of Trinidad and Tobago: That post was far too exhausting; I had to quit. Never mind Trinidad, governing Tobago alone was becoming way too much to handle.

Pro Wrestling Referee: Fired by the promoters for ignoring the villain’s manager while he tried to distract me from outside the ring. What did I do wrong?! I tell you, that quasi-sport is teeming with corruption!

Medical Surgeon: Given the pink slip for accepting a dare that I couldn’t make an aortal incision ten seconds after inhaling a balloon filled with nitrous oxide.

Ricky Martin Impersonator: Fired when my singing telegram agency discovered my terrible secret: I’m the actual Ricky Martin.

Antics such as Prank Applications aren’t likely to land you a job, but on the plus side, they WILL provide you with a childish satisfaction you should have outgrown by now. And dammit, that’s good enough for me.