What Pizza Taught Me about Women

When a fresh pan of pizza is presented to me, its skin undulating with subtle bubbles that rise and fall quickly, my first impulse is to snag a slice and gorge myself with savage abandonment. The problem with this reckless act of gluttony is that pizza fresh from the oven possesses a self-defense mechanism to thwart its overzealous predators. This self-defense mechanism comes in the form of tongue burn. Insatiable as it is, fresh pizza does not want to be ravaged with desperate urgency. No. Pizza, like no other delicious food, demands a grace period of reverent appreciation and heart-pounding patience. Eaters who infringe on the respectful ground rules of fresh pizza are punished with a scalding blaze on the roof of their mouths. With the proper mindset, then, it's plain to see why pizza is my favorite food. Pizza shares so many correlations with the sort of beautiful woman who would take a chance on spending some time between the sheets with a guy like me.

And what kind of guy am I? Well, let it be stated that it may prove daunting for me to compare pizza consumption to sexual conquests. The hours I've spent eating pizza far exceed the time I've spent with my favorite appendage tussling inside that warmth-exuding, moist tunnel of delight. Think of a number on par with the population of a Chicago suburb and without a great deal of hyperbole that is the number of pizzas I have consumed. Conversely, when you multiply the number of times I have seen the end of the rainbow by three you arrive at the number of woman who have laid naked panting beside me and proclaimed, “That was a solid C-plus.” * (And don't go multiplying zero by three with sneering doubt because I have indeed witnessed the glorious nexus of a rainbow.) In short, my ratio of pizzas devoured to women seduced is all out of whack. Humble and neurotic confessions such as these hint at the kind of guy I am.

But don't dismiss me as an amateur on a topic of my own design. Every time my sperm has ventured someplace as meaningful as the tip of a condom, I have treated the woman like a steaming pan of pizza that deserves a grace period of reverent appreciation and heart-pounding patience. I have subdued my urges for instant gratification and been rewarded, by pizza and women alike.

In a perfect world—that is, by definition, a heavenly scenario in which I am perceived as perfect by Victoria's Secret models and everything else stays exactly the same—I could gobble pizza the instant it hits the table, launching into a wild spasm of feral indulgence, too classless and indifferent to don a bib to prevent the tomato sauce from splattering on my Beastie Boys t-shirt. I could do all this at a ritzy pizzeria in front of a Victoria's Secret model who manages a fantasy football team and owns a collection of Trailer Park Boys DVDs—and she wouldn't mind in the slightest that her boyfriend acts like a debauched slob at fancy restaurants.

“To hell with 'em,” my Victoria's Secret model girlfriend would say about the critical naysayers in the pizzeria. “The dude I'm with is perfect in every way.”

After pizza, as our idyllic date continues, we walk hand-in-hand a short distance back to the condo I own. My Victoria's Secret girlfriend listens with attentive reverence as I expound on my theory that the ongoing and sordid saga of Brett Favre draws strong parallels to the Batman flick The Dark Knight. My Victoria's Secret girlfriend is enthralled rather than annoyed like most people by a game I invented called “Name That Snarf.” It works this way: The singer belts out lyrics to popular songs in the voice of Snarf from The Thundercats, replacing every word with the skittish sidekick's name. Here is a transcript from the game of “Name That Snarf” that two of us play on the way home.

“♫Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf. Snarf. Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf ♫.”

That is, of course, the chorus to “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles.

At my condo we get naked and rattle the bedsprings while the Cubs game is on mute, with the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street blasting forth from the stereo. “Gonna get my Rocks Off tonight,” I'd announce, mid-thrust. Right into the “Loving Cup.” Gross...but that about sums it up.

Afterward, I'd demonstrate my prowess in the kitchen by cooking a Tombstone pepperoni pizza. Once it's ready, I'd be free to indulge like a Neanderthal once more, without fear of tongue burn. And here's the best part: just like me, my Victoria's Secret girlfriend dowses her 'za in hot sauce. Now that's my kind of imaginary vixen.

The problem with this elaborate scenario that so pristinely meshes my insatiable love for pizza and women is that it's entirely implausible; in fact, it's delusional. The truth is that I'm nut perfect. Hell, I just misspelled the word “not,” if you don't believe me. Creating a game as dopey as “Name That Snarf” is a foolproof way to demonstrate your imperfections to the world and all of its readers and Victoria's Secret models.

I am more likely to someday behold the end of a rainbow again than make it with a Victoria's Secret model. I am still coping with this sobering notion.

In reality, I am the antithesis of that feral Neanderthal who eats his pizza just as he seduces his women: Swiftly. I have to be the antithesis of that. The bookish and nerdy variety of women that are attracted to me tend to be impressed by good manners. It's okay. To oddities like me, the most arousing word one can hyphenate before the word “Sexy” is “Librarian.” An oddity, in this case, is exemplified by an American male who does not detest reading and everyone and everything associated with it.

Some men are impervious to the tongue burn metaphor as it applies to seducing women. These are the sort of men capable of penetrating the birth canal while I'm still bandying small talk along the lines of, “Interesting. And what does your mom do for a living?” These men, some of whom have muscles that bulge out of flesh-clinging Polo shirts, boast gaudier, more impressive pizzas-eaten to women-seduced ratios. They typically don't care about beholding the origin of a rainbow; for them witnessing a stripper launch ping-pong balls from the holiest of holes sets the gold standard for awesome sightings.

I share the same instincts as machismo-loaded men when it comes to pizza and women. The difference is that I am not built for instant gratification as they are. When I try to express urges for instant gratification, I come across as desperate, and pizza and women alike are wont to burn me for conveying that sort of desperation. I am resigned to the fact that, for me, pizza and women are not meant to be ravished instantaneously. I am comforted by the wisdom that writers are not meant to experience instant gratification. Our game so often entails suffering with patience, style, and resolve.

I will wait for the incendiary passion of a fresh pan of pizza to cool down as I look on with tortuous anticipation, my taste-buds salivating and unquenched, just as I will wait for the love of my life to spread her legs for me. This is my mantra.

It is perhaps a dowdy concept, but I recommend behaving like a gentleman to piping hot pizzas and potential sexual partners. Be patient. Let the anticipation and reverence well up inside of you. But—and I can't stress this enough—never, ever wait so long that the pizza or its counterpart get cold.



*Interestingly enough, you can't spell “C-plus” without “C-minus.”

The Great Waldo Story

Cheerio. Allow me to renew our acquaintanceship. Name's Martin Handford. Modesty permits me to realize that my name might not make the old memory bell go “Ring-a-ding-ding,” but if you're a lad or pixie who came of age in the 1990s, I'd wager pounds to chips you're quite familiar with my most notable creation—my claim to fame, as the Yank expression goes. I'm the illustrator who drew pictures of the slender chap dressed in red-and-white-striped garb, the bespectacled fellow with a knack for getting lost in immense crowds. You know him stateside as Waldo.

What a thrill it was to earn a fortune simply by hiding a candy-cane-colored beanpole somewhere in the midst of a throng of vikings, peasants, or beach-goers. From the depths of my grateful bosom, I thank you, fine Americans, for embracing the search for an elusive, four-peepered chap with a Cat in the Hat-colored cap.

It should be known that my career as an illustrator of children's books was not without its fair share of hiccups. My first several efforts in that area were, to put it mildly, colossal failures. Verbose works such as The Self-Esteem Fairy Hugs Insecure Keith and 'Lil Paul Filches the Filthy Irishman's Pot of Gold featured a minimum of illustrations and went largely unread; their marginal success barely permitted yours truly to eek out a living. At age 34 I scarcely had the means to afford a bottle of monocle polish on a fortnightly basis. It was a rather dreadful era.

Like a bare-knuckle boxer struck backward into a woozy stupor by his opponent's mighty hay-maker, I was on the ropes. With my venture as an author of children's books in question, I resorted to my secondary passion, decorating erotic cakes, for a primary source of income. I've always had a flair for creating gaudy visuals, and this was evidenced by my penchant for crafting dark chocolate buttocks and strawberry torte phalli. I was able to support myself in this bawdy profession, but I was far from content sculpting labia folds and clitorises with tubes of frosting. My inner artist—a rather conceited bloke, I confess—yearned for literary acclaim.

I was struck by an epiphany when a cheeky and decadent single father with twin boys ordered a knockers-shaped cake for the lads' 12th birthday party. Betwixt and beneath the bosom the caption was to read, “Talk about an Extraordinary Pair!” My mind was always elsewhere during those days, toiling with the futile daydreams that had become my next idea for a book, and as I labored on the raspberry jublees at hand, precision eluded me; I misspelled “Extraordinary” as “Extrordinary.”

It was not until I delivered the cake that I detected the mistake. I met the jubilant glee of the children with stone-faced embarrassment. The matter was exacerbated when the father insisted I stay to enjoy a piece. My attempts to backpedal were waved away as he ushered me toward a park bench cluttered with rowdy and expectant youngsters. I offered meek pleasantries and dawdled about as the defective cake was presented. I gulped morosely, dreading the unveiling of my careless failure.

But my misgivings proved entirely misguided. Upon sight of the scrumptious knockers, the boys hooted with incessant mirth and offered me highly raised open palms as congratulatory gestures. Photographs were snapped, wolfish grins abounded, and with initial resignation, the boys dug in and devoured the concupiscent cake. The father tipped me generously, swatted me heartily betwixt the shoulder blades, and wished me a good day.

Traipsing back to my lorry, at last it occurred to me. Not a soul noticed my gaffe because children don't care a lick for reading, particularly when the words are in competition with striking visuals. The Self-Esteem Fairy Hugs Insecure Keith was a commercial debacle primarily because the ratio of words to illustrations was 500 to 1. The trick to success in the children's book racket was to do everything in my power to invert that ratio.

The groundworks were set in place for my next book: Abounding visuals, minimal words. My brainchild was still in its fetal stages, however, since I still lacked a main character and a setting with which he or she would intermingle.

Fortuity found me for a second time later that week when I received a pressing phone call from my hysterical mum. In a fit of consternation, she reported that my half-wit brother Wally (one can guess accurately the nickname we lent him) had gone missing again. Wally is a mute and placid mental invalid, deficient in the capacity to care for himself. As a consequence, Wally has resided with me mum and pop his entire life. Approaching the age of 40 at the time of this incident, Wally had gnawed through his leash and wandered away whilst me mum was busily watering the petunias in her garden. Mum charged me with the responsibility of tracking down Wally and bringing him home safely—a duty that had daunted and wearied me since childhood but, much like the permanent bonds of brotherhood itself, could not be denied.

Canvasses of the pet store and the candy shop proved futile, and with a despairing sigh, it occurred to me that Wally must have ambled with his characteristic curiosity out to the Pikey (meaning gypsy or vagabond, to use terms you Yanks are more accustomed to) grounds on the threshold of town. Pikeys are a seedy and treacherous lot, and it has long been my contention that Pikeys possessed a certain magnetism for Wally's darker impulses, which were repressed by the comfort and sterilization my parents imposed on him. My parents attributed the attraction to the shiny glints of light the sun reflected on the Pikeys' aluminum trailers.

Whatever the case may be, in the midst of a chaotic sprawl of meager and eccentric humanity, among multitudes of ramshackle trailers, makeshift dingy tents, packs of foul-tempered and mangy hounds, destitute drunkards, panhandling lads, pregnant ladies of the night, heroine-addled rag-and-bone junkies, and other assorted vermin, I spotted Wally extending his torso out from behind a derelict living quarters, pawing the gleam reflected on the aluminum siding of the dwelling. (Regardless of this admission, I nonetheless believe my contention about Wally's darker impulses is valid.) I surveyed the sordid scene from a distance because it is unwise for bookish and slender types such as myself to gallivant about a lot of Pikeys without a clear and concise purpose. Put more ignobly, I was, and remain, terrified of Pikeys. Terror aside, let it be noted here that first official search for “Waldo” was accomplished in four minutes, 33 seconds.

I rescued Wally without incident, returned him home to my mother and father, and briskly drove back to my flat to begin work on my first illustration of Waldo getting lost in a sprawling congregation of bodies. Thus ignited a scalding torrent of creative boom, an explosion of muse-groping productivity. My agent and the publishers had grown leery of me because of my prior failures, but I wrangled a proposal-meeting sold by the simple promise of delivering a book without words that would sell millions.

My agent and the publishers alike became smitten with the idea of Where's Waldo?, and in no time, borderline illiterate children across the globe shared the same dumbstruck fervor for my creation. Indeed, Where's Waldo? was the speeding vessel that put me in the conductor seat of the marmalade choo-choo with chip wheels. Where's Waldo? became a splendorous success in 1987, a phenomenon as integral to the pop culture landscape as Alf and British Knights alike, and I was unparalleled in my lofty perch as a children's book author who delivered pictures rather than words.

By the time The Great Waldo Search was released in 1989, I had earned wealth prodigious enough to at last actualize my lifelong dream. (More on that in the ensuing paragraphs.) Compounding my riches, I successfully sued over a hundred of those wee fuckers who circled Waldo with a marker on every spread of one of my books, charging the disreputable vermin with Defacement of Art. Let my cordial air in this open letter not fool you, fearful reader: Circling the exact location of Waldo in permanent marker or ink is a crime more egregious than both tearing the sacred tag from a mattress and molesting a baby seal. It is with righteous authority that I vow to pursue hefty financial redress from all the world's wicked Waldo-circlers.

Moving on to more pleasureful matters, allow me to expound on the aforementioned lifelong dream I embarked on in the wake of my three best-sellers. Ever since the hormonal impetus of my rather restless and desperate adolescence, I've harbored an insatiable penchant for 1.) traveling abroad and 2.) infiltrating the loose knickers of ravishing floozies. For those profound reasons, I ventured on an adventurous and bawdy crusade upon my early retirement from the grinds of hacking out a living. I set out on my yacht that boasted its own football field (or “soccer,” as you Yanks so insipidly know it by) as well as four competing British Petrol (“eum” be damned) stations, which came in handy as a source of fuel for the dune buggies all guests and myself as transportation around the sprawling landscape of my daily playground. Christened the S.S. Waldomecile Perfection, a handful of rabble-rousing drinking mates from my Jane Austin book club and their key party clan of librarian-sexy harlots accompanied me on a worldwide journey of the oceans surrounding the globe, voyaging to each and every country. We started with Albania, disembarking off the eastern coast of the Ionian Sea, set off for the nation's capitol of Tirana, found the cheeky side of town, and then I personally made it a point to roger the daylights out of my favorite exotic prosty. Her name was Melodiat, and heavens to Betsy, the cooing melodies of her feline purr still resonate in the loins of yours truly, Martin Handford. Suffice it to say, any number of lewd quips from the film Austin Powers that I am too dignified to contrive involving the words “rotten” and “shagging” surely apply here.

Next we set out for the Bahamas. I'm not even certain whether the Bahamas qualifies as its own country; regardless, I really wanted to go because I heard in a pub that the sun-baked naked, nubile flesh of their women is without reproach—superlative, one might even say. Oh, the rogering sessions were exquisite.

Canada was next on my list, and it at this point that I end my list of countries I've shagged prostitutes in with an ETC. Decency permits me to realize that my bawdy chronicles may be shocking and perhaps disturbing to readers with fond memories of my harmless and imaginative visual romps. Granted, I was never as cherished quite like the great Dr. Seuss (and with good reason), but hell, it was generally agreed that I was a better alternative to glancing through rubbish like Ziggy and Marmaduke and Kathy and The Family Circus and oh God, the dreadful list is interminable. Ziggy and Marmaduke can jolly well fuck-off in the face of my brother Waldo.

But perhaps the melancholy question lingers as such: Must everything we embrace as children with sincere and unblemished honour be corrupted one day by the transgressions of sinful adults? Indeed, it is with a heavy heart that I ponder that question while getting my knob bobbed by a French whore as soon as I'm done writing this message...or is it more apt to write confession?

Decency permits me to pose such a query. But honesty permits me to pledge that I really don't give a shit one way or the other. Happiness is a senseless, sordid business, and having found it somehow, I can tell you that happiness just vanishes the more you question it, and so it's best not to trifle it by means of scrutiny, even when the scrutiny is perfectly reasonable.


Epilogue.

It is with extraordinary pride and bafflement that I suspect my brother Waldo has found true love. On our 7th stop in Great Britain, I begged my parents—two noble flames that refuse to be smoldered, as the flames atop the candles we hold as we cross aching floorboards in the dark hallway to the safety of bed. They've agreed to allow Waldo passage onto the S.S. Traveling Waldomecile Perfection, from Mother England to Haiti and back for tea time in four days.

Our lavish debauchery was kept to minimum on those voyages. Waldo entertained the smitten ensemble, shaking hands and hugging with timid jubilation, performing cart-wheels to gushing applause, doing Charlie Chaplain imitations, waddling back and forth with his index finer draped beneath his nose to mime the mustache.

Waldo's favorite leisure activity, and indeed his most formidable skill, is draughts. (Stateside, you know it as checkers.) Waldo cannot drive a vehicle, nor prepare his own meals or recite the alphabet, but to my knowledge, he has not lost a game of “checkers” since the age of 5, when my father bested him by two pieces when he was 45. Since then my father's championship drought in household draughts has gone the way of the Chicago Cubs in your national past-time.

We picked up a rather tame and upstanding masseuse in London, and she has taken quite a shining to Waldo. His boundless unrest and unquenchable curiosity are vanquished in her presence. As I write this, Waldo is once again demonstrating his prowess on the checkerboard. He prevails and then rises to offer her a consolatory hug as she pretends to cry amidst pangs of laughter. The two of them are secluded at the far extremity of my yacht. There is not another soul within 100 meters. Waldo has never been easier to spot. It's as if he's given up on getting lost. Perhaps all these years Waldo wasn't really wandering aimlessly into a throng of hectic humanity; he was searching for someone with a purpose too profound to express with words.

Professor Radington

This is one of my favorite columns that I wrote for the Advance-Titan, the college newspaper at UW-Oshkosh. It was originally published in September of 2006.

Reader, do you know what I really look forward to in life? It’s not the fickle stuff like the free weekends of Cinemax or the popular return of the mustache (Bold prediction: the ‘stache makes a comeback in 2011, along with Zubaz pants.). I’m really looking forward to that moment when I cradle my first infant child and she wraps her TINY hand around my finger and squeezes with the rare strength of an unblemished heart. Do you need to hug the person next to you after reading that? Yeah, I’d like to do the same, but I’m currently seated beside an editor that smells like microwaved Preparation-H.

Kids grow up, of course, and someday they might be squeezing your throat instead of your finger. Once kids start tossing firecrackers at the elderly and blowing all their allowance money on Vaseline, I have no clue how to deal with them. But the squeezing-finger thing seems pretty appealing, so with absolutely no further thought on the matter, I want to be a daddy.

Before I father an actual human baby, I’d like to prove my care-taking skills on a more manageable level. When you play a video game with a difficulty setting, you don’t start out at the “expert level,” do you? Hell no. So prior to fathering a baby, I figured I’d take care of a dog. BIG MISTAKE. Unlike babies, I’ve never seen a dog wearing a diaper, and so I logically assumed they are born with an innate sense of knowing where to go number 2. Not wearing diapers is an act of deceit on the part of the dog population. After gorging the platter of Thai food I generously provided, my adopted dog Maddux couldn’t wait a measly SIXTEEN HOURS to do his business outdoors. When I returned home from my road trip to an abandoned Fanny-Pack factory in northeast Iowa, the mess I discovered prompted me to return Maddux to the Humane Society.

He didn’t even use the chopsticks, the slob.

***

This is but a snippet of "Professor Radington." You can read the rest by ordering a copy of my book, titled "There Will be Blog."

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

The Boner Way Out

“It's the terror of knowing what this world is about/ Watching some good friend scream, 'Let me out!'”

--Queen & David Bowie, “Under Pressure”

It's no wonder I'm depressed. Writing is my favorite activity, and when I think about the reasons why I do it, what I find is not so encouraging.

For me, writing is a lot like passing a series of kidney stones. This column deals in part with ailments, you should be warned, and kidney stones are an ailment I've so far been able to dodge. I don't think too much hyperbole is required to contend that aspiring to write professionally is about as hurtful as passing kidney stones habitually, and even though I suspect I'm being melodramatic on the matter, the metaphor still applies. Kidney stones are shards of crystallized minerals that cause considerable pain and discomfort as they tear through your urinary tract. The torment they reap is alleviated after the stone shreds through your urethra and the tip of your penis in a torrent of liquid relief. Similarly, ideas of mine materialize for mysterious reasons and provoke a sort of pain that isn't reduced until the thing is transferred from inside of me to the outside world. From this admission you can gather that, for me, the most gratifying part of writing is when I finally complete the piece I've been working on, and also that all preceding parts of the process are, at best, arduous.

Put another way, writing is the manifestation of obsessive-compulsive disorder in a very basic form. For mysterious reasons, I become transfixed with an idea—such as relating sadomasochism to playing the video game “Mariokart: 64,” or finding correlations between listening to an oldies radio station and living with my parents at age 27—and I feel strongly compelled to see the idea actualized, made into something tangible and complete, for the benefit of fewer people than I care to admit.

When I write, I'm mostly trying to rid my system of nuisances.

And so it seems the paramount reasons I choose to write are pain and neurosis. Third on the list of writing motives is vanity. Speaking as someone who is largely unblessed by aptitudes and talents, it is immensely satisfying to feel secure in the knowledge that few people can match or exceed my ability in one specific area...and I mention that for what it's worth (not a whole lot of money or women hitherto)...but more importantly, I mention that for what it's worth TO ME (a damn good reason to live).

The synthesis of pain and neurosis is depression. Josh Andrew Koenig, who played the part of the dimwitted yet affable neighbor Richard “Boner” Stabone on the 80s sitcom “Growing Pains,” suffered from depression. I use that verb, SUFFER, in the past tense because Boner died by his own hand in February of 2010. It would be pleasant to use SUFFER in the past tense because Boner lived to conquer his battle with depression and is now leading an inspired and courageous life.

No such luck!

***

To find out exactly where all this is headed for, order a copy of "There Will be Blog."
www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

The Music Our Parents Fell in Love to

“It's fascinating and stupid to watch adults destroy things on purpose.” --Chuck Klosterman

The following is a copy of a status update I posted on Facebook a couple months ago:

“(Nick Olig) declared 'Damn, it feels good to be a gangster' as he destroyed his tape deck 'Office Space ' style but now the CD player his friend generously installed in his Honda Accord isn't working and he realizes that God is punishing him for declaring himself a gangster (which he's obviously not) by forcing him to listen to the likes of REO Speedwagon and Styx.”

That's the truth. Only, instead of using a baseball bat to smash an antiquated and faltering piece of machinery like Michael Bolton did, I was swinging a sledgehammer. The CD player that my friend Max had installed functioned exceptionally, without a hitch, for about 10 minutes, until the machine refused to eject the CD, a copy of the Raconteurs' “Consolers of the Lonely.” I enjoy a good 70% of this album, but still, the thought of listening to it on an interminable loop was unbearable. And so later on I pried this disc out of the CD player with the aid of tweezers. The advice that my friend Matt gave me afterwards—as a perturbed vessel of common sense—was this: Electronics and tweezers don't mix. This axiom should be obvious to anyone who isn't a dipshit, and I knew it beforehand, but I had developed such a neurotic grudge against the electronics in question that I had become like a darkly obsessed protagonist from an Edgar Allan Poe story. The unrelenting drum beat from “Consolers of the Lonely” was the heart that pulsated loudly beneath the floorboards of my mind.

Removing the CD was a resolute and precise procedure that mirrored several failed attempts playing the board game Operation. The CD was not easy to extract. The alignment inside the CD player must have been jarred askew by the repeated yanks I exerted on the disc. And so after “Consolers of the Lonely” was tugged free, no more CDs would fit into the narrow slit of the Alpine. The dreadful ordeal was like offering a spoonful of mushed carrots to a fussy infant—or worse, actually: it was like offering that same spoonful to a fussy infant with its jaw wired shut.

And so my efforts to modernize and upgrade technologically backfired. Regression was the ultimate result when I felt like a destructive gangster because I had watched a great satirical comedy over a dozen times in college and therefore felt inspired to bash in my tape deck with a sledgehammer. Indeed, it was a fascinating and stupid gesture. I felt a begrudged and ambivalent fondness for the tape deck (even though it would only function two-thirds of the time) and yet I destroyed it because it caused me a black eye as an owner of dowdy and outdated things. Even so, I think I was justified in the undertone of contempt I felt for my tape deck. If your aim is to avoid the radio at all cost because you're finicky about music (like me), the tape deck ranks two slots below the CD player and the Ipod. I own a CD player, but not an I-pod, and the CD player is not fit for trips in a car. It seemed like an easy decision, to extend that hand one rung higher on the latter of technological advancement.

But the whole thing backfired, as I've told you, and now I've moved one slot below the tape deck to the radio. Not only on a scale of technological advancement, but also on a scale of complacency with music—the latter of which is far more important—the radio is inferior to the tape deck. I am now 275% more likely to crash my car into a jungle gym or a hot dog stand because I'm constantly fussing with the radio dial in a state of perpetual discontent. With only the radio to listen to on journeys across town to the library or Taco Bell, my last words are increasingly likely to be, “Def Leppard AGAIN?! Are you fucking kidding me?”


***

Read the rest, along with 39 other comedic essays, by ordering a copy of "There Will be Blog."

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

Writers Love and Hate Words Too Much

I’m in the words business. When someone tells me I can earn $25 for a 1,000-word column, my eyes light up and I scream, “Two and a half cents per word? Holy Fuck, where do I sign up?” With so much cash at stake, writers can’t help but scrutinize their words. Some words disturb our nerves, others flicker with delight, and a select five words are so damn interesting that some guy decided to write a humor column about them. That guy’s name is me.

Turd: My least favorite word is “turd.” Despite the cheap rhyme, the word “turd” lends me the first two sentences of this paragraph, I have a queasy reaction to this synonym for excrement. Hearing this word spoken or reading it in print is the visceral equivalent of splashing around in a pool of rusty nails. One of my favorite authors dropped “turd” in a short story, and I was so jolted that I set the book down and tore open a pack of moist towelettes. A writer that uses the word “turd” in his prose has the effect of a bride saying the word “douchebag” in her wedding vows. The future Mrs. Norbert Oogelsteen will no doubt have to fight the urge to do this. (Give me a high-five for self-deprecation. YEAH!)

It’s not that I have qualms with obscenities. When used properly, swear words boost the gusto and intensity of language. The phrase “taking a s***” has no adverse effect on me, although I much prefer “dump” in place of “s***”. “Turd” is a different story, however, and I could never love a woman who has uttered this hideous word more than 50 times in her life.

It pains me to realize that I couldn’t express my distaste for the word “turd” without seeing it in print almost a dozen times. Up until now, I’ve refrained from using “turd” in a column, not even when describing an incident in which a mental patient dug her hand into a dirty toilet. Someone asked me what sort of illness this mental patient suffered from, and my guess was “Doodoofondle-itis,” which, for me, is more preferable than its joke alternative, “Turd-gropengitis.”

Can you believe the spell check rejected both “Doodoofondle-itis” AND “Turd-gropengitis”?

***

This is all I'm showing you from this essay because I want you to buy a copy of my book.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

The Plight of the Mustachioed

I'm not afraid to reinvent myself. Let me give you an example. Back in kindergarten, while gathered in a circle with my classmates, I grew weary of the teacher's reading of The Boxcar Children Feast on a Giant Rat, suddenly declared, “This scene is getting old,” and stormed out of the building. And as I strutted toward a nearby liquor store, I willfully sprouted hair in new places in order to convince the cashier I was of legal age.

How many teenagers do you know who went through a gold-plated peg leg phase, only to follow that up with a fluorescent Fanny-Packs-for-earmuffs phase? My guess is not many.

My most recent dive into reinvention occurred on New Year's Eve when I fashioned my facial hair into a mustache. It was originally intended as a one-night novelty—a joyous fling with silliness. But once the hungover morning came, I looked in the mirror and felt no urge to shave it off. Similarly, I felt no urge to wash off the words, “Thanks for the memories—Mistress Tassels,” that had been written on my bare chest in sparkling lipstick.

My mustache and I became fast friends and developed an endearing kinship. We had countless late night conversations, and for the first time in my life, I breathlessly wondered if I had actually found my soul mate. I began writing that autobiography I had wanted to write ever since toddler-hood, and the working title was: Shit Yeah, I Got a Mustache: The Nick Olig Story.

Sadly, not everybody was so receptive of my mustache, particularly women in my age group. Plenty of dudes saluted my push-broom, but I'd rather be a ladies' man than a man's man. If anyone is going to supersede my mustache as my soul mate (and that is indeed an ambitious if ), it's going to be a woman rather than a man.

The backlash grated on me, and I began to question whether the hair on my upper lip was worth fighting for. And so, after tearfully serenading my mustache with Beck's ballad “Lost Cause,” I shaved it off. When the deed was done, I succumbed to the terrible allure of isolation and gorged on six gallons of caramel twist ice cream in one sitting. It would be nearly a week before I wore a pair of pants that was not of the sweatpants variety.

I haven't ruled out the possibility of a mustache revival, but before that, I've got to do my part to dispel the mustache stigma. There is a common misconception that only three types of men wear mustaches: pedophiles, porn stars, and police officers—the three P's of mustache stereotypes. Well, folks, I've got news for you: I am none of the above, and one by one, I'm going to prove it.

First off, let's consider pedophiles. Now, not to sound overly preachy, but I have moral convictions against child molestation. It just doesn't seem right. To reemphasize a blatant point, pedophilia just isn't my cup of tea. And by the way, not all pedophiles have mustaches. Simon Cowell, for instance.

And what about the pron star stereotype attributed to the modern-day mustachioed? I will admit there are less enviable jobs than male porn star, such as bingo caller for a vast auditorium of deaf and blind people who never bothered to learn sign language, or assistant poop-shoveler at a zoo that feeds its animals McDonald's food. But don't let this admission fool you into thinking I covet a career in the adult entertainment business. I want to make this crystal clear: I am NOT a porn star. I lack the sexual brazenness and (ahem) body type that the porn star profession demands. But those aren't the only reasons I refuse to pursue a career in porn. I have a hunch the promiscuous nymphomaniacs that get into porn frown upon cuddling once the deed is done. And man, that really cramps my style.

I was going to provide an example of a cleanly shaved male porn star, but the last time I Google-searched “Cleanly shaved male porn star” inside the Starbucks where I'm writing this, I was at once maligned as a pervert by hysterical workers and customers alike and banned for an entire year.

Finally, let's consider the police officer prejudgment. Police officers are probably the most reputable of the three stereotypes, but once again, it just isn't me. Comedy writers and cops share little common ground. This is not to say that our two vocations cannot coexist peacefully. It's just that we're not likely to bond over a bowl of weed and some Mr. Show DVDs, or, conversely, share a pleasant time at the shooting range with various members of NWA set up as targets. Plus, let's be realistic. Would you feel safe with a scrawny, neurotic twenty-something upholding justice in your community? Unless you are a chronic criminal lowlife, the answer is most likely no.

Oh, and do you remember racist cop Mark Furman from the OJ trial? No mustache. You have the right to remain silent, mustache critics.

Our culture is obsessed with celebrities. Tabloid magazines and TV shows are more rampant than bookmarks, and celebrity stalking has given us vital information such as Jennifer Aniston's most frequented sexual position in the month of July 2005. (According to Star Magazine, it is a position of unparalleled difficulty and pleasure, and if you haven't appeared on the cover of Cosmo at least twice within the past year, enacting it will cause severe spinal damage.)

Now, plenty of celebrities have mustaches, but nine times out of ten, when someone made a celeb-related wisecrack about my 'stache, Tom Selleck's name was mentioned. Tom Selleck hasn't starred in his own show since Magnum, P.I., and that was over 20 years ago. And the last hit movie I recall him starring in was Three Men and a Baby. Open up your frickin' eyes, people, other celebrities have mustaches, and oftentimes, their careers are hotter than Tom Selleck's. It's my aim to instill in my audience a broader range of celeb-inspired mustache jabs. What follows is an exhaustive list of soup-strainer-sporting celebrities not named Tom Selleck.

Okay, let's see here. So many mustachioed celebrities to cram into one concise list. Hmmm. Um...OH, I got one! The guy who played the porno director in Boogie Nights! Burt Something-or-other. Wait, now that I think of it, Burt's character just perpetuates that slanderous mustache/ pornography association, and to cite him as an example would defeat the core purpose of this column. So forget about Burt. He's dead to us.

All right, other mustachioed celebrities... hmmmmm... EUREKA! What about that older gentleman who guest-starred on “Friends” several years ago? He dated one of the unfunny cast members, and he used to be on that detective program that was so popular in the '80s. It took place in Hawaii and...wait, that was Tom Selleck, wasn't it? Well, disregard that name, too. Damn. I'm just digging a hole for myself here...

Ah-ha! The Pringles Logo Man! He's got a mustache, everyone knows his face, and most importantly, he is NOT Tom Selleck. And anyone who doubts the cachet of the Pringles Logo Man should get a load of a story printed in Star Magazine. This indisputable source of news reports that the Pringles Logo Man and Mrs. Buttersworth were recently busted for lewd conduct inside a photo booth on Rodeo Drive.

I hope this column has proved enlightening for you narrow-minded mustache critics, and that, in some small way, I have eased the hefty load of discrimination that sullies the innate beauty of this planet we call home. Thank you.