Grunk Gets Ink Done

What’s up, bro? I’m thrilled you’re open so late. It goes to show: you never know when a freak like me is going to crave some fresh ink in the wee hours of the morning. Kudos to you, Skaz, for knowing what appeals to your customers.

Up until an hour ago, I had no pressing urge to get a tattoo tonight. Then I found a couple blue-and-gold pills on the men’s room floor after a Tool concert. On the way home, riding the el-train, all these rad ideas for tatts shot into my brain, one after another—real vivid, like beams of color in a laser-light show.

I could taste vibes, too—good and bad, one flavored like butterscotch and the other battery acid.

Anyway, I turned to my old lady—say hi to Skaz, Tina—and told her we had to stop at Fullerton ‘cause I was going to explode if I didn’t soon feel the throbbing buzz of the needle on my back. She understood.

I jotted down some ideas in this notepad. I mostly use it to doodle in. Get a load of this one. Pretty erotic stuff, don’t you think? Darth Mal motor-boating Wonder Woman. What really makes me hard is that you can tell they’re in love. For awhile I wanted this scene to be my next tattoo. It seemed like the perfect imagery for my relationship with Tina. But then I broke up with her and started dating another chick named Tina. And Tina here really has more of a Batgirl figure, as you can see. So I had to scratch that idea.

But that hardly matters when I consider the thoughts for tatts I committed to paper on the train. With your help, Skaz, I’ll have one of the following sights carved into my flesh.

Okay. For starters, how about a zombie in a wheelchair? Don’t you see?! It makes a profound statement about the frailty of human flesh. Whether alive or undead, man is eternally vulnerable—his Achilles’ heel persists. When it is torn, the human can no longer run or jump, much less walk, just as the zombie can no longer stagger. Both will require a wheelchair.

We all know the threat of a zombie takeover is a real one, and since I’ve been stockpiling cans of tuna and honing my technique with a Samurai sword I bought at a pawn shop, I intend to survive it. But once the epic battle is settled and the wounded undead are left to crawl feebly across the land, I will show mercy on my monstrous foes by helping them into wheelchairs.

The main drawback, I guess, is that the zombie uprising has yet to happen. When it does, I don’t want to be viewed as a zombie sympathizer by my brothers at arms. Sure. Generations later, our enemies in World War II are now our allies, but it wouldn’t have been cool to get a tattoo of an American, a German, and a Jap working together to straighten out a swastika symbol before the war even started.

Forget about the zombie in a wheelchair, then. That’s the price I pay for being able to foresee the big picture.

Plan B is to get a tattoo of the Grim Reaper sitting on the toilet. What better way to negate mankind’s fear of our timeless predator than to depict him in such a compromising state? My senior thesis in Philosophy was titled “Everybody Poops, Everybody Dies.” In it, I offered proof that “everybody” includes the cause of death himself, the Grim Reaper, who therefore poops just like the rest of us and ergo should not be placed on a black pedestal as a symbol that instills fear in mankind.

But now it occurs to me that Tina shot this idea down mere moments before we walked into this place. She pointed out that the Grim Reaper is only a skeleton, that he lacks the digestive tract required to poop. Damn. I guess I forgot about that crucial detail amid all the excitement of entering your tatt parlor.

Tina put it as simply as “Skeletons don’t have guts.” Perhaps that’s what my professor meant to say when he called my paper “incomprehensible malarkey.”

It’s a shame I’m not getting a tattoo of the Grim Reaper sitting on the toilet on my back. Now I have to go on being afraid of death because it’s philosophically correct.

All right, let me get my head together. The third time’s a charm, maybe.

Only you only get to read that third charm if you get an eBook copy of More Stories, and Additional Stories. Sure, it's a hard life, oftentimes cruel, made almost unbearable by the cruelty of the elements coupled with the callousness of humans, and me being greedy by asking for three bucks, which you probably don't want to give me, compounds the plight of existence, but I will promise everyone who maintains but a morsel of sacred hope throughout such this catastrophic life on Earth this one redemptive proclamation... shit, I forgot my train of thought. Redemptive proclamation?! Jesus. Who says things like that...

Life Imitating Shart

In a recent survey of NFL players conducted by Sports Illustrated, followers of the Green Bay Packers were voted the most knowledgeable fans. The egos of the Packer faithful were satisfied by such flattery. When it comes to football, all signs of ignorance are frowned upon. Anti-intellectualism is tolerated, perhaps encouraged, in matters of politics and the arts, but no sports fan in Wisconsin is going to call you an egghead for knowing Aaron Rodgers’ career touchdown-to-interception ratio in the red-zone. To Packer fans, if you’re not sure how many linebackers are featured in a 3-4 defense, you don’t need to be patiently informed; you need to watch the game in the other room. No one congratulates you for owning the ability to explain the difference in penalty yardage between roughing the kicker and running into the kicker; that’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to know.

However, this display of mental acuity sometimes veers into areas of superstition and even psychosis. To cite the worst example: cases of domestic violence and spousal abuse spike dramatically in Wisconsin in the wake of Packer losses. The same dope who insists a screen-pass should be dialed-up to counteract the blitz schemes of the Patriots really believes his wife deserves a beating because the Packers tackled poorly, gave up too many yards, and lost the football game. Inside the fanatical, lowlife brain, a clear relationship is detected between bashing the face of the only woman who ever wanted to sleep with him and exacting punishment on the Packers for their failure. The brain works with viscious diligence and then blitzes like a head-hunting linebacker when it arrives at such senseless conclusions.

I have never hit a woman, but as a Packers fan, I am not above similar defects in logic. When it comes to following sports, brainpower certainly has its downfalls. For instance, I can tell you the winners of the last 20 Super Bowls, but for almost three hours of my life, I actually believed the Packers were going to lose because of a mishap that happened in my underpants 60 miles southwest of Lambeau Field.

Donald Driver fumbled in the first quarter of the Packers’ week 17 game against the Bears. The same was true of my anus. And I honestly thought both accidents could hurt the Packers’ playoff chances.

***

About 40 hours after I had contaminated myself with so much beer and champagne, my headache was beginning to ebb but my guts were still in a state of turmoil. My stomach felt a weight like mixed concrete  churning restlessly. I was still getting over a nasty cold and—with a tinge of guilt—I hazily recalled sipping and passing around bottles of champagne. I wondered how many poor saps woke up sneezing the morning afterward on account of that.

But I was all done dwelling on that unpleasantness once pre-game coverage of the Packers-Bears match-up started. At that point, I focused on the impending battle between two factions of jocks who didn’t at all like each other.

The Packers needed a win to secure the 6th and final seed in the playoffs. A loss would end their season. The Bears had already earned a first-round bye and stood nothing to gain or lose in terms of playoff seeding, but years ago, their head coach, Lovie Smith had vowed in his inaugural press conference that beating the Packers was his ultimate goal.

Accordingly, Smith did not rest any of his starters. The grandeur of division rivalry trumped the rationale of preserving the health of key players as Smith opted for the lineup that gave his team the best chance of winning a game that—for logical intents and purposes—meant nothing to the Bears.

But, of course, sports followers have been known to elude matters of logic. Lovie Smith and I offer proof of that.

On the cusp of the opening kickoff, I was alone in my parents’ well-furnished basement, recovering from my cold and too much drink. In retrospect, it was for the best that I was isolated. As a moderate obsessive-compulsive, I felt the disgusted need to be quarantined once the Packers started their opening drive at their own 25-yard line.

Yes, sweet retrospect. In retrospect, too, I did not jinx the Packers—as I had initially feared—when I splotched a shart into my boxer shorts just as the ball was booted off the tee to mark the start of the game.

If you don’t already know, a shart occurs when you squirt liquid shit into your underpants. The term was coined when some genius realized the first two letters in the word “shit” meshed well with the last three letters in “fart."

Hence: Shart—a bit of slang that Webster might reluctantly define as a "mishap of flatulence."

The instant before a man sharts, if he even suspects the awful notion, one of two thoughts comes to him. 1.) “This can’t conceivably become a shart.” 2.) “If this turns out to be a shart, I can live with that.” The former sharter in question is guilty of hubris and ignorance. The latter can be charged with a disregard for decent hygiene. Either you believe your righteous anus couldn’t possibly fall victim to a butt-muddling of that magnitude or you’re a slob of an adult with no real qualms about shitting himself. In regard to sharts, it doesn’t matter which team of thought you support; you can’t win.

“You can’t win.” That was a fitting sentiment as Aaron Rodgers and the Packer offense hurried onto the field to convene for the first huddle of the game. I, too, was hurrying at this moment in time—to the bathroom, chagrined and convinced that I had inflicted a bad omen on my favorite football team.

I had other matters to tend to when the Packers’ opening drive sputtered and the team was soon forced to punt. With crippled poise I unfurled several squares of toilet paper and swabbed the smelly ink blot, swearing I would never forgive myself if that smarmy dirt-bag Jay Cutler somehow managed to carve up the Packers’ secondary. I flushed the toilet and ran a go-route to my bedroom for a change of both underwear and jeans. In no time I returned to the couch—panting, humbled, and filled with dread. Thankfully, the Bears did not fare much better on their first possession.

The Packers’ offense, which was so potent the previous week at home against the Giants, continued to struggle. If memory serves, the ball was jarred loose from Driver’s possession on the Pack’s second drive, moments after he snared a catch on the Bears’ half of the field. The Bears did not capitalize on this turnover. They failed to convert a key third-down and again punted it away.

To quickly summarize the first half: Both defenses performed with stout tenacity, thereby frustrating fans of football’s true exclamation mark: the touchdown. Bears’ kicker Robbie Gould, the offspring of a Keebler elf and a Romanian figure-skater, made a 30-yard chip-shot in the second quarter. The Packers, sadly, couldn’t even move the ball into range to attempt a field goal.

A stingy defense notwithstanding, for the Packers, life was imitating shart.

Nerve-wracked and miserable, I couldn’t stand watching much of the third quarter. Apparently I missed interceptions thrown by both quarterbacks and a few confounding play calls near the goal-line that led to a Packers field goal rather than a touchdown.

No matter. The score was tied when I mustered up the resolve to watch the fourth quarter. As I hunched forward intently, wringing my hands, I promised myself the game was as new and untainted as the boxer shorts I had on. Sure, Rodgers had thrown a pick and Double-D had fumbled and I had sharted, but what did that prove? Our perseverance would mean nothing if the three of us weren’t prone to occasional follies. How petty our dedication would be if triumph was inevitable. We were men bound not by perfection—for that is a gift the Good Lord refuses to share with his creations—but rather a common cause: the pursuit of a Super Bowl victory, and nobody—especially not that smug underachiever Jay Cutler--was going to stop us.

My batty brain was running a swift 40-yard dash. 

Sure enough, though, the Packers prevailed. They managed only one touchdown—a short pass from Rodgers to veteran tight-end Donald Lee--but that score proved to be the last of the game. Cutler led a steady two-minute drill downfield, converted a handful of first-downs, but on the fringe of the red-zone, with less than a minute to play, he was intercepted by Pro-Bowl safety Nick Collins.

And so the Packers were headed for the playoffs. The abysmal condition of winter in Wisconsin would not be fully realized for at least another week. We were grateful.

That shart was evidently not a jinx but a good luck charm, and that worried me. I gulped gloomily and realized that I had set a precedent. If my sharting during the opening kickoff really amounted to a good luck charm for the Packers, would I be willing to do the exact same thing the next week when they played the Eagles in the playoffs? What if I felt no horrid indigestion just as the game started? Think of the consequences! Oh, God—the Packers wouldn’t stand a chance against Michael Vick and the Eagles if I didn’t shart at the precisely right moment in that game, too…

My brain was running another swift time in the 40-yard dash. It was an effort that would rightfully make the runners at the Special Olympics shake their heads and cringe.

***


The Packers defeated the Eagles in the first round of the playoffs, even though I didn't bless their cause by staining my underpants. The week after that, they played the Falcons in Atlanta and went on to beat them, too. I watched the game with my friend Willy, at his parents' house with his family.

The potent offense the Packers had showcased against the Giants resurged as Rodgers and his great quartet of receivers embarrassed the Falcons’ D on their own artificial turf. By the 4th quarter, the Packers had an insurmountable lead. We were elated. Willy marveled at the team’s Super Bowl chances. He told us that the NFC champion would be granted home jerseys for the upcoming big game because the previous NFC champions, the Saints, wore road jerseys in last year’s Super Bowl. The appeal of wearing home jerseys, he said, alternates on an annual basis.

His mom shook her head at this bit of trivia.

“You know too many stats,” she said.

She's right. And here is another gratuitous stat for you, football fans: The Green Bay Packers are undefeated when I shart during the game’s opening kickoff.

I Want to Help You Make Money!

This column dates back a few years. It was written for the April Fools' edition of the Advance-Titan, the college rag I contributed to. Devious and charismatic salesmen who peddle easy solutions to life's complex problems have always been funny to me. When a conservative newspaper on campus printed a story about an ambitious business major promoting his get-rich-quick scheme, complete with a picture of the student beaming prosperously, clad in a suit-and-tie, and brandishing a wad of cash, I couldn't resist the urge to spoof the charlatan. I suspected he was a colossal tool.

***

Hi, I'm Nicholas Olig and nothing would give me greater pleasure than helping YOU make money with one of MY ideas. See that picture of me? I look pretty darn rich, don't I? Not to sound boastful about my affluence, but let's just say that pile of loose change in my hand contains more quarters than pennies. And you see that coupon? It's for $1 off a pack of cigarettes. Only a fool would poison his lungs at full-price!

If you're like me, you value the love and respect of your family and friends. Well, by employing my perfectly legal scheme, you'll have enough money to buy up every ounce of love and respect your family and friends have to offer. (Next week I'll tell you how to SELL the love and respect of your family and friends to cost-effective markets overseas. Prediction: You'll be rolling in the dough along with various attractive people that want to have sex with you!)

Now for the perfectly legal scheme: If your mom is anything like mine, she is a sweet and caring woman who knows very little about sports. Family ties aside, that lack of sports knowledge is begging to be exploited. Hey, moms are great, but if they don't want to be exploited by their own children they should follow sports as obsessively as their male offspring.

Recently I was faced with a fiscal dilemma. I couldn't afford to pay my lofty heating bill because I blew all my money on miniature pilot costumes for my five kittens so they could regale me with feline reenactments of scenes from "Top Gun." It's a predicament almost everyone can relate to.

At home over spring break, as I brooded over ESPN Classic on the TV, mom walked in the room, glanced at the screen and said, "Oh dear, It doesn't look good for the red-and-blue football men, does it? The blue-and-white squad is up by a lot of runs."

A light-bulb flashed atop my head, and that light-bulb was made out of solid gold. She had just used baseball terminology in reference to a football game and had no clue the game had already been decided over ten years ago. What an opportunity!

After much persistence and a teary-eyed declaration that she didn't love me because she wouldn't gamble with me, I coaxed her into a hundred-dollar wager. I bet her the Buffalo Bills would come back from a 35-3 deficit to defeat the staggering Houston Oilers in overtime, and I gave her 3:1 odds to sweeten the deal.

And when the final whistle blew, sure enough, the Bills prevailed in the 1993 AFC Championship Game, just like I remembered. I was one-hundred dollars richer and I had more money to spend on Top Gun kitty reenactments.

My luck didn't run out there. Next they aired game six of the National League Championship Series from 2003 between the Marlins and my beloved Cubs. I waited until the eight inning, then called her into the living room and bet her double-or-nothing the Cubs would squander their two-run lead due in large part from fan interference from a future dead man in the bleachers alongside the leftfield foul line. She totally fell for it!

Now, don't get me wrong. I love the Cubs, and my mom for that matter, but not as much as I love money and the kitty Top Gun re-enactments money affords.

And by the way, some of the perfectly legal money I earned from my sports-ignorant mom was donated to charity. The charity is called, "Electronics for the Homeless," and because of my donation, a labor-challenged Oshkosh man who resides in the Dumpster Hut outside of Fletcher Hall was blessed with a free blender.

So there you have it: Exploiting your mom's lack of sports knowledge can make you a lot of money, and it is also a noble cause. I'll see you next week, when my photo will showcase the awesome calf implants I just purchased with one of my many piles of cash!

The Danger Zone Mix

Me: If the Danger Zone referenced on the Top Gun soundtrack was a literal, tangible place instead of a metaphor, which vehicle would you drive on your journey on the Highway to the Danger Zone?

Willy: Hold on. I won’t answer that question until you clarify a few things for me. In the first place, why would I voluntarily travel to a place called “The Danger Zone”?

Me: For the sake of thrill-seeking, maybe.

Willy: But I’m not really a thrill-seeker. I mostly seek paychecks and relaxation and sex. When I get done with work, I spend time with my wife and daughter. Sometimes I spark a joint in the basement and then put on NetFlix and fill out a crossword. Maybe get laid, if we can get the baby to take a nap. It’s a pretty tame lifestyle, based on routine, but I kind of prefer it that way. I’m not the Danger Zone type. I have no reason, no inclination to take a trip to the Danger Zone.

Me: Well, what if circumstances forced you to drive to the Danger Zone? What if you had to enter the Danger Zone in order to rescue your wife and daughter?

Willy: Then I’d call my wife on her cell phone. I'd be like, “I thought I told you to stay away from the Danger Zone. And you brought the baby along with you, too? What the hell? That’s pretty weak, honey.”

Me: Okay, okay. What if evil forces from the Danger Zone kidnapped your wife and daughter?

Willy: What kind of evil forces?

Me: Let’s see...How about a coalition of al-Qaeda zombies and black bears armed with bazookas?

Willy: Those creatures don’t exist. You know that, right?

Me: Of course I do. But the entire question is hypothetical in nature. The Danger Zone doesn’t really exist, either. It’s imaginary; therefore, it harbors imaginary things.

Willy: Well-played, nut-job. All right. So, the question you’re asking me is as follows: If al-Qaeda zombies joined forces with bazooka-shooting black bears and then kidnapped my wife and daughter and stole them off to a place known as the Danger Zone, which vehicle would I drive on my journey to rescue them?

Me: Yes, that’s it. Exactly.

Willy: Okay. I’m tempted to opt for a souped-up squad car or something flashy, with plenty of gusto, like an Escalade, but because the question itself is fantasy-based, I had better squash that rational instinct. Something invincible and deadly, such as a tank, seems like a good answer, but then again, tanks aren’t exactly designed for highway driving, are they? A monster truck comes to mind, but those are reckless vehicles, and I’d probably destroy a dozen or so cars accidentally on my way to rescue my wife and daughter. And that’s no good. I don’t need my conscience terrorized by the deaths of innocent strangers I was responsible for, just because I had the balls to command a beast like the Gravedigger on the highway. So forget about the tank and the monster truck.

Me: Will do. The tank and the monster truck are now dead to us.

Willy: What about the DeLorian from Back to the Future?

Me: On the surface, it’s an alluring choice, considering the appeal of ‘80s nostalgia, but keep in mind, if you exceed 88 miles per hour in that thing, you’ll be going back in time rather than saving your wife and daughter from capture in the Danger Zone.

Willy: That’s a valid point. Also, you really should talk to chicks more often.

Me: Neither here nor there but noted. Do you have an answer to the question?

Willy: Yeah, I think so. Staying true to the appeal of ‘80s nostalgia but excluding the time machine factor, I’m going with KITT from Knight Rider. That car is conditioned for danger. Plus it’s incredibly fast and nimble, perfect for highway driving, and if I drove the black sports-car from Knight Rider back to safety with my family in tow, I guarantee I’d have sex at least twice that night.

Me: All right. That was a clear and thoughtful answer, and I respect it.

Willy: What about you? Which vehicle would you drive along the Highway to this Danger Zone?

Me: Oh! It’s a no-brainer. The Batmobile.

Willy: Okay. I’ll go along with that. Which Batmobile?

Me: The one that Batman rides in, stupid.

Willy: Oh, my. How flabbergasting. No, I mean which incarnation of the Batmobile? Adam West’s muscle-car from the late ‘60s? Michael Keaton’s sleek and aerodynamic ride? The phallic-shaped version from Batman Forever? The militaristic vehicle with the escape pod motorcycle from the Christopher Nolan flicks...

Me: Got’cha. My bad. Allow me to clarify. I’d go with Michael Keaton’s Batmobile. My hunch is strong that, of all the Batmobiles, Keaton’s showcases the best balance of style, giddy-up, armor, weaponry, and handling.

Willy: Fair enough. So, I’d drive KITT along the Highway to the Danger Zone, whereas you’d go with the Batmobile from the original Batman movie. Are we through here?

Me: Not quite. We’ve established the cars we’d drive, but an additional question to consider is as follows: What kind of music would you listen to en route to the Danger Zone?

Willy: Aside from the obvious choice of “The Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins?

Me: Preferably, yes. That pick doesn’t require much imagination. Plus, in this hypothetical scenario, your journey to the Danger Zone is long enough to include exactly ten tracks of your choosing. It would be trite and agonizing to listen to “The Danger Zone” ten times in a row.

Willy: Hey, that’s debatable. It’s clear you don’t have much respect for the soundtrack king of the 1980s. “I’m Alright” doesn’t put you in the mood to take off your shirt and run around a sprinkler with a bottle of champagne in hand? I’m worried about you.

Heavily rewritten with better results, this one appears in my eBook More Stories, and Additional Stories. 

Will Write Book for Food

Every time I tell someone I’m releasing a self-published book, the first question he or she asks is, of course, “What is the book about?” That is a legitimate question with a complex answer. For the most part, There Will Be Blog is: A COLLECTION OF POP-CULTURE OBSESSED COMEDIC MEMOIRS. This means that I tend to infuse a multitude of references to movies, TV, sports, and literature when I tell stories about the tumultuous, sometimes wretched and despairing, pursuit of happiness that is my life. An essay such as “People Don’t Usually Forget Human Train-wrecks” is a personal account about fainting in my friend’s basement, bashing my head against the concrete, and then asking my pals a series of loopy questions under the guise of having a concussion. The piece is loaded with allusions to Trailer Park Boys, Predator, and Billy Joel.

But the terse description of the book offered above in bold is only about 60% accurate. Memoirs are supposed to be truthful. In essays such as “Professor Radington” and “The Cut Upper Lip,” I take a sliver of truth (wanting to become a father someday and cutting myself shaving before enrolling in a class at the Second City, respectively) and then I use hyperbole to launch the accounts into farcical, self-effacing fiction.

Also included in the book are six or seven Open Letters From Eccentric Buffoons. The OLFEBs were written from the perspectives of different characters, irrational loons, by and large, who berate the reader with strange lectures, appeals, or confessions. “Everybody Be Cool and Listen Up,” for instance, was written from the viewpoint of a disgraced cop who attempts to galvanize a small group of Apocalypse survivors gathered inside an abandoned fireworks shack. Essay such as this, along with “The Great Waldo Column,” “The Seafood Casserole,” and a few others, reflect very little about my personal life and should not be mistaken for memoirs.

Oftentimes the book is quite funny, but the word “COMEDIC” does not apply entirely. On a few occasions, I become more concerned with providing insight and/ or exploring emotions than making jokes. I don’t want to be charged with failing as a comedy writer in the instances when I wasn’t even trying to be funny. “The Dark Knight and Brett Favre” and the gloomy parts of “The Boner Way Out,” for instance, were not conceived with intentions of inducing laughter.

The book is (usually) humorous in tone, with a personal delivery. Keep in mind, though, that there is a difference between 1.) offering one’s pithy opinions and goofy observations 2.) conveying a funny autobiography. I don’t always accomplish both of those objectives at the same time. Readers of There Will Be Blog will learn more about my opinions and observations than the specifics of my experiences; this is because what I think is (sadly?) more interesting than what I have actually done.

The language is meant to be eloquent and vivid. If you don’t own one of those vocabulary-building word-of-the-day calendars, you might have to consult a dictionary on occasion while reading the book. I have ambivalent feelings toward “big words.” I believe that readers should be challenged, that a writer should use a wide array of words to avoid stagnated and repetitive prose, and that vocab-words commonly boast a degree of exactness not offered by everyday language. On the other hand, “big words” can alienate readers, butcher and enfeeble the message the author is trying to convey, and, horribly enough, writers sometimes employ “big words” in a pathetic and haughty attempt to bloat their own disgusting egos...at the expense of the very people who keep them employed, no less. There is not excuse for doing that. Therefore, I made several late edits to the manuscript to make the language a bit more accessible, but you’ll still have to suffer through some of the verbosity featured in my first book. (Concupiscence, languorous, paradoxical, mawkish, ebullient, eviscerate, etc.)

Also regarding language: My mom really wishes I didn’t swear so much—in print, at least. If vulgarity upsets you, it’s probably best to avoid reading There Will Be Blog. It is indeed possible, and perhaps more virtuous, to create brilliant comedy without resorting to profanity. And an argument could be made that cuss words tarnish merit. I don’t subscribe to that mindset, though; I believe that properly used obscenities capture a weird sense of catharsis. They can also provide a sort of fireworks display within the language. So there. I’m all done defending profanity. I must take the high road on this matter. If you don’t read my book because you don’t care for all the swearing, nobody has the right to call you a pussy.

In case you’re wondering how my material compares to some more credible books and authors you might be familiar with...

I’m not as intellectually gifted as Chuck Klosterman,* but, according to me, at least, I’m slightly funnier and more personal than he is. If you enjoyed America: The Book and I am America (and So Can You!), the satirical, sometimes wicked comedy featured in There Will Be Blog will most likely appeal to you as well. Truth be known, though, I can’t quite match the comedic clout offered by Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert and their team of writers; plus, I don’t often focus on politics. The books of George Carlin inspired me greatly. He was no doubt funnier and smarter than me, but I am less pessimistic than Carlin, not as comforted by the notion that we are all doomed. The last author to consider is David Sedaris, a terrific memoirist whose humor is more refined and subtle than my brand. His prose is also much crisper and more economical than mine. Sedaris’ willingness to inject humor into self-deprecating testimonials no doubt impacted parts of the book I wrote.

There is a puzzling quality to There Will Be Blog, and I think the mystery runs deeper than being left wondering, “What is wrong with this guy?” or “Why did I read this book?” Some of the questions the book implicitly poses, by accident, are as follows:

“To what extent does our consumption of pop-culture affect our identities? And if the impact is significant, as it is in my case, what does that say about me (or possibly us)? Pop-culture grants us shared sentiments and experiences; it’s easier to relate to someone who likes the same bands, TV shows, or sports teams that we do. But how genuine is the binding force of pop-culture? Is the force in question cheap, dubious, and artificial? Or is it a privilege exclusive to advanced societies that we should embrace? As an author, do I present a valid and engaging blend of memoir and media criticism, or am I just a shallow curmudgeon, ‘Lost in the Supermarket,’ shopping for ‘Fake Plastic Trees’?”**

I don’t have answers to these questions—or if I do, I’m not yet willing to share them. My hope is that I can at least prompt a handful of readers to invest some thought into these queries.

That old, familiar feeling that I have rambled too much is upon me, and so I really should wrap up this plea of self-promotion. In the opening essay of the book, I state that even if There Will Be Blog turns out to be “yet another blundering failure, I’m grateful for it.” That’s the truth. I’m grateful for the opportunity to say to an audience, “This is what I want to do with my life. Do you think it’s any good? P.S., it’s going to cost you roughly $20 to answer this relatively insignificant question.”

I will not make a profit on this book until its sales exceed 54 copies.

I am asking you to please help me break even.

Book page: www.xlibris.com/ThereWillBeBlog.html
Author page: www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html
E-mail: orders@xlibris.com




*Chuck Klosterman is the author of Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs and Eating the Dinosaur. He excels at finding correlations between two seemingly disparate ideas—such as Kurt Cobain’s psyche during the recording of In Utero and the fatal fiasco of the Branch Davidian cult in Waco, TX...or the pathos of Generation X and the film The Empire Strikes Back. A few of my essays set out to accomplish the same sort of thing. (“The Type who Craves Punishment” and “Musicals and Superhero Flicks, Fighting in Harmony,” among others.)

**”Lost in the Supermarket” and “Fake Plastic Trees” are ballads by the Clash and Radiohead, respectively. The lyrics to both songs lament the ways in which consumer culture dilutes, troubles, and wearies the spirit of the individual. Excerpt from “Lost in the Supermarket”: “I’m all lost in the supermarket/ I can no longer shop happily/ I came in here for that special offer/ Guaranteed personality.” And from “Fake Plastic Trees”: “She looks like the real thing/ She tastes like the real thing/ My fake plastic love/ But I can’t help the feeling/ I could blow through the ceiling/ If I’d just turn and run/ And it wears me out.”

Too Sad to Dance

I stumble on some mental and physical obstacles on the dance floor. When I was 15 years old, I was the only one in a class of 20-plus to receive a grade lower than a “B” in the dancing unit of gym. Our teacher, a mustachioed tough-guy-type who cherished Jim Croce and sips of whiskey from his flask between classes, felt strongly that the uncertain rhythm of my steps in clumsy tandem with my partner brought disgrace to “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” My sparkling blue peepers and earnestly formed dimples couldn’t save me as I stomped on the dainty feet of beauties in bloom. Where would I be without shameful memories such as these? More prosperous and happier, probably, but stuck in a different line of work.

My old gym teacher’s disapproval hasn’t stopped me from ever dancing again. In fact, sometimes I dance out of sheer spite for that nimrod. It is unwise to cut a rug with gnashed teeth and a glint of disdain in your eyes. When I’m in that sort of a vindictive mood, I feel like the only brooding street tough from West Side Story dancing among dozens of the cheerful youngsters at the prom from Footloose. Then I laugh at myself, lose the scowl, and pretend that I’m happy. I fake it on the dance floor—but unlike Kevin Bacon, I’m not much of an actor, and the Hollow Man is a better dancer than me, too.

****

I like to peel off ladies’ panties and then make wild thrusts of passion. It has got to be my favorite physical activity, and I really should do it more often. A billion men feel the same way. That’s the only valid reason why dancing matters; women dictate that it is the sincerest form of foreplay. What puzzles me about dancing is that, on the surface, a lot of movement is required to go nowhere. Every expressive journey on the dance floor leads you to where you started. But that line of thought is literal and reductive. Effective dancing can lead to the ultimate destination: The bedroom. Like a blood-lusting shark, a gyrating man encircles an alluring woman, on a mission to lure her back home to his bedroom, a special place to him (and sometimes to her), where all fantasies of anywhere else in the world become obsolete.

A lot of times, the best dancers prove themselves worthy of a nude romp between the sheets.

This truth poses a problem for me because, all things considered, I’m a pretty shitty dancer. Granted, I can offer sincerity and a willingness to please, but I really struggle with wiring my body and mind to a specific rhythm. The logical part of my brain convinces me that the act of dancing is little more than a glorified tantrum, a spastic flailing of limbs set to music. Despite the benefits of smooth dancing (like getting laid), I can’t get over the fact that I’m playing by rules that seem too ludicrous and funny to take seriously.

“Hey, pretty lady, my cock-thrusts really meshed well with the beat of ‘Brown Sugar,’ don’t you think? Therefore, we should totally fuck.”

That unspoken pick-up line has worked thousands of times. How do I feel about this? I am partly jealous but mostly dumbfounded...or maybe those adjectives should be transposed.

Walking ranks second on my list of top physical activities. Walking gives you plenty of time to daydream and observe the scenery and ponder your next destination. I wish that a man’s prowess was more readily determined by his aptitude as a walker, not a dancer, but this is rarely the case. That seems like a shame. We walk with much greater frequency than we dance. Dancing is a novelty. Walking is more of a necessity. Dancing is how we escape from reality. Walking is how we cope with reality. I'd much rather talk to a chick on a walk around the neighborhood than try to impress her with some "Brown Sugar"-inspired cock-thrusts. It's no contest! On the dance floor, people drool over each other’s bodies without having to rely on words for anything, but it’s all a charade, a reprieve from the burden of having nothing meaningful to say.

That last sentence wasn't funny, but I've got range. Read all about the part of my range that includes not being funny even though that's probably what you'd expect and would also be the most satisfying but oh well I guess standards have fallen in my better-than-average eBook More Stories, and Additional Stories. 

An Interview with Gay Mascots

Written in 2006, I do believe.

***

This gay marriage debate gives me an endless migraine. Remember when the country’s most heated debate revolved around whether the hillbilly in office should be impeached for getting a wink-wink from a plump intern and then lying about it? The state of the union was by no means perfect back then, but all things considered, we were in much better shape.

Since we’ve had a new hillbilly in office, I’ve become more aware of the crusade against gay marriage. In regard to this terribly divisive issue, I would like to state that I have no problem with two same-sex people marrying each other. I think homosexuals are simply born gay; it’s ingrained in their genetics. With that in mind, discriminating against them is senseless. To prove my point comically, read this: “Horniness, and the cause of horniness, is rarely a well-thought-out decision.” Like many of you, I have indeed experienced horniness, and it’s really more of a visceral reaction than a damn career choice. Some people get that undeniable, flush-faced hormone buzz from a person with genitalia similar to their own. What’s the big deal? If a gay couple wishes to express its mutual devotion by getting married, I say, “Good luck with that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to un-pause my game of NBA Jam and play it until I throw up.”

Recently I had the opportunity to interview a gay couple—and a famous one, at that. Both men rose to prominence as flamboyant NFL mascots, only to be replaced by “more masculine” logos in the mid-1990s. The motives behind their firings were dubious; one could argue they were victims of discrimination.

I spoke with Bruce Buccaneer and Pat Patriot in Boston shortly after the 10th Annual Revolutionary War Reenactment for A.I.D.S. Research. Bruce and Pat offered their time in between the reenactment and the after-party at a nearby nightclub.

Nick Olig: Thanks for the interview, guys. It’s a real privilege.

Bruce Buccaneer: Oh, stop it. Pat and I can spare some downtime between appointments on an otherwise busy day. We’re happy to talk with you.

NO: Great. Pat, this is the first time I’ve been to a Revolutionary War Reenactment. It’s been a lot of fun.

Pat Patriot: I’m glad you enjoyed it. Reenactments are a big passion of mine. Ever since the New England team...since they decided to go in a different direction, I’ve worked as a manager at a Colonial Museum in Wooster. It’s such a captivating and time and place in history, when men fought and died for the freedoms we still hold dear. It’s a thrill to do my part to preserve it all in some way, you know?

BB: God, don’t even get him started. He’ll gab all night long and be too preoccupied with “musket chatter” to have a dance with me.

NO: (laughs)

BB: I mean it! He takes his work so seriously. Two years ago, I participated in the reenactment hoopla. I fought with the Redcoats, just to mess with Pat—plus the uniform radiates this intense pizzazz, you know. It’s very gaudy. I didn’t want to carry a gun—a fake gun, mind you—so I was one those easy targets that banged on a snare drum as I marched. That was such a riot.

PP: Bruce, this really is an unfortunate tangent...

BB: Well, it’ll be over soon enough, sweetheart. Wait ‘til I get to the best part.

PP: Worst part is more like it.

BB: So, Pat spotted me on the battlefield—I was just playing my drum, not pretend-hurting anyone—and the jerk pretend-shot me, then expected me to play dead. My own partner pretend shot me. What an insult, you know?

PP: Tell the nice columnist what happened next.

BB: I will. I waited until I could see the whites of his eyes and then I chucked my drumstick at his face. Direct hit! I nailed him in the eye.

PP: (chuckles) It really hurt! I had to wear an eye-patch for a week.

BB: Oh, quit your bellyaching. Eye-patches build character. Anyway, I’m into that swashbuckler look, if you haven’t already noticed.

NO: Yeah, and speaking of swashbucklers, Bruce, you’re known for your pirate ensemble and trademark wink. How were you discovered in Tampa Bay all those years ago?

BB: Well, it was back in the late ‘70s. I came in contact with this sort of entrepreneur, head-honcho guy with clout in the south Florida music scene. I was...God, in my early 20s and very naïve—starry-eyed and longing for fame. The Village People were big, and he wanted to cash in on the craze. So he assembled this Village People replica group, and after a few auditions, I was named the group’s pirate. I sang alongside a lumberjack, a hairdresser, and a figure skater. It so ridiculous and fun and...hazy. Our debut bombed, not unlike O-Town, but singing in the group got me some recognition from this football franchise that was just starting up, and a fierce wardrobe, too.

NO: Did the organization in Tampa know of your sexual orientation?

BB: It was all a hushed, “don’t ask, don’t tell” sort of deal. Same thing with Pat.

NO: Where did you two meet?

BB: We met at a party thrown at Steve DeBerg’s mansion—he was the quarterback for the Buccaneers at the time. We were introduced by Thunderous Cleats, the mascot for the Redskins. I won’t bore you with the schmaltzy details, but it was a very special night.

NO: Cool. Well, on to more unpleasant topics. Pat, you were fired before the start of the ’93 season.

PP: Yeah. The owner told me I was getting up there in age, which was true.

BB: Honestly, Pat, don’t do this to yourself. It’s like that Outkast song says, “Age ain’t nothing but a number.”

PP: I have no idea who the Outkasts are. Anyway, it just so happened that I was terminated a week after Bruce and I finally went public with our relationship. I think...maybe the franchise had some ulterior motives, but either way, I had a good run as the official logo. And now, I’m doing work I really enjoy. No hard feelings, I guess, but I was disappointed.

BB: I got the ax a few years later. And those three or four years weren’t much fun, either. The team kept having losing seasons and I felt like I was walking on thin ice, even though the organization was a bit more tolerant of (self-mocking finger quotes) “alternative lifestyles.” After the ’96 season, I was told the franchise was going in a “more aggressive direction with their logo.”

NO: Lame.

BB: I was okay with it. “Good run. Bigger and better things and blah-blah-blah.” Two things for the record, though: Pewter is a God-awful, hideous color, much less pleasing to the eye than Popsicle orange. Ahem! And secondly, gays can be every bit as aggressive and feisty as straight people. I’ve seen Nathan Lane and Clay Aiken tussle over the last pair of Lumiani shoes at a clearance sale and it was not a pretty sight.

NO: (laughs) I understand you two have an adopted son?

PP: Indeed we do. Lucas turned twelve in March.

BB: He’s a Pisces, just like Pat.

PP: Whatever that means. As I was saying, Lucas has grown up surprisingly fast, as kids tend to do, and...it hasn’t always been easy for him, but the crap he has had to deal with has never tarnished his love for us. The adversity and the scorn you get from certain people just make the bond you share that much more essential. Lucas is such a blessing for us.

BB: Pat is grooming him to become a center on the football team. From time to time, I like to spoil Pat’s efforts by suggesting Lucas try out for the cheerleading squad.

PP: Offensive linemen are usually smarter than cheerleaders, Bruce. My persuasion is merely in the interest of the boy’s intellectual growth.

BB: (sarcastically) Oh, I’m sure.

NO: Well, I’m just about out of questions. Thanks for your time. Any parting comments?

PP: Sure. In regard to homophobia, or racism, or any other form of discrimination, when you question the reasons behind those beliefs, you’re likely to find feelings of hatred and superiority. To my mind, sentiments such as those can only serve to damage your good will toward others.

BB: Isn’t Pat a great orator? Oh, I could gab all day about his oral skills. At Steve DeBerg’s party, the night we first met...

PP: Bruce, I’m sensing a blow-job joke in the works. Hush up, please. We were so close to concluding this interview in a dignified fashion.

BB: (laughs) Oh, I’m sorry. We’re two middle-aged men, dressed-up like a pirate and a soldier from the American Revolution; dignity really matters to us, obviously. We demand to be taken seriously!

PP: Point taken. Anyway, let’s get going to that after-party, shall we?

NO: I’m down with that. Elton John is playing, right?

PP: He sure is.

NO: Excellent. If he plays “Your Song,” I’ll have no choice but to cry my eyeballs out.