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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Sorry. I had to. Inside joke.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks!

My Dumb Eulogy (More Stories and Additional Stories version)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, it's in my pants, jackass.”

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

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

Historia de Objeto Inanimado

Having grown up in America, I realize I am biased in what I'm about to state, but here it is, anyway: I'm still completely baffled by the way foreign languages have both masculine and feminine nouns. It remains a ludicrous idea to me. In Spanish, for instance, the restaurant is a man but the library is a woman. What? Who made the official ruling on that? And more importantly, why? It's nonsense. Restaurants and libraries are places, not people or animals.

The ultimate saving grace of our system of writing and speech is that we only have one way to say “the.” When you consider how much other languages over-complicate saying “the,” we have a wonderfully simple system. It's realistic, too, because it's kind of insane to constantly think of inanimate objects—lifeless things like shoes and spoons—as having male and female sex parts, and maybe I'm being too literal about it, but clearly, they don't.

I'm sorry if that seems insensitive or xenophobic, and it should be noted that every once in a while I do act like a buffoon, but I have never heard a foreign language teacher (or anyone else) explain the need for masculine and feminine nouns in a convincing fashion. German, French, and Spanish should all drop at least one “the.” Ultimately, I think other languages just have a weird, lingering tradition of smooching and banging scissors and hammers together as though they are Barbie and Ken dolls.

That got me thinking—in as much as it made me paranoid. If, by some miracle, I'm wrong in my criticism of masculine and feminine nouns, then the inanimate objects inhabiting my very own apartment could secretly be experiencing self-aware, gender-influenced lives—just animals with a pulse, like us. For all I know, the pencils, lamps, notebooks, lighters, books, computer, and desk so familiar to me might become sentient and stage raging debates about gender inequality and sexism when I leave my residence—kind of like Toy Story, but with a pencil, an oscillating fan, and a computer instead of Woody, Buzz and Bo Peep.

Let's explore what would happen if that were the case. Only kidding! This actually happened.

After reheating some cold pizza in a toaster oven and devouring it, I departed my apartment and leave for work. To translate in Spanish, this means that I ate some pizza—which is feminine, mind you—left my manly apartment, and departed for my masculine job.

By the time I pushed through the effeminate door on my down the macho fire escape to my dude-reminiscent car, the inanimate object population of my apartment became abuzz. Everything I owned had an important meeting to conduct. My computer, a female, turned on and voiced an announcement.

“All things small and portable, gather in the living room for today's debate...”

My refrigerator, a cold and robust woman, exclaimed a protest.

“What about me? I way 300 pounds and I can't move!”

“We can hear you from the kitchen, Mrs. Refrigerator!” my computer snapped. “We can't risk you coming here and scratching the linoleum floor. Ever hear of a security deposit, you buzzing old...”

Slinking toward the gathering of objects at the base of the masculine desk and the effeminate computer, my cozy wool blanket interjected.

“Ladies, please, let's not bicker amongst ourselves. We're in this together, remember?”

“Thank you, Miss Blanket,” my computer said. “You're right. Now, in regard to today's long-awaited debate on gender inequality, Mr. Pencil asked—no, DEMANDED—to have opening remarks. So much for ladies first, I suppose. Your remarks, Mr. Pencil?”

My pencil waddled on its eraser and stood upright to address my possessions.

“Woman, you might be due for a virus scan, if ya catch my drift.”

This boorish remark was met mostly by the jeers it deserved, though the radio and the desk, with their obvious machismo leanings, still voiced their audacious approval.

“Only kidding, dames!” Mr. Pencil laughed sleazily. “Any-hoo, in all my years as a sliver of wood with a graphite-tip, I have never heard anything so absurd as the accusations of Mrs. Computer here that my brotherhood of inanimate objects and I are in any way, shape, or form sexist.”

Overhearing this, my dishwasher disagreed.

“You said my place was in the kitchen!” she accused.

“Anyone think we should have a dishwasher installed in the living room?” my pencil asked in a facetious tone. “Does that make sense to anyone? No. OK, and mind your manners, Mrs. Dishwasher. That's one topic done. You got any other bright ideas for complaints in that big, Pentium processor or whatever-the-hell-it-is brain of yours?”

“You pig,” my computer said.

“Pigs are masculine, so thank you.”

“My other complaints include not just sexism but your overall bigotry,” my computer said. “Nick's notebook and his oscillating fan can't get married, even though they're in love.”

“Yes, Mr. Fan blows my pages with LOVE!” my notebook declared.

My oscillating fan waved a soothing hello, then turned away toward the other wall...

“That is an abomination!” my pencil said. “Good lord, a notebook and a fan doing such a thing. Disgusting.”

“You're just jealous because I don't love you!” my notebook shouted at my pencil. “Nobody loves you, Mr. Pencil.”

“Why, that's not true. On many occasions after dark, I have indeed found love by plunging myself into the pure and delectable hole of Mrs. Pencil Sharpener.”

A moment passed, one that escalated from shock to awkwardness to sheer delight among Mr. Pencil's enemies.

“Pencil sharpener is a masculine noun,” my computer declared.

“Yeah,” my pencil sharpener said. “Dude, you didn't know I was a dude? Seriously?”

My once-upright pencil nearly toppled to the carpet but managed a slanted posture in his moment of trauma.

“Oh, sweet Lord, what have I done?!” my pencil shrieked.

But he regained his composure, reconsidered the many errors of his ways, and in no uncertain terms, he saw the light—literally, since Mrs. Lamp clicked on when he posed dramatically in the direction of her bulb.

“I've been an insensitive fool all this time,” my pencil said. “Whether pencil, dishwasher, radio, or fat refrigerator, we should all be treated with the same respect and kindness. Heck, when you put our obvious sex-differences aside, inanimate objects like us are all pretty much alike. We're all inhuman, ya know? Let this be a day of everlasting celebration in Nick's apartment, for we the masculine and feminine nouns have finally learned to live together in perfect harm—”

“He's home early!”

That was my lamp, warning the others as I crossed the fire escape and searched for the proper key to unlock the door. My pencil reverted to being a jerk.

“How dare you interrupt me, Miss Light!”

“You can't talk to her that way!” my blanket chastised.

The objects continued to argue and insult each other in this manner, right up to the moment I walked inside and saw the supernatural spectacle. After I explained to the toaster that I got Sunday mixed up with Monday again, I got the scoop on the dispute from my garbage can, and my mind was obviously quite blown. I stroked my chin and wondered, “Should I do a story about this? Yes, and then a movie.”

All right, thanks for reading this buffoonery, and sorry for the abrupt conclusion, but before I get to the Inanimate Objects Story screenplay, I'm in a hurry to finish the first draft of my epic legal-drama Alien v. Predator: The Supreme Court Trial.

Nobody Brought a Football (rewrite)

While I love football in spite of its glaring flaws, athletic stalwarts are rarely made for acting, and the advertisements that feature these men are oftentimes hard to watch. This sports story stars offensive lineman Brock Walton, a bad brute who didn't get everything he wanted before the filming of his boneheaded local commercial.

###

Brock Walton:

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

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

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

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

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

The nobodies sitting on milk crates in their trailers will say, “Who is that asshole dressed like the rest of us bums, not holding a football, telling us where to buy a truck? What does he know about game plans? Just where in the fuck does he get off?”

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

...

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.

Fail Mary Revisited

The Green Bay Packers' matchup with the Seattle Seahawks to open the 2014 National Football League season rekindles memories of injustice. In 2012, when the Pack Attack last battled the 2013 champs, the green and gold got shafted by hapless replacement referees on a play that decided the outcome of the game. Following that fiasco, while I grieved, I wrote an explanation for the madness, from the point-of-view of one of the dopey refs. Enjoy former NFL scab Clyde Skumly's take on that Seattle “touchdown” that definitely wasn't a touchdown.

Clyde Skumly, replacement ref:

All right, you football freaks, if you could all stop bickering about how plan-B referees cost your favorite team a win, pretty-pretty-please with sugar on top allow me to defend myself and my colleagues. Yes, earlier this year I worked as a replacement ref in the NFL while the real officials were on strike. And I'd like to point out that I'm pretty sure I correctly nailed an Eagles' lineman for a false start, and meanwhile, that Ed Hochuli ref you people suddenly wanna hug did nothing but bench-press a treadmill in his basement. I guess that's gratitude for ya.

Our best efforts to succeed at the highest level of the reffing trade, under intense pressure and in a very short window of time, may have been criticized, but we weren't as incompetent as some of you ingrates think. While my associates had built their resumes by reffing everything from the Lingerie League to dog shows to pie-eating contests, I'd been busting my hump for decades as an official for a different sport that may cause brain damage: Professional wrestling.

Shortly after I damn near graduated from high school, I began my career as an amateur wrestling referee. When I made the jump from amateur to pro wrestling, it was for two reasons: 1.) When you watch sweaty young men straddle and pin each other enough times, it starts seemin' fruity. 2.) Plus I got fired for “gross ineptitude.”

Thankfully, the WWF came calling shortly thereafter. Apparently they were impressed by my reputation as a hapless referee and simply blown away by the awful score I got on that IQ test they gave me. My life was transformed in that magical moment when the owner of the company handed me a contract outside of a strip club and groaned, “Shit or get off the pot.” In a matter of weeks I was warning Jake “The Snake” Roberts to put his damn pet python back in its bag, and the jeers I got from Albuquerque to Tallahassee only toughened my skin. For all officials, our job entails making unpopular calls, and if that means sending young fans of The Undertaker or the Packers home with tears in their eyes while we refs rejoice in their sorrow, then so be it.

Death threats no longer scare me. I wasn't fazed when I got bundles of hate mail after I reffed that match between Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant at Wrestlemania V or X or whatever the hell it was. Sure, my critics still insist I had my back turned while Andre hit Hulk in the head with a steel chair (which was an illegal foreign object) because I got distracted by Andre the Giant's evil manager, that I wrongly counted the Hulkster down for the three-count and awarded the championship belt to Andre the Giant. And to those naysayers, here's my rebuttal: My ruling stands. Get over it. Maybe Hulk did get knocked out by that illegal chair as the tape clearly shows and maybe he didn't, but I'm the ref and I didn't see it. So, go to fuck yourself, OK?

I didn't become a referee for the approval of my fellow man, or the trophy wives or the money. Heck, I gave up on trophy wives years ago. I earn just enough scratch to shack up with loose broads here and there while I'm on the road. And I really don't give a crap if my fellow man disapproves of that.

Not long after the story broke about the real refs going on strike, I was contacted by the NFL. Once a league official assured me that the gig—however temporary—would pay better than working this year's SummerSlam, I was happy to hop aboard the football express. My God, they even held the contract-signing inside an office in New York City! I had to put on a fancy suit and shake hands with big shots and put on deodorant and everything. It felt a lot more legit than pressing a contract against the back of Bam Bam Bigelow outside of The Golden Beaver in Knoxville and signing it with a stripper's eyeliner as I had done to join the WWF.

Lord knows my first few weeks jobbing as an NFL weren't perfect. On one occasion, I made a series of shadow-puppet gestures 'cause I forgot how to hand-signal a false-start penalty. Some football know-it-all on ESPN called me “substandard,” but at least the paychecks kept coming. In spite of the bickering from the media and the fans, I finally got the cash to buy that pinball machine I'd had my eye on for so long.

...

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook. 

My Mr. T Experience

^ Has anyone ever taken a bad photo of Mr. T? Honestly! I'm not trying to get a laugh here. I'm fucking serious.^

 I wrote the following tale as an inspirational speech I performed in 11^th grade. Whereas my classmates spoke fondly of heroes, role models, and departed loved ones, I chose the fictitious route. The others were sentimental. I was emotionally detached.

The response to my speech was mostly positive. Some laughed. Some worried about me.

The story has since been lightly revised, but it remains the product of a prolific yet blundering 17-year-old. Enjoy? Yeah. Do that. It's not Shakespeare, but then again, a lot of people hate Shakespeare.

###

Whenever I hear the word “inspirational,” my mind drifts back to my first day of kindergarten. It was a sunny late August afternoon and I remember how hard it was to let go of my mom's hand when we arrived at Waters Elementary.

Our teacher was very nice. Her smile made me feel at ease. I spoke to some of my classmates even though I was nervous.

I ran into a problem during recess, however. After two or three brushes with death on the jungle gym, I decided the slide might be a welcome retreat.

When I got to the ladder of the slide, a burly sixth-grader stood in my way. He scowled and crossed his arms.

“This slide ain't for girls,” the bully scoffed.

“But I'm a boy,” I squeaked.

“Well, then you should prove it,” he said. He pointed to a girl with brown pigtails playing four square. “Kiss that girl over there.”

His virtually toothless cohort sidled up and chimed in.

“Wait. What if the kid's a thespian, like them chicks in them movies yer uncle's always watchin'?”

“You shut that yapper of yours, Q-Bert!”

The bully nearly turned on his cohort.

I wanted so badly to wake up from this nightmare and be back home in my cozy bed. But I was stuck in reality, which sometimes gets ugly. I was on the verge of shamefully ambushing that unknown girl with a kiss when a strong, dark hand grabbed my shoulder.

“This boy ain't doin' no kissin' 'til he's damn good and horny.”

Oh, my God! It was Mr. T!

“Now, listen here,” he went on. “What's your name, kid?”

“It's Chad, sir,” the bully said with a tremble.

“OK. Now listen here, FOOL! This boy has the right to do whatever he chooses on this here playground, and I ain't gonna let you tell him otherwise. Now apologize to him, sucka.”

“Sorry!” Chad said. “I'm really, really sorry.”

Mr. T taught me at a young age how to resolve conflicts with others... when he launched little Chad through a nearby window. As if that wasn't merciless enough, Mr. T then pulled Chad's limp body back onto the playground, where he ordered Q-Bert to keep his friend's dead weight propped up. Then Mr. T hustled up three flights of stairs to the roof of the school. He jumped down about 30 feet—in slow motion, mind you—and diving-tackled the poor kid.

Chad got a little case of permanent brain damage on his day of comeuppance, but I've heard he has recently relearned how to wipe himself. So, he's making progress.

Anyway, the recess monitor came over to scold us, and what does T do? He pulls out a freaking machine gun, that's what. But he was careful to shoot only the ground surrounding the teacher until she retreated. That way no one got hurt. Except for... you know.

Mr. T then hoisted me onto his shoulder, made a mad dash, and eventually forced me into the back of the A-Team van. I'm still recovering psychologically from what he did in that van.

He admitted that he threw his fight with Sylvester Stallone in Rocky 3, through a waterfall of tears, I should add. As if that wasn't shocking enough, Mr. T also told me that the writers of The A-Team stole a lot of their material from The Dukes of Hazard. For instance, the scene where the villain's car veers out of control and winds up sinking in a pond. Also mentioned was the part where there's a cool explosion and people have to dive for safety.

He was really sobbing when I told him what was up between T and me.

“Mr. T, you're still my hero.”

The man looked at me with those soaked brown eyes and smiled.

“You know something, Nick, the fool I pity most is the one who doesn't believe in himself.”

And as the gentle giant gave me a hug, I whispered to him:

“Do you pity me?”

Mr. T shook his head so hard his gold chains jingled. He replied:

“Not after today, son. Not after today.”  

Straight Outta Mount Calvary: The Fireman's Picnic (rewrite)

^Shockingly coveted for a Wisconsin kid circa 1990.^

My dad grew up in Mount Calvary. Since the village is located in an area known as The Holyland, when I was a very young and naive boy, I spent an entire summer believing Jesus himself had grown up there. In truth, he didn't, but their faith has long struck me as stronger than usual. The residents are willing to wake up early on Sunday mornings to pray away their hangovers at mass. They love the Holy Spirit, and other spirits as well.

Every August, the humble village hosts a carnival at Fireman’s Park. It is aptly referred to as the Fireman’s Picnic.

It’s not my aim to deride the spirit and tradition of the Fireman's Picnic. But In the late '80s and early '90s, at least, the town's modest budget did not permit them to splurge on the crème de la crème of redneck carnival rides—namely the Gravitron and the Zipper. Throughout my childhood summers, my parents would spend money I would then hand to a scruffy stranger who allowed me to ride on a rusty cart that crawled clockwise on a track that was 15 feet wide. I wasn't expecting loop-de-loops and laser shows, but come on, give a kid something to work with, you know?

Only one ride posed a legitimate threat to the uprising of a corn dog you had just choked down. It was a blend between a high-octane carousel and a demonic swingset. A dozen seats dotted the perimeter, and they were attached to chains that dangled from propellers. Once the thing got going, the propellers spun rapidly around-and-around-and-around, and the rider got a sense of what it feels like to be an unbreakable string of snot dangling from the blade of a helicopter. If memory serves, this ride was called “Discount Nausea.”

Discount Nausea could only be tolerated in great moderation, and with little interest in the tame rides, I sought out the prize booths maintained by jabber-jawing carnies. Sadly, throwing darts at balloons and executing a pyramid of empty beer cans with a single shot from a BB gun were talents that eluded me. Though my ambition was to win a Bartman t-shirt, or a least a small poster of Packers quarterback Don Majikowski, I usually went home with the humiliating consolation prize: An artificial clip-on feather, colored the shade of a peacock’s underbelly. Not only did the carnies take my money—OK, my parents' money—a the twisted bumpkins also had the nerve to bash my impending manhood.

“I’m an eight-year-old boy,” I’d squeak. “I play with Ninja Turtles. What the heck do you expect me to do with a frilly blue feather?

And the carnie would guffaw, opening his mouth wide to reveal five lonesome maggots jutting from his gums.

“Weeelll, I’m sure you can think of somethin’, Nancy-boy. WHO’S NEXT?!”

It’s been said that human beings alternate between afflictions of either boredom or pain throughout their lifetimes. I’m not a very optimistic person, but I think that’s nonsense, primarily because of slow, wet kisses and The Simpsons.

I mention the boredom/pain aside because, after wandering through the confines of Fireman’s Park, yawning in brief intervals, I would whimsically attach the fake feather’s jagged, metal clip to my pointer finger and withstand the painful pinch until I could take it no longer. At last I would remove the clip urgently, and then shake my throbbing red finger for a while. The boredom didn’t feel so bad then.

My favorite attraction at the Fireman’s Picnic was the Moonwalk Tent. Rambunctious hopping is an activity sure to engage children. The Moonwalk Tent (aka the “Bouncy Castle”) had its charms, but after ten minutes or so, the fetid stench of sweaty socks lingering in a roasting confinement really got to you. Plus I was always bummed out about the absence of top ropes and turnbuckles inside the Moonwalk Tent. There aren’t too many places in which a top rope and turnbuckles can be set up feasibly, but dammit, inside the Moonwalk Tent is one of those places. And since I was too young to pair up with a gorgeous blond and enact that Revenge of the Nerds fantasy, I soon bid good riddance to the Moonwalk Tent.

It was after all these lackluster pursuits that I discovered the Smoky Room Upstairs, which was maintained by the local volunteer fire department.

The Smoky Room Upstairs was the size of a two-story hobbit-house, its dimensions comparable to a double-wide trailer living room. A tube the size of a manhole cover fed into the upstairs, and it traced back to a smoke machine with a generator that churned maddeningly.

The Smoky Room Upstairs (aka fire smoke house) was designed for educational more so than fun purposes. Its chief aim was to enlighten kids on safety precautions in the event of a household blaze. A mustachioed volunteer would usher kids up a short flight of stairs on the side of the diminutive structure, above the seemingly vacant first floor and into the upstairs room. I say “seemingly vacant” because I had a hunch the off-duty firemen used it as a windowless sanctuary to play games of Euchre and chug cups of Miller Lite.

His shoulders and neck craning at an uncomfortable angle, golden helmet scraping against the ceiling, our guide waved us all into the cramped room. It was furnished like an oversized dollhouse. In the midst of his boring safety lecture, he scolded a careless youngster who plopped down on an artificial couch. It’s hard for kids to discern a prop from the real thing. That’s why the little buggers feel like cold-blooded assassins when they aim a Daisy rifle at the mailman’s head.

Though the interior decorator did a half-ass job, the electrician was quite ambitious. The square perimeter was plastered with about a dozen outlets at shin level. The fireman instilled a fear of outlets into our little hearts that day, warning us of the dangers of ramming a fork in there or overloading the amplitude as the dad from A Christmas Story would do.

As the lecture drew to a close, the fireman attached his gas mask and cued the smoke machine. I’ll never forget gazing at that vent, watching the smoke wisp gracefully and ominously into our air supply, feeling like I was at the mercy of a deranged super-villain and his elaborate death chamber.

Pretty soon, when the smoke had reached a murky, almost opaque density, we were instructed to crawl out of the Smoky Room Upstairs (a trek of nine feet) and rejoin the outside world. Then it was once again time to scam money from our tipsy parents so we could buy tickets for rides and booths until it was time to go home.

###

For dreamlike childhood nostalgia, John Lennon had “Strawberry Fields Forever.” I have “The Fireman's Picnic.” What a ripoff. Someone once asked me why this story has so many sour moments, and my reply was that it wasn't the fault of the Fireman's Picnic. The onus was on me, wandering aimlessly, dissatisfied but observing.

Maybe my expectations have always been too high. Every year I go to the Fireman's Picnic in tiny Mount Calvary hoping to ride the Gravitron, and every year, it's not there.