Glitter Talks Shit

Hello. I’m a speck of glitter. Webster’s Dictionary defines me as a “small bit of light-reflecting material used for decoration.” Right now, as you peer into the mirror with that puzzled expression, I can read your thought bubble. You’re thinking: “Why is this small bit of light-reflecting material decorating my cheek? Where did it come from?” These are valid questions that will lead, in due time, to a surprising answer, but not before I explain a few things about myself.

The most common way I get transferred to the faces of heterosexual men like you happens at the strip club. As if they fear the sight of their juicy, bulbous breast won’t be enough to draw the focus of salivating men with Red Bull and vodka coursing through their bulging veins, it’s common for strippers to add a sprinkle of my friends and I to their chests to ensure that their naked figures will attract attention and, more importantly, as a result: money. We’re grateful for the exposure because, at our nucleus, we are vain exhibitionists, but all parties involved, including the most vapid of exotic dancers with the strongest affinity for all things shiny, realize that we are not the stars of the show. But that’s our purpose: to accentuate something grander with our tiny, gaudy molecules. At strip clubs, we’re like the dash of seasoning that subtly enhances your Titty Sandwich.

But we can rule out that possibility because you haven’t visited a strip club in almost a year. What’s the matter, pansy? Without fail, does the lowest light bulb shine just to the left of the words, “Hopelessly Impotent,” every time you grip the handle of a Love Tester? Should I retract the assumption that you’re a heterosexual man? Is your appetite sated by the sight of the President’s daughter’s rump in that plaid schoolgirl skirt as she crawls underneath a table to avoid a zombie in that “Resident Evil 4” video game you’re so damn fond of? My God, you paid almost $50 for that game! Why not blow that same amount of cash at the local gentleman’s club? I’ll tell Triple-Deedra (and YES, that is her birth name; her dad owns Broadzilla’s in Oshkosh) to squeeze an extra fistful of my kitschy comrades onto her burgeoning rack.

The point is: I didn’t come from a stripper’s chest. So we can dismiss that idea.

An interesting quirk about me is that I can thrive in environments both lecherous and wholesome. Glitter is popular in the dressing rooms of strip clubs, and you’ll also find a heaping bowl of us in every grade school art class in the civilized world. Talk about versatility! You’ll never find frilly decorative items like dried macaroni noodles and sea shells in a stripper’s dressing room, and the only time an exotic dancer craves a magic marker is when she’s run out of coke and desperate for a cheap buzz. And would you expect to see tassels and nipple rings available as options for adorning a pink paper box designed for holding Valentine’s Day cards? Shit, no! Glitter is the common thread that runs between sexed-up exhibitionism and youthful innocence.

But we both know I didn’t attach myself to you while you volunteered to help little Trisha Dupont decorate the twinkling eyes of old cardboard Saint Nick. That never happened, and if you ask me, it’s for the best that you avoid children.

That’s right, I’m glad you don’t volunteer to help young children, that you don’t bother posing as a respectable mentor. You’d make a terrible role model. When you pick your nose inside a room without a garbage can, I’ve seen you just flick it behind the couch or onto the floor. Some mentor—too lazy to get off his scrawny duff and dispose of his crusty nose globules into a garbage can 20 feet away!

I know you don’t do it in the company of others, but it’s the hygienic principle of the matter. Boogers shouldn’t be flicked into the neglected, dusty corners of a room, you disgusting wretch.

For this and many other reasons I will spare you the embarrassment of mentioning, you’re a lousy role model with no business sprinkling glitter onto shamrocks cut from construction paper alongside of Triple Deedra’s daughter Deanna.

And now, after some playful needling, Glitter will at last provide you some enlightenment, but not before needling you some more, you lazy sack of shit.

As I’m sure you are aware, for the past few months you have periodically stayed the night at your grandma’s house, preparing her meals in the microwave, making sure she takes medication to slightly abate the onslaught of her Alzheimer’s disease, and agreeing with her when she once again comments on how beautiful the weather has been lately—even when it was just raining miserably earlier in the day, before the resilient sun scared off the dusty coal-colored clouds. Alzheimer’s disease is certainly a colossal bummer, isn’t it? Especially when you know that it’s hereditary, and all the more likely to be skulking patiently in your genes, waiting until your Twilight Years to ravage your mind.

But hey—at least you’ve familiarized yourself with the effects of short-term—if not long-term—memory loss, by puffing that THC-rich smoke through a marijuana pipe on so many occasions. Remember the time you forgot the combination of your bike lock late at night outside your friend’s apartment because you were so blazed out of your gourd? Glitter remembers.

You had no choice but to walk home that night, 20 blocks in 20-degree cold. Glitter attached itself to your face that night after you smooched a bit with that tattooed drunk girl on your friend’s tattered love seat. She had bits of decorative light-reflecting material in her mascara. I don’t recall her name, either, but despite some minor acne, she was a 6 out of 10. That’s a Maxim cover girl by your standards! Whether or not she had glitter sprinkled across her perky chest will always remain a mystery to you.

Glitter digresses. You’re familiar with short-term memory loss thanks to the whacky tobaccy, but the Alzheimer’s your grandma suffers from provides none of the saving graces of the brain-cushioned euphoria you’ve grown to appreciate. The older you get, the more it seems that genetics is a game of Russian roulette. Brace yourself.

The pillow you rest your head on in the guest bedroom late at night has an uplifting message sewn into the fabric. The message reads: “You’re purr-fect just the way you are!” Underneath this stitched inscription is the design of an adorable kitten pawing a ball of yarn with great delight. The cat’s eyes are sparkling brightly because the irises are dotted with…drum-roll, please, knucklehead…GLITTER.

So. There’s your explanation. I hope you don’t think of glitter as a sort of parasite that lurks in the shadows waiting to attach itself to a new host. You know, some people appreciate glitter; they appreciate my ability to dazzle and entrance with just a few molecules of effort. I wish you were that way, but it appears you’re already reaching for a wash-cloth to scrub any trace of me from your cheek. I’m not sure if that wash-cloth will do the trick; I can be awfully stubborn. Why not get rid of me by grinding a belt-sander against your face instead?

Well, our time together has nearly come to an end, buddy. In closing, I’d just like to say that that pillow at your grandma’s house is full of bullshit.

KC2: I Can't Believe It's Really a Tumor!

Iconic movie quotes help make a film unforgettable. The right words, delivered succinctly at the perfect time, provide a microcosm of the filmmaker’s intent. When a beleaguered Jack Nicholson is restrained by a police officer and advised to “Forget it…it’s Chinatown,” the line punctuates line the point that despite the best efforts of the most beguiling and shrewd detective in Los Angeles, a dark shadow always falls on part of the truth because some webs of treachery are so thickly opaque that they block out the sun. The truth-seeker fails to expose and defeat the rapacious tyrant. We’re led to believe that bringing justice to powerful scum is about as easy as, say, teaching Chinese arithmetic to the class dunce. Forget it.

Certain actors deliver memorable quotes with great regularity. Arnold Schwarzenagger is one of these actors. My favorite Arnold quote wasn’t coined in one of the heroically violent action flicks he is best known for, but rather from a comedy. The quote is from “Kindergarten Cop,” when he refutes a misdiagnosis of his headache suggested by one of his students.

“It’s not a tumor!”

Those four words marked a crossing of the threshold for tumor jokes. No longer taboo and insensitive, tumor jokes finally became accessible to the entire family. Arnold’s most notable achievement is not starring in Terminator 2, nor becoming the governor of California; it’s the way he convinced the world that it’s okay to laugh about tumors.

Aside from this monumental breakthrough, the rest of Kindergarten Cop is a letdown. The hilarious possibility of a tumor burgeoning on Arnold’s skull has no bearing on the film’s plotline. The original Kindergarten Cop ultimately has nothing to do with tumors. It focused on some bullshit about a Neanderthal finding his tender side, stroking a ferret, and hunting down a sinister deadbeat dad.

Thankfully, a class I took in college taught me the gist of writing screenplays, and I have created a script to rectify all the mistakes made by the original Kindergarten Cop. The script I have completed is titled KC2: I Can’t Believe It’s Really a Tumor!


Within the Kindergarten Cop universe, two months have elapsed since the original. In real life, almost two decades have gone by since KC1. Here are two things to keep in mind about those two facts: First off, the kindergarten children won't be played by the original cast; by now they're all in their twenties, some of them aren't even cute anymore, and two of them overdosed on a drug so lethal it can only be purchased on the Columbian black market. Most of the new cast of children will be comprised of rejects from the Mickey Mouse Club, and they will be paid the lowest wages permitted by law. Secondly, the producers (me included) intend to use the money saved by not paying the children acceptable wages to invest into hiring the best damn make-up artist in Hollywood. We'll spare no expense in order to make Arnold's time-worn face look twenty years younger.

Here is an excerpt from an early scene in the movie.

INT. CLASSROOM – DAY

ARNOLD the Kindergarten Teacher reads from a large, illustrated book, periodically showing the pictures to his attentive students. From far across the room, we see Arnold coughing, harmlessly at first, then harshly. From a new angle, behind Arnold, he takes a hearty chug of water.

ARNOLD: Excuse me, children.

He is dressed in a fuzzy red sweater and blue jeans, as kindergarten teachers are wont to do. A student named JEFFREY, raises his hand. He addresses his mentor with tactful concern.

JEFFREY: Gee Arnold, I hate to be rude, but...what's that thing on your face?

ARNOLD: Oh, do not worry, little Jeffrey, it is probably just a wart or man-pimple or some other thing of no big deal.

JEFFREY: I don't know. It looks pretty scary. Maybe it's a tumor.

The room is deathly silent. Arnold creases his thick brow, irritated. He quickly relaxes and then forces a laugh.

ARNOLD: Oh, very funny, little Jeffrey. Ha-ha, I remember this joke. You are such a rascal of all trades sometimes, do you know that?

Another student, CRYSTAL, raises her hand.

CRYSTAL: No. Jeffrey's being serious, Arnold. It does look pretty scary.

Before Arnold can respond, the cutest kid in class, DELLA ROSE, nods sternly in agreement.

DELLA ROSE: Yeah, it does look like a tumor. My God. It’s hideous.

Other students begin chirping too, speculating. Most sound nervous and a few sound excited by the grotesque spectacle. Arnold raises his voice in anger, something he hasn't done in the classroom for quite some time.

ARNOLD: CHILDREN!

Not a peep is heard in the classroom. Arnold is the next to speak, and everyone knows it.

ARNOLD: I will have no more of this...tumor business! The joke is over now. I don't know what has gotten into you all, but please...you are starting to hurt my feelings.

The children look around at each other, their gazes angled toward the floor. Everyone is tense, but Della Rose will not be denied in expressing her troubled compassion.


DELLA ROSE: Arnold, I think you need to see a doctor.

Arnold fumes quietly, huffing and puffing but not screaming. Then: a close-up on the tumor verifies Della Rose's concern. It's a tumor, all right, and it sure isn't pretty. The recess bell rings and the students file out of the room quickly, not saying a word. Alone now, Arnold runs his monstrous hand across his tired face. He sighs and heads for the teacher's lounge.

END SCENE.

After much cajoling by his fellow teachers in the lounge, Arnold agrees to visit the doctor for an inspection of the revolting growth on his face. After running some vital tests of Arnold’s blood work, and more importantly, owning the ability to detect an obvious tumor when he spots one, the doctor reveals his prognosis in a game of Hangman. His rationale is that the news will be too devastating if delivered with succinct swiftness, and he believes the patient can cope better if his grave illness is revealed one letter at a time. Five letter-spaces are slit to the left of the crudely drawn gallows. The doctor assures him that he will still receive a proper diagnosis should he fail to guess the five appropriate letters, but he will charge an additional $5,000 every time a cartoon man is hanged.

Possibly due to subconscious denial, or maybe sheer stupidity, the last five letters of the alphabet that Arnold guesses are, in order: T-U-M-O- and R.It takes him a few tries to sound out the word, but once he does, Arnold’s massive hand squeezes his pencil into a dozen little chunks of graphite and wood. The camera zooms tightly into his distraught face and he delivers the titular line of KC2, a phrase you will be reading on t-shirts in the year 2011 as frequently as you encountered “Vote for Pedro” shirts several ago. Here is another excerpt from the script.

INT. EXAMINATION ROOM - DAY

ARNOLD: I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S REALLY A TUMOR! Nooooooooooooooooooooo!

End scene.

Arnold’s good friend Carl Weathers—whom you might remember from Predator and four of the Rocky films—is so concerned for the Kindergarten Cop’s well-being that he has rented a condo in Astoria, Oregon, temporarily relocating from his estate in Burbank.

During dinner at a Ponderosa steakhouse, Arnold confides to his pal that he can’t bear to face death without the companionship of a beautiful and compassionate wife. His tumor is compounded by profound loneliness. Carl aches sympathetically for Arnold, and sets his mind on ways to sooth his friend's pain.

The next day, during Arnold's lunch break at school, Carl makes a surprise visit to the classroom. Grinning with immense pride, hardly noticing the gargantuan and ghastly tumor on his friend's face, Carl tells Arnold that he has checked out some tasteful web-sites and arranged a blind date for him.

What he does not tell Arnold, however, is that the woman he has arranged to meet his friend will understand his plight completely because she has precise knowledge of the travails that are plaguing Arnold. Why? Because she’s got a tumor, too.

Arnold laughs, nervously and with a trace of childish giddiness. His face reddens and he downplays the offer, saying that he has never been on a blind date before. Determined, Carl provides some more information for Arnold. Her name is Sheila, she teaches at the town junior high school, she is nine years Arnold's junior, and she had a brief stint as an underwear/ night-gown model in the regional Sears Catalog. Hearing this last bit of news, Arnold gulps, the hungry lump in his throat nearly matching in size the bulbous growth on his head. He asks some more questions excitedly...

INT. CLASSROOM - DAY

ARNOLD: Do you think she'd like to do dinner and a movie and a grope? Or maybe dinner and a grope and then a movie? Perhaps she’d be more comfortable getting the grope out of the way immediately; I would not argue with that.

He laughs anxiously, flustered by his eager longing for flesh.

ARNOLD: Maybe I am putting the horse ahead of myself. I mean, let’s get one thing in the clear: Is this woman pro-grope or anti-grope?

CARL: Oh. Pro-grope, definitely.

ARNOLD: She is pro-grope? This is fantastic! That is for my money the most important woman quality. Do you think she'd be up for some heavy grope-loving, say, half-an-hour into the first date? Because I usually can’t wait that long.

Carl is steadily running thin on patience, but Arnold persists.

ARNOLD: Maybe I could wear a ski-mask and break into her house shortly before her date with me and just give her a quick yet harmless grope. Then she will be flustered and slightly eroticized, and when I show up later on without the ski-mask, I can tell the cops to buzz off because I was once on the force and I can take it from here, which will impress her, and then I’ll console her and give her assurance that the Big-Bad Groper will never touch her again. Then once she’s been soothed and she feels secure, it’s time for some serious groping, but without the ski-mask this time!

CARL: Oh heck, Arnold, that might be pushing it. You’ve got to get to know a woman before you start pawing-up the triple-Cs and whatnot.ARNOLD: I understand your reference to booby size! I will soon be in ecsta-triple-C!

(He takes a deep breath.)

ARNOLD: Okay. I am prying too much. Forget this. The important thing is that she is pro-grope. I am going to pick her up on my Harley at seven o'clock tonight.

End scene.

In the climactic end to Act 2, after being told he has but a 25% chance of surviving the surgery, Arnold proposes a radical new procedure: He intends to save himself by punching the tumor off his face. The logical alternative, the doctors assure him, is laser surgery, in which a highly concentrated crimson beam would trace the base of the tumor and, hopefully, remove it without melting Arnold’s face. After much persuasion from Carl, Arnold decides against this option because Predators employ infrared lasers to target their pray and disembowel mercenaries. The mistrust Arnold shares with Carl for Predators leads him to dismiss any medical procedure that involves lasers.

Prior to the operation (broadcast live on FOX News and Pay-per-View), Arnold, dressed in doctor’s scrubs, considers the surgical tools on the tray: Boxing gloves, brass knuckles, and two “We’re #1” foam fingers.

He thinks deeply, grins slowly, and raises his bare hands up close to his face, in complete reverence of their prodigious power.

INT. EMERGENCY ROOM - DAY

ARNOLD: Yes. The same tools I use to grope with will save my life. I will show self-love without gloves. Under pressure the brass knuckles will buckle. Foam fingers are...for stupid girly men! Of course. I’m going to defeat this tumor with my bare hands!

End scene.

And here is where I must draw the curtain on the summary of KC2. To be honest, I’ve already told you far too much. All I will type is that regardless of whether Arnold’s self-punching cure is successful,* we cannot forget about the bleak condition of his new girlfriend Sheila, whom Arnold gropes joyfully for ten solid minutes (over her sweater to maintain the kid-accessible PG-13 rating). The true climax of KC2: ICBIRAT poses the question, “Would you punch the one you love in the face as hard as you can in order to save their life?” This is the decision the mischievous Gods of Drama pose to Arnold. Much to his dismay, he cannot defeat Sheila’s tumor by groping it.

There remains little doubt that moviegoers would flock to see KC2. Once the public’s appetite for tumor humor is sated and the film has grossed more money than The Lord of the Rings and Star Wars sagas combined, the question is: Does Nick have a trilogy hiding up that slender sleeve of his? Indeed I do.It is debatable if the most memorable line from Kindergarten Cop is really, “It’s not a tumor!” Fans of this film aren’t likely to forget another brilliant quote—a quote that doesn’t concern tumors but rather the difference between male and female genitalia. During a calamitous lack of order in the classroom, one of Arnold’s students, the impassive and pale son of a gynecologist, declares, “Boys have a penis; girls have a vagina.”

As a kid, I remember thinking that little boy had it all figured out, that he was wise and self-assured beyond his years. Unfortunately, gender can’t be simplified so easily due to genetic anomalies known as hermaphrodites. The third installment of the KC trilogy features the addition of a new student to Arnold’s classroom, a student that defies and challenges the simple categorization offered by the gynecologist’s son. The film will be titled KC3: Hermaphrodites Have a Penis and a Vagina? In addition to breaking the barriers that shield the boom of tumor humor, I want to inform the PG-13 crowd about hermaphrodites as soon as possible.

Kindergarten Cop may not have followed through on its best quotations, but at least the film provided the roots for some ideas that really matter.

*It is.

The Knife Salesman

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. It would not.”

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

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

“Eighteen dollars.”

“Jesus Christ.”

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

“Get out of my house.”

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Burt's Threat

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

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

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

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

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

***

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Arm-Wrestling for the Right to be Mayor

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

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

EXT. COURTHOUSE BUILDING

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

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

INT. TV STUDIO

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

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

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

CUT TO:

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

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

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

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

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

CUT TO:

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

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

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

A FEMALE RESIDENT stands before a junkyard, equally exhilarated.

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

CUT TO:

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

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

He is confronted by an irate Russell Stanke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FADE OUT:

Nobody Brought a Football?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Column Inspired by the Cookoo's Nest

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

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

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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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



Parting words: Thanks for reading.

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