"How's It Going?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Job Fairs and Prank Applications

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony and Tina's Wedding: Interrupted

*This is another sketch I wrote for the Second City. Prose will be secondary for a few more weeks on fistpumps, until the completion of the class. Feel free to stage sock-puppet productions of any of the sketches you read here this summer.

CAST
Tony- Played by an actor named Frank. Co-star of the show whose performance is interrupted by real life girlfriend with special needs.
Tina- Played by an actress named Meadow. She’s upset by the intrusion of Sophie.
Michael- Tony’s best man in the performance, played by an actor named Bobby.
Sophie- Frank’s girlfriend who can’t discern between environmental theatre and reality. She is mentally challenged.

(Behind an elongated table draped in frilly white
cloth sit two men and a woman—the men in
dapper suits and ties, the woman in a wedding
dress. Each has a glass of champagne within reach.)

MICHAEL
(standing, glass in hand)
All right, pipe down, everybody. I’m trying to make a speech here.
(beat)
Tony, you’re the best Paison a guy could ask for. From my very first chubby to lap-dance number one, years later, to yakking-up a calzone and two bottles of red wine at the high-heeled shoes of Triple-Cici, I owe all these fine memories to you and the gentleman’s club owned by the Nunzio family. And as for you, Tina, I wish someone was here to say some complimentary things on your behalf, but unfortunately, your Maid of Honor Maddy is in the can doin’ God knows what. Thank you.

(As Michael reclaims his seat, Tina stands up.)

TINA
Don’t overstrain yourself with the sweet talk, Mikey. For crying out loud, Tony, your best man has about as much class as a two-Euro Vatican who-ore. And as for you, mi amore, I just want to say that loving you ain’t always easy, but every time we make love, I sure feel greasy.

(She sits down as Tony rises to his feet.)

TONY
Well, for the love of the Pope, we got a couple-a regular sentimentalists up here, don’t we? This one’s got his mind in the gutter and this one’s breakin’ my balls about the proud Nunzio family tradition of sweating like Rocky Balboa in the last round of a prize fight. Well, I ain’t gonna say nothin’ dirty ‘cause I ain’t out to spit on this special occasion. Tina, I know things between you and me ain’t always been perfect, but you always make me strive to become a better man. I love you with every drip of my body sweat. You’re the best thing that every happened to me, and I want to be wit’choo the rest of my life.


(From stage-left, a distraught and hysterical SOPHIE
enters the scene.)

SOPHIE
Oh, Frank, how could you do this? You married someone else when my back wasn’t looking? You make my heart hurt a big owie!

TONY/ FRANK
(breaking character)
Sophie? Sweetheart, I told you never to come to one of my performances. What are you doing here?

SOPHIE
(thrusting a pack of Big League Chew)
You forgot your bubble-gum at home, silly!

MICHAEL
(laughing uneasily, maintaining character)
Performance? What are you talking about, Tony? This ain’t no performance; it’s a friggin’ wedding. And furthermore, who the hell is this broad?

SOPHIE
You didn’t want me to come here ‘cause you’re getting married to another girl. I thought your heart sang happy songs for me, Franky-Wanky.

TINA
Security!

TONY/ FRANK
(to Tina/ Meadow)
I don’t want security strong-arming my girlfriend. Put a lid on it. I can handle this myself, Meadow.


MICHAEL
OOOHHH! Franky-Wanky? Meadow? Who are these people? Are the both of ya spies leadin’ double lives or somethin’? And Tony, if that is your real name, I always knew it’d be tough for you to become a one-woman man, but what gives? You’re already cheating on Tina with this retarded chick?

TONY/ FRANK
Bobby, you ignorant prick, you call my girlfriend retarded again and I’ll punch your teeth down your throat. She’s just…special.



MICHAEL/ BOBBY
Potato/ Potat-oh. And who the hell is “Bobby”? I ain’t no top-secret spy.

TONY/FRANK
Just stop calling her retarded. You hear me?

SOPHIE
Stop defending me! You don’t love me anymore. You’re married to an ugly meanie with chunky flab-arms.

TONY/FRANK
(to audience)
Listen folks, I gotta tell ya: Anything can happen during Tony & Tina’s Wedding, but these shenanigans will be all over in a second.
(to Sophie)
I will never stop defending you, Sophie! Just wait outside for half-an-hour and I’ll try to explain—

TINA/MEADOW
Chunky flab-arms?! Listen bitch, I don’t know who you are, but this is my wedding, and you’re a big nuisance right now. And if Tony is going to defend anyone, it’s going to be me: Tina, his wife!

SOPHIE
Oh, my used-to-be sweetie, you’ve changed. I don’t even know your name anymore!

TONY/FRANK
Sure you do, Sophie. Look, it’s very simple: I’m Frank.
(to his co-stars, then to the audience)
Keep your pants on, folks; old Tony’s just got some dirty laundry to air. It’s all part of the show—er, all part of the wedding bash we got goin’ on here.
(eying Sophie, demonstratively crossing fingers)
Nothin’ to worry about; I’m Tony, everybody!

MICHAEL/BOBBY
(quietly)
Jesus, Frank, is it contagious? Have you gone retarded, too?

TONY/FRANK
Bobby…er, Michael, I already told you, you keep sayin' that word, best man or no best man, I'll bust you one right in the jaw. That is a very hateful, ignorant word.

SOPHIE
I don’t need your sympathy!
(She turns to leave, weeping)
Tony, I never want to see Frank’s dumb face again forever and ever plus one.

MICHAEL/BOBBY
(to Tina, whispering)
What the hell? Were there some rewrites nobody told me about?

TONY/FRANK
No! Don’t go, Sophie.

(Sophie stops in her tracks, back facing
the mock wedding party.)

TINA/MEADOW
No. There weren’t any rewrites, Michael, because this isn’t some play with actors and a script. This is reality. And Tony, if you’ve been fooling around on me with this…handicapped girl Sophie, well, I’m quite disappointed. This is all very, very unexpected. But I still think we can work it out. We have to work it out…as soon as that dopey broad gets out of here. Then everything will be back to normal between you and me.

(Sophie does an about-face and stares at her
beau in desperate confusion.)

TONY/FRANK
Look. This is a really hard predicament for the Tone-Bone. For now, how ‘bout this: can I just say that I love both of you’s equally and have that be cool?

TINA/MEADOW and SOPHIE
(in unison)
No!

TONY/FRANK
Okay, okay. My balls are getting’ shattered into smithereens here.
(sighs)
Tina, thank you for forgiving me. I’ve been acting like a bed-hopping pig lately, and you’re an incredible woman for taking me back. I messed-up big-time, going around with this…Sophie girl…

(Crestfallen, Sophie turns to leave.)

TONY/FRANK
Oh, the hell with it. Sophie, listen! This is all just make-believe. I’m not really going to marry Tina. Tina’s not even her real name; it’s Meadow. We’re just actors in what’s called an environmental theatre production. I’m just pretending that I’m the groom in a wedding.

TINA/MEADOW
God-dammit. You’ve officially ruined the show, Frank.

SOPHIE
(brightening up)
Why didn’t you say so before? I love make-believe. Like when I pretend to be a mommy- bird and you lay underneath me and pretend to be one of the eggs I have to keep warm!

TONY/FRANK
Exactly, sweetheart! Now, I won’t lie to you, I’m probably going to get fired soon. But that’s okay. I hate playing a stereotypical grease-ball for low-brow tourists, anyway. So until I land my next job waiting tables or whatever, we’ll have plenty of time to spend together.

SOPHIE
Wanna go feed animal crackers to the geese by the pond?

TONY/FRANK
You read my mind, sweetheart.

(He gets up from behind the table and escorts
his girlfriend off-stage.)

SOPHIE
Here’s you Big League chew, Frank.

(Tina and Michael look somberly at each other.
Finally, Michael nods gravely.)


MICHAEL/BOBBY
Ladies and gentlemen, due in large part to tonight’s bizarre interruption, the broken down fourth wall that is the essence of “Tony & Tina’s Wedding” has been re-constructed, re-separating fiction and reality. We’ve all been dreading the day this would happen. Now that the show’s gimmicky appeal has been sullied, the cast and crew can no longer go on doing this pitiful shtick. This is the final performance of “Tony & Tina’s Wedding.”

TINA/MEADOW
And there will be no refunds!

(Blackout.)

Jester Staggs: A Retrospective/ Intervention

^A Sarlacc pit from Return of the Jedi.^

*This is a sketch I wrote recently for the Second City. Be warned: It's quite crude, even for me, and it's times like this I'm relieved my parents have no interest in reading my writing. Thanks go out to Billy Squier for offering the inspiration behind this one.

“Jester Staggs: A Retrospective/ Intervention”
6/14/09

Characters:
Jester Staggs- Glam rocker who rose to prominence in the late 70s with raucous odes to the hand-job.
Venus Staggs- Dissatisfied wife of Jester who is fed-up with her husband’s bizarre fetish.
Dr. Danny Porter- Resident therapist of the VH1 network with a thoughtful and compassionate drive.
Molly Staggs- Daughter of Jester and Venus who is embarrassed by her father’s lewd legacy.
“Dirty” Dirk Sandstrom- Former lead guitarist of Jester’s band who shares concern for the singer’s obsession.
“Tom-drum” Tommy Blain- Disgruntled drummer who merely wants royalties owed to him.

(Six chairs form a U-shape on the stage.
The arrangement is typical of any daytime talk-
show in which the host is surrounded by
several people united by a common crisis
that needs to be discussed. Dr. Danny
and Jester Staggs occupy the middle seats.)

DR. DANNY
Hello and welcome to a VH1 retrospective called Jester Staggs: The Past Is in the Palm of Your Hand, a tribute of sorts to rocker Jester Staggs. I’m Dr. Danny Porter. Joining me today for this gathering are Jester’s family—daughter Molly and wife Venus--as well as two of the founding members of the Four Fingers—“Dirty” Dirk Sandstrom and “Tom-drum” Tommy Blain--and of course...

JESTER STAGGS
Don’t forget the star of the show! It is I, the man who belted out all your favorite hand-job anthems, including: “I Demand the Hand,” “Beast in Blue Jeans,” “Sausage Stroke on the Sly,” “Nothing Left to Ooze,” and 93 others that rock almost as hard!

DR. DANNY
Indeed, Jester. I was just getting to that, but I see you’ve provided your own introduction quite ably.


JESTER STAGGS
Damn, I almost forgot about “She’s So Handsome” and “Your Curled Fingers Linger.” Those tunes also rocked your grandma into a coma!

VENUS STAGGS
Jester, please. Stop interrupting Dr. Danny.

DR. DANNY
Thank you, Venus. Now, Jester, your record sales in the late-70s notwithstanding, you have the reputation of being somewhat of a one-trick-pony.

JESTER STAGGS
I don’t know about one-trick-pony, but you can ask my baby Venus about my One-eyed-pony. Damn...that could be a song title right there...

MOLLY STAGGS
Jesus, dad, would you cut it out for a second? This is important.

DR. DANNY
I must ask you, Jester, on behalf of your fans, and to a greater extent, your friends and family that have gathered with us today, what is behind your single-minded obsession with hand-jobs? You have written nearly a hundred songs to date, and every last one is about receiving a hand-job.

TOMMY BLAIN
Don’t forget about the songs he didn’t write.

DR. DANNY
We’ll touch on that later, Tommy. But remember, we’re here for Jester and his family.

JESTER STAGGS
Well, the way I’ve always seen it, I was born with two reasons to be very happy. First, the Good Lord blessed the lady-creatures with fingers and opposable thumbs. Secondly, He gave me a wiener. Those two blessings united when I was 17, and ever since, I’ve been in paradise. And the only thing better than living in paradise is singing about it. That’s what inspired me to create “Elaiza and the Cream Geyser,” and dozens more in that same hand-job vein.

MOLLY STAGGS
Dad, you’re so disgusting.

JESTER STAGGS
Relax, Molly. I met Elaiza years before I became acquainted with your mother’s hand.

VENUS STAGGS
(to Dr. Danny)
Sometimes I think the only reason he married me is because my name rhymes with “Penis.”

JESTER STAGGS
Now, you know that ain’t the truth, baby. I married you for that reason and because you give the best H-Js in the world!

DR. DANNY
Jester, stop it. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing your daughter?

JESTER STAGGS
Hey, what’s with all this flack I’m getting here? Ain’t this supposed to be a tribute or something?

DR. DANNY
(sighs)
As much as everyone on this panel appreciates you, Jester, no, it’s not. We attracted you here under the guise that this is a glowing retrospective, but in reality, it’s an intervention.

JESTER STAGGS
Intervention? What for? I don’t need no intervention.

VENUS
(to Dr. Danny)
You see? Denial! Jester, we’ve been married for 30 years and Molly is the only evidence that we’ve ever made love. You have refused my longing body thousands of times, consistently turned-down oral pleasure, and completely ignored my sexual needs. I can’t take it anymore!

JESTER STAGGS
Ignored your sexual needs? Baby, that’s ludicrous. Why, just last night you were hardly crying at all when you agreed to pump my one-eyed—

DIRK SANDSTROM
Oh, enough about the hand-jobs, already! For God’s sake, Jester, you’re in your fifties and you’re still hung-up on this juvenile thrill from sophomore year of high school. How can you live with yourself for turning down all the groupie-sex a man could ask for?

JESTER STAGGS
I was too busy getting wicked hand-jobs to give a damn about—what do you call it—intercourse! All I’ve ever wanted from a lady is to get it jacked by a co-pilot. What’s wrong with that?

MOLLY STAGGS
I’ve never choked down so much vomit in my life...

DIRK SANDSTROM
Vaginas are awesome, Jester. For straight men, and especially macho rock singers, they provide the ultimate groove, the spot where the pleasure-amp gets cranked up the loudest. For you to be married 30 years and shun your wife’s vagina, dude, that’s pretty creepy.

DR. DANNY
Dirk makes a valid point, albeit in a slightly crude manner. What we’re trying to say, as adults, is that the hand-job ranks very low in the scope of sexual intimacy. Relationships are founded on reciprocation. As Venus’ husband, it is your duty to likewise satisfy her sexually, and when you refrain from intercourse—

JESTER STAGGS
(erupting with tears)
Vaginas remind me of that man-eating sandpit from Return of the Jedi! Swallowing Boba Fett in one gulp. They’re terrifying! I survived one encounter with it, and the Good Lord offered us sweet Molly. But never again will I chance it.

MOLLY STAGGS
(walking off-stage)
I can’t take this anymore.


DR. DANNY
Ah-ha. Well, at long last we reach the crux of the matter. How interesting. Jester, for the benefit of your wife, can you try replacing that unpleasant image with that of something more appealing--say--a damp flower in bloom?

JESTER STAGGS
No. Vaginas are like Sarlacc pits!

VENUS STAGGS
He has the most hideous things to say about my womanhood.

JESTER STAGGS
Don’t blow this out of proportion, baby. It’s not just your womanhood; it’s all womanhood.

TOMMY BLAIN
If I may interject here, might I remind you that this man’s odd obsession with handies has paid for your luxurious home, the Vera Wang dress you’re wearing, and your daughter’s Ivy League education.

JESTER STAGGS
Thank you, Tommy.

TOMMY BLAIN
Which brings me to the only reason I came here: Royalties. Jester, you know damn well I was the one who came up with the title track from our last album, “Nothing Left to Ooze.” My God, your best idea was calling it “See You Ejaculator.”

JESTER STAGGS
That was pretty clever...

TOMMY BLAIN
No, it wasn’t! You never paid me the royalties I was owed for that song. For the last six years I’ve been subsisting on Saltine crackers, living in a canoe beside my friend’s houseboat. Pay up, you greedy son-of-a-bitch!

VENUS STAGGS
I can’t believe people are talking about song royalties when my marriage is in serious trouble. Jester, I still have faith in you, but I need to lay down some ground rules. First off, no more you-know-what’s until you’ve undergone 40 more hours of psychoanalysis from Dr. Danny. Or else. That's all I have to say.

(With that she storms off the stage,
in step with her daughter’s inconsolable rage.)

JESTER STAGGS
No! You can’t leave me. I wrote “Venus Strokes My Penis” for you, baby. That ballad was playing when we took our first dance as husband and wife.
(beat)
Aw, shucks. Now who’s gonna give me hand-jobs? Good God, maybe I have taken my little H-J fetish a bit too far. I’ve known this for far too long. When I wrote “Monster in My Pocket,” the Monster I was referring to wasn’t my one-eyed-pony...it was me.
(standing resolutely)
Well, that’s all gotta change. If my baby Venus won’t satisfy me anymore, something must be seriously wrong with old Jester. From this day forward, I’m a changed man.

TOMMY BLAIN
I’ll give you a hand-job if you sign away the rights to “Nothing Left to Ooze.”

JESTER STAGGS
(revitalized)
It’s a deal!

(The pair busily rush offstage to the
nearest bathroom.)

DR. DANNY
Hmm. It’s important to remember that acceptance is the first step in the rehabilitation process, and in most cases, relapses are inevitable. Usually the relapse takes longer to occur than five seconds, but we must not be quick to judge Jester, for inside of all addicts lurks the evil referenced in “Beast in Blue Jeans.” It waits for the slightest window of opportunity to rear its ugly head. No pun intended.
(beat)

Join us next time for Rock Star Retrospectives and Interventions, when our guest will be the Red Rocker Sammy Haggar, who continues to create music despite the sincere pleas of his friends and family urging him to call it quits. Until then, I’m Dr. Danny Porter. Goodbye.

END SCENE.

The Bee Sting

A couple years ago, just before the dawn of the school year, I went to get a haircut at a barbershop. I entered the place through a back alley, strolling past a fetid dumpster that simmered in the late August sun.

It should be noted that I was wearing blue jeans and sandals at the time. Triple-digit heat be damned; pants are the norm for me year-round. The reason being my superhumanly hairy legs, which I regard as Twilight Zone compensation for the good old receding hairline.

You see, sometimes the man upstairs likes to balance things out for his noblest creations. The people most likely to be ranked a “10” on the attractiveness scale oftentimes have vapid personalities (ex: Paris Hilton, Tommy Lee, and the late Mother Teresa). Steven Hawking was born physically handicapped, but in order to counteract that, God blessed Hawking with a brilliant mind that permitted him to write a revolutionary book on Nintendo cheats and codes…or something impressive like that; I’m not overly familiar with the man’s work and this article is due in fifteen minutes, so we’ll just go with the Nintendo cheats and codes thing.

In my case, God realized that a receding hairline early on might cause me some problems, so, in his infinite wisdom, He compensated that genetic mishap with some kick-ass Sasquatch legs. When I’m feeling especially creative, I coil clumps of hair up and down my calf and imagine I’ve created a twisted teepee reservation for a tribe of fleas. When plucked, one of my leg hairs is long enough to wrap around John Madden’s waist three-and-a-half times. But enough about pants and the secret hideousness they conceal, let’s talk about my footwear on this particular day.

I very seldom wear sandals. They hamper your mobility, click annoyingly with every stride, and, as I was soon to learn, they provide insufficient protection for your feet. You know what kinds of people regularly wear sandals? Off-duty guidance counselors with graying ponytails that browse the self-help section at Walden Books every other Saturday and lethargic burnouts that play in a String Cheese Incident cover band and empty their hash-pipes underneath the rug when the ashtray is a daunting eight feet away.

Sandals are made by aspiring shoe manufacturers that just lost their motivation halfway through the process and said, “To hell with it; here’s the finished product.” (In fact, I’m willing to bet that a surprising number of the people that work at sandal factories play in a String Cheese Incident cover band.) Prior to my haircut, I was apparently too impatient to bother tying shoelaces, and, struck by an ominous whim, I fatefully opted for flip-flops.

On my way out the barbershop, walking past the fetid dumpster, my exposed foot was targeted by a sadistic bee, and before I could scream for mommy, the pest stung me just below the ankle. And for the love of Plinco, it hurt like the dickens! To put this pain into perspective, in comic books, when a superhero is overwhelmed with agony inflicted by a surge of electrocution or a parking meter flogging to the skull, the exclamation “Yaarrgghh!” appears in a word bubble attached to his or her mouth. Were a comic book depiction to be made of this incident, let’s just say the word “Yaarrgghh!” emanating from my mouth would be followed by a minimum of sixteen exclamation marks in order to vaguely capture the torment I was feeling.

After every bee sting, I take marginal consolation in the knowledge that they can’t live without their stingers; every act of aggression is kamikaze for them. But on this occasion, my blood was boiling unabatedly as I hobbled through the parking lot. 364 days out of the year, I fumed, when that fiendish be attacks my foot, I’m protected by a two millimeter fortress of shoe fabric. Had I been wearing shoes like any decent, God-fearing man would do (Jesus excluded), I’d have walked away unscathed, scoffing at my arthropod assailant. That bee was malicious, yet cerebral. He knew he could’ve stung my forearm, neck, or better yet, eyeball, but that wouldn’t have the same quasi-ironic flare of needling an area that is rarely vulnerable. The bee is a cunning, quasi-ironic species.


On the drive home, I fantasized in depth about that bee’s widow and thirteen children living inside the dumpster, gathered around a half-eaten Honey Bun, awaiting the arrival of their father, who was uncharacteristically late for the evening meal. At last the landlord of the dumpster would visit and deliver the somber news. “Ma’am, there’s no easy way to say this, but...your husband died today after gallantly stinging a twelve-year-old boy with thinning hair. We’re assuming the boy is receiving chemotherapy for cancer, and if it’s any consolation to you, it doesn’t appear he’ll be around for much longer, either.” As the devastation and grief set in, the landlord would add, “Oh, and P.S., rent is due tomorrow and I don’t tolerate truancy. Blah, blah, blah, sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

While speeding through a red light and almost crippling the cuter half of a Girl Scout Troop, I further indulged my spiteful daydream. The death of the family’s sole provider, coupled with the excessive cost of his funeral, spelled eviction for his surviving kin. They were forced out of their spacious dumpster into a cramped 20 oz. Mountain Dew bottle. A day later, at the funeral wake, a bereaved millipede accidentally knocked over the Cool Mint Listerine PocketPak that served as my attacker’s coffin, and as his stinger-less corpse crashed against the concrete, the thorax severed from the antennae and all the onlookers shrieked in horror. Even in the twilight of the children’s lives, some fifteen days later, considering the average lifespan of a bee, this traumatic memory would haunt them in their sleep.

As I parked the car in my driveway, dragging behind a kiddy pool that was inexplicably snared onto the back bumper, the agony had worn off a tad, and I had my morbid delusions to thank. It was a short-lived reprieve, because a moment later I realized I had yet to suck out the venom.

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.