Everybody Be Cool and Listen Up

Hey everybody, I need you to listen up! Could everybody just be cool for a second? I've got something important to say. Excuse me, everybody in the hysterical prayer circle, I'm talking to you. Please...zip it.


Okay, my name is Hal Galboni and I'm an ex-cop. Now, I know some of you might have read about my termination in the newspapers. If so, all I would like to say in my defense is that some retarded children are excellent liars. That's it.

Ma'am, please. What's done is done and somebody needs to take control of this situation. It's dangerous out there.

Now, the first thing we need to do is get our heads straight and separate myth from fact.

Myth: Evil space aliens are real. So, you can just breathe easy on that one.

Fact: Zombies, vampires, prehistoric man-eating creatures from another dimension, and vicious birds like the kind featured in the Hitchcock movie Birds, are in fact real.

Hey, calm down everybody! We're just going over the facts here.

It turns out that zombies, vampires, the prehistoric things, and even the god-damn Hitchcock birds are as real as the blood splattered on old Mrs. Valentine's new blouse. The four sects of hellish monsters have inexplicably formed an alliance whose sole purpose is the extermination of the human race.

Damn it! Will you please stop crying, Mrs. Valentine? Somebody give her some whiskey, get her boozed-up.

As I was saying: Many of you have lost loved ones to the demonic monsters, literally seen them torn limb-from-limb by a prehistoric thing, or pecked in the face repeatedly by a Hitchcock bird, what-have-you. That is a horror that I can only hope not to imagine because, thankfully, all my loved ones live someplace far, far away.

Anyway, listen: If you happen to be one of the unfortunate souls who witnessed a loved one, or several loved ones, brutally killed by a creature that should not exist in a world created by a supposedly perfect being, the only remedy for you is vengeance. People, we need to launch a counter-attack. A murdered loved one whom you fail to avenge has every right to be disappointed in you when you meet again in Heaven, or possibly Hell.

Whoa, whoa! Hush up, prayer circle. Vengeance first, repentance later. Jesus, there's nothing like a little mention of the afterlife to get the religious nuts worked into a frenzy. There'll be plenty of time for praying after we've slaughtered a couple hundred of those ghoulish sons-of-bitches. Praying might save your soul, but it won't save your ass.

All right, then. Back to the counter-attack plan. I think there's a reason why all 14 of us fled the city to get away from those beasts and gathered inside this old fireworks stand by the highway. Hell, maybe God planned it this way. He might be looking down at us now, saying, "Okay. There's my team of ass-kickers. They're gonna defeat the demon creatures and then get to making babies to rebuild civilization, for it is my will."

And do you know what else? God blessed us with some weapons here. I have in my right hand an M-80 firecracker. In my left hand, a Roman Candle. We've got two boxes full of ammunition, too. Also, I have six lighters in my possession because I've been getting high constantly ever since I realized the end of the world is looming.

The time has come for the group to divide into two sects. Those of you who want to shoot Roman Candles alongside of me, you can come on up here and give your leader a high-five. The rest of you can just go right ahead praying to the same God that did this to us--no offense--or continue waiting for the grief counselor somebody called to finally show up. But keep in mind, on the odd chance the grief counselor is still alive, the man has got to have a very hectic work schedule.

Hey, that's what I'm talking about. Yes! (High-Five!) The lone wolf is alone no longer. You too? Excellent. (High-Five!) The rebellion's army is growing. Here, have a couple tokes on me, guys.

Ahem. Well, it appears that sides have been chosen. I'd like to thank and congratulate you guys for being my soldiers. Both of you.

Okay men, here's the thing to keep in mind: the enemy has dents in its armor. Vampires are nocturnal creatures. They sleep during the day. Do you two realize what that means? It means that during daylight hours we only have to contest with the zombies, the prehistoric things, and the Hitchcock birds. During the daytime, it's basically like three-on-three. You versus the zombies, other guy can handle the prehistoric things, and, by process of elimination, I'll be plugging my trusty Roman Candles up the asses of the Hitchcock birds.

We have about eight hours until daylight. Until then we need to carve up a bunch of wooden stakes. We can use the scrap lumber in the storage room and the Swiss Army blade Frank the bus driver used to slit his own throat. We'll make our way over to the Wal-mart three miles from here, stock up on guns and supplies, maybe even play Guitar Hero in the electronics department, just to take the edge off. And hey, speaking of taking the edge off, hand me back that--

Oh, shit. Shhh! Everybody hush up. Something's out there. Jesus, what kind of a monstrosity are we dealing with here? Zombie, mutated pterodactyl, or Hitchcock bird...either way, I'm going to blow its fuckin' head off. With a Roman Candle.

Hey, you! Open the door, will ya? This wick is burning like hell.

The power of Christ owns you like a bitch!

Schhhhooook!

Oh, shit. Shit! Does anyone have some aloe lotion to rub on his skin? Hey, don't yell at me. I could hardly see a thing through the thick mist. How was I supposed to know the monster outside was really the stupid grief counselor?

Siamese Twins and OCD

At the risk of playing a very tiny violin, I’d like to state that living with a mental disorder is a relentless pain in the ass. The mind-over-matter battle that everyone grapples with is heightened for my pill-popping peers and I, but it’s important to judge one’s plight with a sense of relativity.

Whenever I’m toiling in a neurotic and depressive funk and I’m asked the question, “Hey Nick, how’s it going?” I have devised a foolproof reply to fall back on. The phrase is truthful and it also spares me the stigma of a wet blanket. I tell my “How’s it going?” inquisitor: “I’m just glad I wasn’t born with a Siamese twin."

In comparison to Siamese twins, we’ve all got it relatively easy. My heart goes out to all the physical oddities of the world. As a mental oddity, folks are oblivious abnormalities until they engage me in a conversation about a bizarre topic such as Siamese twins. Siamese twins are externally strange, and they can’t simply shell out $40 a bottle to make things very slightly better, the pitiful saps. On one level I empathize, but on another level, I indulge in a fair amount of comparative gratitude. The next time I find myself checking and rechecking my CD wallets to make sure that all bands are arranged in alphabetical order, I’ll take consolation in the fact that I am not conjoined to another human being. Conversely, I doubt a Siamese twin would think to himself, “Oh, sure, since birth I’ve been unable to walk through a doorway without shuffling sideways in accordance with that chatterbox Lefty, but at least I’m not fussy about alphabetizing my CD catalog. Phew! That’s a load off.” In the poker game of genetics, Siamese twins were dealt a seven-deuce off-suit.

***

I'm only providing the beginning of this essay because I want you to buy a copy of my book, which costs money.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig

A False Opener Followed by Additional Nonsense

If you're interested, and I hope you are, I also write columns for a humor site by the name of twelvepackistan.com . Truth be known, I'm not even sure if this showstopper will be posted there. Sometimes my offerings surpass the word-count they're looking for, and other times the uppity fuckers pass on essays like "Vampire Fight" and "Hair of the Pubic Variety" for reasons my ego will not permit me to understand. This next one is a reworked version of a column I wrote for the Advance-Titan. On a final italic note: I joke about a wide array of strange bull-honkey, but in all honesty, I would love to play a cock-fight-themed video game.

In the nation of Twelvepackistan, we, the contributors, put a high premium on fulfilling the needs of our various demographics. We try to be sensitive to the sensibilities of certain sects of our readership. In a recent column that asserted Led Zeppelin's supremacy in a battle royale of the greatest bands in rock history, Greg took a dismissive swipe at the prog-rock group Styx. Regardless of how you feel about lame and pompously contrived bullshit like “Mr. Roboto,” it cannot be disputed that Greg's terse remarks served to anger and alienate the nerd demographic of this once proud humor web-site. Greg's exclusion of both REO Speedwagon and Starship in the discussion of superlative rock bands further inspired the ire of Twelvepackistan's nerd demographic.

Styx supporters, please, stop waving those plastic light-sabers around, pretending the thin air you're swiping through is Greg's jugular vein. There's no need to gnash your teeth and utter the words “Vile Fiend!” while beating your bony fists against the bean-bag you've been sleeping on ever since that pet iguana of yours squirted diarrhea all over the love-seat. Nick is here to mollify all the indignant nerds who were offended by Greg's anti-Styx stance.

In an act of comic contrition, my aim is to propose some guidelines for a cockfight-themed video game. Nerds everywhere are in agreement: It would be sweet if such a game really existed. Unfortunately, I lack the rampant acne, hunchback posture, and wet-cardboard-smelling body odor known to all video game designers, so I don't have the wherewithal to actually create this game. But I've got faith that one of our readers does, and we're glad to have you on board for this one, poindexter. Feel free to run with the basic blueprints to “Pulverizing Pollos.”

Here is a list of clever character names: Pepi, the Peruvian Peck Technician; Miguel, the Mucho Gusto Rooster; Sir Winston Cluckworth the Fourth, Cock-Master Nine-Thousand; Chachi, the Chicano Chicken; the Wingspan Caravan; Jose Ray, the Half-Pint Pinto Powerhouse; the El Guapo Bopper; and Kenny “The Kentucky-Fried Southern Pride” McBride.

Let's move on to the attack commands. There are four basic attacks: the Jugular Jab, the Beak Bludgeon, the Drunken Tracheotomy, and of course the...

Whoa, what's this? Sorry for the holdup in hilarity, reader, but I just received a telegram. Hmmm. The word “Urgent” is scrawled on the envelope. Damn, I'd better read this. Feel free to get a snack or scratch your genitals, okay? This will only take a minute.

All right, I made short work of that saliva seal. Now I'm reaching inside the envelope and unfolding the letter. (Editor's note: This is Bush League.) Interesting. It's a letter from my fictitious aunt Olla. I haven't heard from her in quite a while.

Oh, God. (Gulp.) No, no, no. Why? My fictitious Uncle Orpheus, he's...DEAD. No! Why do bad things happen to alcoholic uncles? I'm going to shout at the heavens. God, you unfathomable cosmic prankster, why didn't you take my goldfish instead?! It's not like I feed him on a regular basis, anyway. Oh—the plight of it all!

Okay, pull yourself together, man. You're neck-deep in a dynamite column that simply wandered off-track due to an unforeseeable tragedy. Don't let the reader see you cry. Never let the reader see you cry.

(Exasperated sigh.) Sorry, Styx fans, the “Pulverizing Pollos” ditty will have to be postponed. Right now I've got to grieve the only way I know how: by writing an uproarious obituary.

This one is dedicated to my Uncle Orpheus. He could sometimes act like a decent man, but that was usually done as a ruse to dupe the elderly into signing up for one of his pyramid schemes.
His proud shock of frizzy blond hair never faded to gray because he dunked his head in bleach water to sober up each and every morning. He was a gaseous man, bloated with life, who lost two fingers in Vietnam while proving to his fellow soldiers that he could indeed slam dunk the height of the whirring blades on the chopper that transported his unit. He had a palate for Cheese Wiz and schnapps, and he died before he even got the chance to exist.

Uncle Orpheus was an unpredictable vagabond whose travels were driven by an insatiable wanderlust as well as warrants for his arrest in various counties, states, and countries. Back in 2002, he crusaded across Europe in a minivan. He coined his campaign “Y'all Sound Gay When You Speak Your Native Language!” To this day it is recognized as the least effective and most offensive crusade for a global vernacular.

Up until five paragraphs ago, I had planned to spend the next few months with him in Australia. He always said it took money to buy booze, especially in excess. Excess for Uncle Orpheus required a six-figure income to support his habit. For that reason he was not content with an ordinary job. No, he was a dreamer who flirted with Lady Greatness only to have his libido subdued and crushed by three shots of schnapps at bar-close time.

His ambition Down Under was to found the Koala Bear Wrestling Federation. Ausies are fairly sophisticated and far too uppity to indulge in idiotic “sports” such as pro-wrestling. Grown men feigning violence in colorful tights? It's bloody ridiculous, they say. In Australia, they leave the sports entertainment to the koalas...only the violence is very real.

My job was to be costume designer for the koalas. Just like our country's humanoid grapplers, wrestling koalas are required to wear gaudy ensembles. Now, to some of my skeptical readers, I'm sure the notion of a koala clad in a purple Speedo with skull-and-crossbones stitched onto the crotch seems absurd. To those gripers my response is, “Would you prefer a NAKED koala? Gross!”

Had Uncle Orpheus not choked on a doobie made from parasite-ridden Eucalyptus leaves, he would have been in charge of marketing and training in the KBWF. As Head Trainer of the koala bears, he intended to convert a gentle species of herbivores into malicious brawlers capable of wielding steel chairs for entertainment purposes.

His untimely death has devastated my job prospects. As any economist will tell you, the job market for Koala Bear Speedo Designer is dire in America. My only recourse may be to set up a pyramid scheme that tricks the elderly into blowing their retirement money on Hummel figurines for autistic blind children.

But let's not dwell on that. In times of mourning, it is essential to recall the good things a departed loved-one has imparted on your life.

Case in point: The family reunion a few years ago. Uncle Orpheus showed up with his jaw wired shut. The previous week he had fractured his jaw after trying to “unscrew a pesky bottle of champagne” with his clenched teeth. What's even worse, he wasn't even holding a bottle of bubbly at the time; it was a damn bowling pin and he was too wasted off his ass to realize the difference. With his jaw wired shut, he couldn't partake in festivities such as Grandma's Beer Bong Challenge and Uncle Orville's Racial Slur Bonanza. He became envious of everyone in attendance and ordered me to dump out his bag of mushy “astronaut food” and replace it with some schnapps. He intended to consume it little by little through a straw, but I refused to accommodate.

At this point an indignant rage consumed Uncle Orpheus. He grabbed a nearby Scattegories die and hurled it at my head. I ducked just in time. The die flew over my head and cracked against my grandma's right temple. The feisty old woman's response was to chug a large quantity of German Potato Salad, which has a Popeye/ spinach effect on her. She charged Uncle Orpheus with a Jenga box packed with blocks and pummeled the hell out of him.

“I sunk your battleship, son!” grandma slurred. Her timely line didn't make much sense, but we all shared a hearty laugh, anyway.

And that is what I try to remember most about my semi-beloved fictitious uncle: the laughter. Upon your cremation, I vow to spread your ashes across the vast cyberspace of Twelvepackistan...unless Greg deems this column unfunny or too long, in which case, you're shit out of luck.

Oh, and by the way, for the sake of closure, the final attack command for “Pulverizing Pollos” is the Feather Duster.

The Dark Knight and Brett Favre

Originally written in September of 2009.

A few things to keep in mind, since this work is being published in 2010 and therefore requires some updates...

The Minnesota Vikings had a very successful run in 2009; they lost in the NFC Championship game to the New Orleans Saints, who ultimately won the Super Bowl. The loss to the Saints was due in large part to an overtime interception thrown by guess-who.

Aside from that predictable yet (arguably) tragic ending, Favre was undeniably terrific, throwing for over 4,000 yards and boasting the league's most impressive touchdown-to-interception ratio. The Vikings' offense thrived; opposing defenses dared Favre to beat them with his arm and, more often than not, he did just that. These developments astounded me.

My appreciation for Brett Favre is a powerful force that will remain dormant for as long as he wears a Minnesota Vikings jersey. I can't get over my subjectivity as a fan of the Green Bay Packers, nor do I want to. Favre is one of the top ten football players the NFL has ever produced. But defecting to the Vikings to spite the franchise you were almost entirely responsible for rejuvenating? That's a dick move, Brett, and many Packer fans will always hold that against you.

"You either die a hero or else you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."


This is the most profound quote from The Dark Knight, the blockbuster superhero flick that is thought-provoking in ways both intentional and accidental, calculated and tragic. In addition to foreshadowing Harvey Dent's mutation into Two-Face, this quote not only summarizes Brett Favre's decent into villainy in the eyes of the Green Bay Packer faithful, it also cements the impact Heath Ledger's flawless swan song as the Joker had on his legacy.

By playing a deranged villain so adeptly in the final film he was to star in (completely), Heath Ledger died a cinematic hero, but ironically and fittingly enough, he never got to bask in his own triumph; by the time The Dark Knight opened in theaters, he had been buried for four months. Devout Favre fans in Packerland wanted the same from their rowdy gunslinger. We craved the same bittersweet—but unequivocally final—end to Favre's career.

The 2007 season, Favre's last with the Packers, wasn't perfect: it ended in the NFC Championship game with an overtime loss to the New York Giants, who went on to upset the undefeated New England Patriots in the Super Bowl. But the team won 14 games (including the playoffs), and notwithstanding one last confounding interception from Favre, it was the best season the team had had in a decade. Packer fans were both mournful and celebratory in March of 2008 when Favre choked back tears to announce his retirement. Among many other things, we exalted his consecutive games played streak, the way our guy made his fair share of mistakes, but never missed a single start due to injury. He was still the seemingly indestructible country kid who tackled his wide receivers with boyish delight after zipping a touchdown between two defenders. He brought the Lombardi Trophy back to Titletown, set records for passing yards and touchdowns thrown, led his team to the playoffs despite a broken thumb on his throwing finger, threw a six-point strike while in the woozy throes of a concussion, and had one of the most sensational games of his career on Monday Night Football the day after his father died. We remembered all of that, and always will, I hope.

***

This essay is featured, in its entirety, in my book, titled "There Will be Blog."
To order a copy...

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

Pluto's Letter to Earth

Hello, Earth. It's Pluto. It's been a long time since our last correspondence. Ever since you saw it fit to revoke my status as a planet, the two of us have lost contact with each other. Oh, and speaking of Contact, the Jodi Foster sci-fi flick, how the hell is Jodi, anyway? I've been an avid fan of hers ever since her precocious debut in Taxi Driver over 30 years ago. She never replied to any of my letters. I hope she received that chunk of my crust that I sent her as a gift to honor her Oscar nomination for Silence of the Lambs. It's not like I'm stalking her or anything. How could I—without severely altering the course of my orbit in order to collide with violent passion into Ms. Foster and the planet she seductively inhabits? I could never do that. Christ knows I've tried. Okay. Enough about Jodi Foster. If she wants to play hard to get, that's her own whorish business.

About two years ago, a team of Earth's astronomers who all lost their prolonged, middle-aged virginity in a horrid gang-bang of the cleaning lady at their observatory agreed that I should no longer be considered a planet because I'm not up to your standards of size. That's hurtful, Earth. My 900 days of winter have gotten even colder since you stuck that knife in my back. Do you have any idea what kind of damage that demotion has reeked on my social life? Fucking Neptune was the only planet to send me a Christmas card this year, and when I opened the card, the only line written was, “Sorry to hear the news. What a shame! Hope all is well.” Jesus. It's not like my surface is fitted with a shirt that reads, “I crave Neptune's sympathy.”

If I am no longer a planet in the bespectacled eyes of your scientists, then what am I? This wretched demotion is causing me a serious identity crisis. What do your nerdy astronomers call me now? How am I categorized?

Am I a satellite? No, because I don't orbit around another planet. Demote me all you wish, but I'll never be Neptune's bitch. I orbit the Sun, just like you. So, how are we any different?

Do you think I'm a meteor? Because I've got news for you: I'm not. I've got more class, esteem, and regard for life than any of those Jihad-shrieking, suicidal mavericks. If I was a meteor, however, I'd probably propel myself in the direction of Earth, shred through your depleted o-zone layer, and demolish the observatory responsible for revoking my claim to planet-hood.

Am I some sort of an unconventional star to you—barren and frigid and modestly sized? No, I'm too small to be classified a planet, much less a star, which is why I got demoted in the first place. Asteroid, black hole, comet? No, no, and no. I'm running out of space-words here! What the hell am I? Since being demoted, my self-esteem has plummeted. At my lowest moment, I got loaded on moonshine and ether with one of Uranus' moons—shit, I can't even remember which one—and got so depressed hanging out with that galactic nobody that I tried to float into the path of a meteor shower.

But that ultimately brings me to my point. I recall Uranus' moon slurring the words “Dwarf Planet”--it was either that or “Smurf Gadget.” But “Smurf Gadget” was senseless within the context of the conversation, which was all about Earth's big “Fuck you” to old Pluto.

I can live with being called a Dwarf Planet. Do you know why? Because you can't spell “Dwarf Planet” without the word PLANET! Dwarf is merely an adjective to describe a noun, which in this case is a planet. We don't need to get bogged down in semantics here, but obviously, a dwarf planet still qualifies as a planet, doesn't it? Just because something is small or dwarfish in size doesn't mean you need an entirely different noun to categorize it. Just as a small penis is a penis nonetheless, a small planet still counts as a planet. A penis can't be kicked out of the League of Penises by a larger penis; that wouldn't make any sense, so I don't see how Earth—which isn't even big compared to planets like Jupiter—can possibly dismiss a long-time member of the club because of a bias in size.

And actually, it's pretty cool being the only planet in the club with an adjective to modify it. While the rest of you, from that kiss-ass of the Sun Mercury to Neptune with its two bull-dike moons, the whole sorry lot of you all are just planets. But me, I'm a rare breed, a dwarf planet, which is a point of pride and distinction.

So, thanks for going through all the trouble to reclassify me a dwarf planet, Earth. It makes Pluto feel special. Oh, and please let me know when the telescope, scented candles, and bottle of lubricant I sent to Jodi Foster three light years ago arrives. When the night is right, I'm going to give that sultry broad the show of a lifetime.

Jokes Instead of a Column

Occasionally I run out of ideas. When this happens, a damn shame occurs because comedy writing is what I typically do to force my mind's focus to stray from the fear of disappointing everyone I love, stepping on cracks in the pavement, and pterodactyl attacks—oh, God, in the Real World, the damn pterodactyl attacks are endless.

Although at this time I have not been able to come up with a cohesive column about a single subject in the 1,000-word range, I do have a slew of topically unrelated jokes to spew forth at your consent.

Think of this as a series of nonlinear stand-up jokes, minus the audio and any trace of visual flair (excluding this awesome font-style.) That's not so bad, is it?

If life is really all just a dream, think of how many times you've unknowingly peed the bed.
Whenever an athlete who wears the number '69' engages in mutual oral sex, it's got to mean a little extra something.

The following are bad ideas for bumper stickers:1.“My kid shot your honor student three times in the chest.”2.“I brake for child pornographers!”3.“Share the road with pedophiles on unicycles!”4.“I you can read this, you're not from Alabama.”5.“Follow me to where I hide the bodies!”

My secret to happiness? I owe it all to that pillow I own with the phrase “Hooray for Love” sewn in the fabric. It's just that easy, people.

Why do the Spanish feel the need to attach gender to inanimate objects? The Spanish live in absurd fantasy world where the computer menstruates and the hammers obsess about baseball to keep from prematurely ejaculating.

***

You can read the rest by purchasing a copy of "There Will be Blog."

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

A Translation of Zooey's Meows

A few years ago I wrote a column for my college newspaper entitled “Professor Radington.” That was the name I christened a plastic robot I found discarded beside a heap of curbside trash in Wrigleyville, following hours of PBR-chugging with my friends in Chicago. Moments after lugging the Professor into my friend's apartment, I was grasping hold of his plastic claws, spinning in a circle, his stumpy frame in rotation around mine in the way that a planet orbits its Sun. P-Rad's novelty did not wear off when I sobered-up in the morning. He made the trip with us back to Oshkosh and I decided that, in addition to serving as a bizarre decoration and apartment mascot, I was going to pay him tribute with a humor column.

The idea for the piece was that I was eagerly awaiting fatherhood (which wasn't the truth), but I wanted to be sure I could meet the daunting challenge before undertaking such a major responsibility. And so I tired my hand at dog ownership, with poor results, and consequently lowered my standards down to comatosed dogs, houseplants, and finally, after all these endeavors had failed in one way or another, plastic robots. Dogs, coma dogs, houseplants, and plastic robots—that was the chain of ownership in Bullshitland. In the column, I did prove to be a worthy father for P-Rad. Inanimate objects are safe in my care. As for creatures with a heartbeat, I am less adept at meeting their needs.

Oddly enough, for several years I really did own a pet, a (semi-) legitimate stepping stone on the path to fatherhood. It never occurred to me to apply this life experience to an absurd column that proposed a hierarchy of care-taking that ranged from plastic robots to children. On this scale, aquatic frogs rank somewhere between houseplants and coma-dogs.

My frog, named Kermit, with little creativity, survived for about eight years, provided ten minutes of entertainment in that time, received virtually no affection (mainly because human touch could be damaging to this breed of frogs), and required sporadic maintenance. I came to acquire Kermit when I was eleven years old. For Christmas in 1994, besides Chicago Cubs attire and Super Nintendo games, with brash ambition, I asked for a dog. Deep down, I knew it was a forlorn wish since my dad has a disdain for pets. As kids, we were allowed to keep goldfish, because they were quiet, cheap, and dispensable, but any creature with four legs was simply out of the question. My dad reasoned that six life forms under one roof was sufficient. The Olig household was kept in a state of sterility—all walls were painted white, as if vibrant colors would incite neuroses and thuggery, the Oldies station played at a barely audible volume, providing familiar background noise while my dad filled out his crossword puzzle, and my parents generally believed it was foolish and impractical to feed yet another irresponsible stain-creator.

The reason why Kermit was excluded in my column about Professor Radington is that I hardly considered him a pet; he was more of a living, breathing afterthought. Once a day I had to scoop two crusty food pellets into his tank. Once a month I had to provide him fresh water to swim around in, dumping him into a smaller container temporarily until the change was made. In his twilight years, Kermit croaked in loud repetition throughout the night and became a real nuisance. Apparently, the lesson my parents were trying to teach me by giving me Kermit for Christmas was this: Pets are a pain the ass, son, and they're not worth the trouble.

For the month of July in 2009 I sublet an apartment in Chicago's Logan Square neighborhood. I shared a two-bedroom place with Anna, a thoughtful and cute earthy girl without pretensions who had recently graduated from the Roosevelt Acting Academy. She was becoming a strong-willed, independent adult, which is a very serious business, and so she liked to keep a box of crayons, a sheet of drawing paper, and a hash-pipe nearby whenever possible, as sort of a reward to the struggle. She owned unicorn's head attached to stick that the make-believe rider could straddle, which she kept on the back porch, leaning against the glass table where we placed our ashtrays and drinks. I named the unicorn Rhonda, a name Anna loathed and rejected, though she never offered an acceptable alternative. Rhonda was to Anna what Professor Radington was to me. Anna's kitten, whom she had owned for eight months, had ran away not long before I moved into the apartment, and perhaps Rhonda the unicorn filled the void in some capacity—in that hollow, unsatisfying way unique to inanimate objects.

***

The rest of "Zooey's Meows" is available for your reading pleasure within my book. In case you'd like to order a copy...

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html