The Type Who Craves Punishment

It has recently been suggested to me by a woman I first met on a Greyhound bus that I am the type of person who craves punishment. She offered this indictment as a possible way to explain the motivation behind my helping her move into a new apartment on what (I suppose) qualifies as our second date. I did not confirm her suspicion, choosing instead to stammer something about believing in acts of generosity and not caring much about the NFL playoff games on this particular Saturday (which did not include my favorite team, the Green Bay Packers). It's a quirky experience, lugging dozens of garbage bags stuffed with clothes, boxes heavy with possessions, and bulky furniture pieces on behalf of someone whose phone number you've only known for a week. But it's also quirky to ask for the phone number of a girl you sat next to and chatted with on a Greyhound bus ride, and so I figured I was merely adhering to the general flow of the relationship.

My body is not exactly built for heavy lifting; no, it's more the type of body that could incite a million Youtube hits should anyone capture footage of me being grabbed by the belt and collar by a burly bouncer and launched halfway down a back alley littered with condom wrappers and shattered glass. In truth, the word “punishment” did invade my mind while supporting what felt like a 900-pound dresser through a living room, then an entryway, down a flight of stairs slick with snow, and finally hoisting it in exhausted tandem with a much stronger man into the bed of a pickup truck. In my effort to please this woman—a borderline stranger—I exerted more physical energy into moving her possessions (and the possessions of her new roommate) than I did in her bed the night before. (To my credit—and I am pathologically bashful about sharing this sort of thing—at the bar Friday night she did complain that the salt she licked prior to a shot of tequila stung her lower lip, which had been cut after a very long time of blissful smooching. My boastful comments about sex always seem to be only slightly more scintillating than a bawdy quip from a character on “Saved by the Bell.” Second base is where it gets too personal for me to share.)

In my defense, the punishment I experienced during this unlikely transport of someone else's belongings was more of a consequence than a desire—the consequence that all-too-often accompanies a good deed.

I'm a bit irked by the suggestion that I pursue punishment—primarily because there is a degree of truth in the accusation. Men who desire punishment are automatically associated with sadomasochists who cum in their adult diapers when getting booted in the taint by a dominatrix in ten-inch leather heels while they scrub the tiles behind the toilet with a toothbrush. I can think of at least ten things more erotically satisfying than the perverse substitute for intimacy described in the previous sentence. I once spent ten days in a mental hospital, and yet I don't feel like a hypocrite in my disdain for men who pay a lot of money to enact their humiliating S & M fantasies. I think these men are psychologically damaged, deeply troubled deviants. Self-hating, pathetic, and craven lunatics. There's a chance I'm being too critical of this sort of abhorrent consensual “sex,” and if that's the case, the very least I can say on the matter is that sadomasochism just isn't my cup of tea.

***

Like what you've read so far? I hope so. Listed below is the link to buy a copy of the book in which this essay makes an appearance.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

The Truth about Opinions

As a dissatisfied young(-ish) person with access to the Internet and secret urges for self-importance and complaining too much, I have an account on Facebook. When posting my status, though, I avoid providing mundane details of my life—such as, “Today I slept for too long, smoked a cigarette, watched ESPN, ate a cold slice of pizza, then decided not to go to the job center to search for work because it was snowing outside.” Worse than mundane, those autobiographical tidbits are kind of depressing, and I'd rather not advertise my unhappiness. I'm beyond shallow cries for help.

But even if I was living a more fulfilling life at present time, I wouldn't share that information with anybody (on Facebook). I never care to learn that someone I never speak to woke up early today and decided to wrap Christmas presents. It doesn't intrigue me to read that a girl I drunkenly smooched on two occasions in college is going for a run after a long day of work at the newspaper office. When an old acquaintance informs the Facebook community that he is drinking more coffee than usual this morning because he didn't get much sleep last night, I have no opinion on the matter. Facebook does not provide a magical sheen to enhance the magnitude of such happenings. I think these people believe on some level that we are united by the commonplace normalcy of our lives, and that offers them comfort.

The true upside of having an account on Facebook is that I'm reassured of the existence of people from my past that I otherwise would have lost all contact with. One of the affects of living in troubled, bleak times is the reliance on nostalgia as a coping mechanism. The present may be dire, but I have shared memories with these wayward people I have seen sporadically or not at all since the advent of the Great Depression Remix. Some of these memories are meaningful, exciting, and joyous, and I can afford to ignore all the memories that are meaningless, dull, and gloomy because I am overstocked on those types of memories anytime I think of pretty much everything that's happened to me in the past year-and-a-half. Nostalgia is what reminds a lot people of the prospect of happiness, and if you have a Facebook account and a deep fondness for “The Good Life” by Weezer, you can no doubt relate.

Another dubious benefit of Facebook is that it allows you to share your opinion with hundreds of other people without having to resort to human interaction or going outside. I have shared my opinion on Facebook, for what it's worth. After the latest installment of the Saw horror series was released in theaters, I informed anyone who was willing to read that, to me, watching the dreaded NFL on Fox robot perform jumping-jacks and run in place for two hours was preferable to seeing a series of grotesque torture scenes. I hate the Saw movies. Their continued success comes at the expense of my faith in humanity, and I made my opinion known, to the delight of my secret urge for self-importance.

Other people on Facebook have the same liberty to post their opinions, of course. An old classmate of mine from college recently declared his opinion of the band Radiohead. To wit: “Some bands only exist to make one awesome song. And for Radiohead, that song was 'Creep.'”

I disagree with this statement, but not as adamantly as I would have a few years ago. “Creep” is Radiohead's most commercially successful song. It established the group's fan-base in the early 90s, and with that quiet-loud dynamic of raging insecurity, it is the band's signature contribution to the explosion of alternative rock on the radio. Those are valid achievement for a rock band. And although most devout fans of Radiohead, and the band itself, dismiss the song as an amateurish novelty, a successful blemish on par with “Fight for Your Right” by the Beastie Boys, I think “Creep” is still a pretty good song. To me, the song's merit falls somewhere between the mainstream adoration expressed by my old friend Erik and the elitist disdain avid fans of Radiohead tend to feel towards “Creep.” But to type that Radiohead has produced but one great song after almost 20 years of commercial success and critical acclaim is a baffling argument that overlooks the existence of The Bends, OK Computer, and Kid A—albums that rank highly on lists compiled by people who obsess over tunes and write (mostly) informed critiques of the musicians in the world that command a lot of attention.

Paul is another one of my friends from college who majored in Communications. In response to Erik's status (which prompted a shit-load of comments), Paul typed the words: “That is just wrong in so many ways.” Below this, my response was, “Paul is right.”

Right after I clicked “send,” though, I was hit by a belated epiphany. It was a moment on par with what George Costanza felt after he failed to deliver a comeback when a coworker mocked him for eating too much shrimp at a board meeting. George kicked himself for having no tart retort to, “The ocean called; they want their shrimp back.” After the incident, an indignant George realizes that he should have said, “Oh yeah? Well, the jerk store called. And they're all out of you.” Similarly, it occurred to me that a more clever and abrasive response to Erik's post would have been to quote a line from “Paranoid Android” (one of at least 20 songs by Radiohead that are better than “Creep.”)

To wit: “When I am king, you will be first against the wall/ With your opinion which is of no consequence at all.”

That was a vile and dumb thing to regret, though, and the feeling didn't last for very long. It would have been too harsh and petty to stir up spite like that on the Internet.

And more importantly, if Erik's opinion is of no consequence at all, neither is mine, and the same goes for everyone. Plus, let's face it, I'll never be the king. The realization that I came to was that I had no business asserting that, “Paul is right.” Paul is merely somebody that I agree with about one specific issue, and it's a trivial issue, at that. In truth, the comment “Paul is right” is every bit as insipid as “Erik shops at the jerk store because he only likes one song by Radiohead.”

Had I quoted “Paranoid Android” on Facebook in order to refute one man's opinion, I would be even more damaged by the guilt of folly as I write this. My slow draw of wit as I tried to come up with something better than “Paul is right” paid dividends in the long-run. The reasons are as follows.

1.) I don't have anything against Erik. He likes Bill Murray movies and video games, and he's not adversed to beer, and so someday it might be cool to get drunk with him and play him in Tecmo Super Bowl while quoting lines from The Life Aquatic.

2.) Because Erik is obviously not a fan of Radiohead, he might not even get the esoteric reference to the lyrics of “Paranoid Android.” In which case, Erik might infer that I literally want to chain him to the wall in my basement (much like Jigsaw from the first Saw film), and that's not at all the message I want to convey.

3.) It's futile to argue about musical preferences. Whether I commented on Erik's post by quoting “Paranoid Android,” or suggested he pay a visit to the Jerk Store, or stated “Paul is right,” the upshot would have either been worthless or negative. The words “Paul is right” represent an obnoxious and puerile lack of decency, a grim regression into the perils of self-righteous subjectivity. Over the years, I have at length defended Nirvana against an onslaught of ferocious Phish-heads around a bonfire, scoffed scornfully at my best friend for claiming that Incubus was superior to Pearl Jam, wasted enough breath to revive a dozen half-drowned kids as I explained to a roommate why “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” is the product of moronic hillbillies. And for what reason? Nobody ever considered the opposing argument. Nobody ever budged on their stance. Nobody changed their minds. Nothing was resolved or gained, except for the kind of selfish vitriol that is (I'm led to believe) essential to the human experience.

The problem with the realization achieved in Reason 3, that it's futile to quibble about musical preferences, is that it leaves me at the uncertain crossroads of theory and practice. If it's futile to debate that “Creep” was not the only great song Radiohead produced, then likewise, there is no use in voicing your dissent when somebody assures you that Bon Jovi is the greatest rock band of all time. And conceding to this argument feels like surrendering to the overwhelming will of the idiots. But there is no objective rationale in dismissing all Bon Jovi fans as idiots; it's just a damn strong hunch that I have. I believe in God with as much certainty as I believe that Bon Jovi sucks, but I can't offer any solid proof for either conviction. Since I realize that I might be wrong simply because I can't possibly prove that I'm right, is there any merit in the columns I've done that vilify musical groups I don't enjoy listening to?

The answer is more complex than “Yes” if you agree with me about Bon Jovi (or Phish) and “No” if you don't agree. By acknowledging that it's pointless to argue that one artist is terrific while another is horrible—sheerly based on my opinion—I may have inadvertently besmirched stuff I've written in the past. What's worse, if I put my theory into practice, then from now on, I will have to avoid taking swipes at any band, movie, TV show, athlete, etc. that I don't care for. In short, I can either ignore the truth and continue to insist that the lead singer of Nickelback sits on a toilet while he records his vocals, or else I can honor the truth by not criticizing something simply because I don't like it...which would cut out a good chunk of my creative output.

At the same time, as a contradiction, there really is no objective rationale that dictates people don't have the right to be subjective. The truth is that people have opinions. It is, oddly enough, objectively true to claim that everyone has their own subjective viewpoint of the world. So when I suggest that avid Phish-heads share much in common with the members of bizarre religious cults, the assertion is but a small piece of the humble subjective truth that I have come to believe. What's interesting is that people feel more compelled to edify their personal truths than the objective truth. (Or worse, they assume the two truths are identical.) We're much more concerned with our own personal feelings about Michael Bolton than we are about how many Grammy Awards the man has won.

Logic contends that we can't be certain which religion is God's preferred choice because no one has ever seen God 1.) decorate a Christmas tree 2.) scream “Moziltaf!” in celebration 3.) refuse to say the Pledge of Allegiance or 4.) pray to himself five times a day while bowing toward the Mecca—but that seems like petty criticism to devoutly religious people of all denominations because they know the power of their own faith.

At best, we condemn those who lack the conviction to express and defend their own beliefs, which is probably valid and definitely more reasonable than condemning a person for not being certain of seemingly unknowable truths. At worst, however, it seems to me that because subjectivity means so damn much to us, we are all more selfish than selfless, more opinionated than enlightened.

Somewhere in between those extremes, I've determined that ignorant passion appeals to us more than enlightened apathy. This helps explain why Glenn Beck has risen to fame while J.D. Salinger faded into oblivion before his death.

Human beings are helplessly drawn to the delusion that the intensity of their feelings has a significant bearing on the truth, and as a member of this species I have expressed mixed feelings for, I don't transcend those limitations. I've become aware of the conundrum, but that doesn't mean I have the wherewithal to conquer it. Subjective truth is something we invented to feel more at ease with our ignorance. Objective truth is a secret God mostly keeps to himself.

And since I'm not God, I'm forced to adhere to the pitfalls of subjectivity, which means that, futility be damned, it is only a matter of time before I relapse into disputes about musical tastes and opinions in general. I have covered a lot of ground and burrowed into painful thoughts, and yet I haven't really learned a thing. In my mind, Paul is still right, and that matters the most (to me).

What I do sincerely hope, though, is that my opinions do not lead to the destruction of friendships—even if far too many of my friends are relegated to Facebook. In which case, I will offer to Erik, whose opinion prompted this essay, a quote from another rock band, the Strokes.

To wit: “Oh (dude), can't you see/ It's them, it's not me/ We're not enemies/ We just disagree.”

Right on. I'm done with this one. I'm moving on as I dust my hands off...and hey, incidentally, if you don't like the Strokes, Erik, then you're a fucking lowlife.

The Plight of the Bigot's Fantasy Football Team

When readers take satirical writing too literally, they tend to feel contempt for the author. It's all a misunderstanding. Don't confuse my beliefs with the beliefs of a character I created for the sake of a comedy column. Mark Twain was an intrepid abolitionist, and yet he frequently used an epithet more insulting than “Ninja” in his work; more “Ninja” bombs are dropped in “Huck Finn” than in NWA's first album. And let this be the last time I compare myself to Mark Twain.

On the adapted for cable TV version of Leprechaun in the Hood, it may be worth noting, the term that Mark Twain and NWA are so fond of is dubbed over by the word “Ninja.” For example: “Did you know that NWA stands for 'Ninjas with Attitude'?”

Hello. I'm a white supremacist. As such, I believe that Larry Bird is the greatest basketball player of all time, and to ensure that my opinion never changes, I smoke a crap-ton of crystal-meth in order to vanquish from my memory the likes of at least 32 slam-dunkin' Ninjas.

My first-born son, Rudy Gordon Lumwick III, learned how to crawl in aisle 5 of a Wal-mart. He was coaxed on by a trail of Cheeto's what led from the gun display all the way to the checkout line where my sweet Aryan wife was tittie-feeding our seventh or eight bundle of White Joy, Dally Mae or Danica Molly.

And ever since that scrawny spook got elected president and started winning Swedish awards for turning this once great country into a land of Commie freeloaders, I've converted my garage into an independent nation, where I'm free to smear shoe polish on the faces of my little cousins and reenact inside a wrestling ring I built with the hands of Mexican laborers the Hulkster's brutal victory over that cross-eyed Ninja Zeus from the film classic No Holds Barred. May the Confederacy of Lumwick's Garage reign supreme until Jeb Bush is elected president in 2012.

For reasons I do not understand, burning crosses tends to burn bridges with the common, white-guilt afflicted American, but at the very least, in the humane interest of the Superior Race, I beg you to turn a compassionate ear to the desperate plea I am about to express.

Like millions of other true-blooded Americans, I am a Fantasy Football enthusiast. Hell, to be matter-of-fact with you, Fantasy Football gives me more joy than seeing two homeless black guys wrestle over a day-old bagel (a sight I enjoyed mightily while visiting Brooklyn during one of my legendary Hate-Benders). When I think of Fantasy Football during sex with my dumpling Aryan bride Dolly Susie, I blow my load, right then and there, and curse the likes of Peyton Manning and Wes Welker for popping into my head while I got's a boner. But not all is right with my Fantasy team, to be frank, and lately my boys have been giving me more grief than joy.

As a White Supremacist, I'll be damned if I'm going to draft any stinkin' Ninjas. I'm part of a REAL Fantasy League, not one of them Negro Fantasy Leagues. My team is pure! And if that means passing up on every single thousand-yard running back since John Riggens in the mid-1980s, then so be it! I'd sooner draft 4th string Broncos running back Peyton Hillis than one of these gang-bangin', Mouseketeer-gropin' Ninjas like Adrian Peterson or Michael Turner.

Which segues pretty well into a furious gripe I have with the Head Coach of the Denver Broncos, Josh McDaniels. For the benefit of the White Race, and almost as importantly, my Fantasy Football team, Coach McDaniels has got to realize that it ain't enough to simply have a roster-spot for a proud and dying breed, the white running back; you've got to give that egg-skinned son-of-a-bitch some playing time, too. I don't care if he's got more fumbles lost than touchdowns in his short career; the fact remains that he is a White Man! As a White Man who has at least carried the football in the pros, he's a survivor of an endangered minority that has been subjected to the sort of prejudice that civil rights yahoos like Marty King once spoke out against.

Josh McDaniels, by starting a couple of colored hoodlums over one of America's most precious resources, the white running-back, you have betrayed the greatest race known to man. I'm also chargin' you with consent to ass-backwards-racism that benefits the black athlete's monopoly of the running-back profession. You sold us out, McDaniels!

It ain't very trendy for a white man to complain about inside-out racism, but y'all gotta hear me out on this. Whenever an NFL team has a vacancy at Head Coach because a bunch of Ninjas conspired to sabotage the hard work of a white man in charge, the team is required to interview “minority” candidates for the open position. Slit-eyed Orientals, towel-headed Arabs, polar bear-sodomizin' Eskimos, worthless astronauts, and Ninjas included. It's the NFL's version of that tyrannous Affirmative Action policy.

The effects of topsy-turvy racism have been so profound that black Head Coaches now outnumber white running-backs in the NFL. And dammit, that just ain't fair. There's no policy in place to help the white running-back; they're being weeded out of football because of racial favoritism, which colored folk always done complained to the world was wrong.

In light of this discrimination, white RBs should be granted a handicap on the field of glory. In a perfect world, to make the playing field more racially equitable, two of the eleven defenders should be forced to have their arms and legs shackled in chains whenever a white running-back enters the game. If that seems harsh, my first instinct is to shout “Fuck you, Ninja-lover!” but in the interest of compromise, lemme offer an alternative. How 'bout this: Pure honky brutes like Peyton Hillis and John Riggins (the latter heroically un-retired at the mature age of 60), should be allowed to wear steel-spiked shoulder pads. And as a last resort compromise, lemme run this by you: Half the black running-backs in the league should be forced to undergo the same intensive plastic surgery what turned Michael Jackson's skin the ashen shade of Fat Elvis' ass-cheeks.

Once converted to the pure race, formerly black RBs will be forced to stop dancing in perfect time with music, write a 2,000 word report on the righteous message of the film Birth of a Nation, and cease all groping of Disney Mouseketeers.

The fate of my Fantasy Football team hinges on White Activists--or racists--such as myself pressuring the NFL to provide preferential treatment to the endangered species that is the white running-back. People, I have endured 9 Fantasy Football seasons without a single victory because the NFL says it's okay to keep the white running-back down.
But if you've made it this far into my plea, I'm preaching to the choir on that matter. So, if you love Fantasy Football like I do, and also, you hate black people, follow my lead: Send an angry e-mail to the Commissioner of the National Football League on behalf of all the white RBs who are being discriminated against—for reasons as fickle as their inferior speed, size, strength, agility, athleticism, toughness, and productivity. United by the profound bond of White Supremacy, we can turn around the sorry program that is my All-White Fantasy Football team.

Please take action, my White brothers. The John Lynch Mob is in desperate need of its first win.

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