R. Kelly's Whack Mad-Libs

This one was printed in my college's newspaper in March of 2006. I just did some very half-assed research and it surprised me to learn that R. Kelly continues to add chapters to his “hip-hopera.” Which suits me fine. My awareness of Trapped in the Closet peaked years ago, but apparently he's still expounding on some epic vision that I clearly don't take seriously.

If you're a devout fan of R. Kelly, my gripe is not with you, but you probably shouldn't read on. I will no doubt soon transform into tactless wise-ass mode. In my defense, here are two things to consider.



First, I'm writing this column on my birthday. At a certain age, birthdays lose their appeal; after 21, it gets harder to muster that childlike enthusiasm on the anniversary of your passage through your mom's vagina.


Fortunately, I have discovered a remedy for birthday disenchantment. For 24 hours, I try my damndest to reject common courtesies and forced pleasantries and permit myself to be obnoxious and rude. I play the bejesus out of the birthday card! If someone objects to my brash behavior by blathering lines such as, “Don't talk shit about my ailing grandma” or “Sir, we don't allow fireworks in this wing of the library,” my reply is always, “Hey, cut me some slack; it's my frickin' birthday.” It works more often than you might think.



The second reason I'm writing an unflattering column about R. Kelly is much simpler. Some people are jerks, and there isn't much hope they will ever change their ways. These people should be parodied, and parodies aren't always nice.

Unless you were part of the pop duo Milli Vanili, America is willing to give you a second chance. W. Bush blundered through a first term in office (and probably got accidentally trapped in a closet or two of his own) only to be dared by a high percentage of voters to do it again. Like W. Bush, R. Kelly has been granted a second chance.

A few years after his much publicized “sex” tape (and I put quotes around that word because sex takes on a twisted mutation when urine is combined with an underage girl), R. Kelly has bounced back with a popular show on VH1. Some will debate it was Kelly's doppelganger who appeared in the video, and in any case, whoever starred in it didn't get punished too severely; R. Kelly is not tormenting “fresh fish” alongside of Suge Knight. Rather, he's got a show called Trapped in the Closet.

I'll never forget my only viewing of Trapped. It was cheerfully introduced by a swarthy nitwit who applies two gallons of hair gel per day. He's the same guy who hosts Bands Reunited, which means he's the only person in the world that's hellbent on seeing one more concert put on by the original lineup of Mr. Big. There are people with faded Mr. Big tattoos who'd rather not see Mr. Big perform a reunion gig at some shopping mall in Tampa.

Anyway, here's a summary of the episode I caught: R. Kelly is “trapped in a tumultuous love triangle with a cop and a woman. R. and the woman are in her bedroom, arguing in a bizarrely musical fashion, and once the tension reaches a fever pitch, they realize the absurdity of their ordeal and burst into laughter. Fair enough, I suppose.

The cop then enters the house and overhears the commotion in the bedroom. In a jesting tone, the woman shouts, “Stop it, you're killing me!” The phrase in question implies that you want the other person to relent joking because you're laughing so hard your stomach hurts and farcically brings to mind the thought of death.

This cop is a total bonehead, though. He infers those words literally. He assumes the woman is in serious trouble and storms into the bedroom with his gun drawn. BANG! Someone gets shot. It doesn't matter who.

For the record, this is an idiotic plot-twist. When they're in the process of being murdered, NOBODY screams, “Stop it, you're killing me!” It just overstates the obvious, really. Actual murder victims scream things like, “Help!” or “Don't do this!” or “You'll pay for this, O.J.!”

Trapped in the Closet has less creative merit than a WWF Royal Rumble. The story-lines are so flimsy and thoughtless that pretty much anyone could write an episode. Are you a literate adult? Great, here's your formula: Take a soap opera cliché, sensationalize it, and add singing.

What follows is not only a fun game to play with a group of friends, but also a likely explanation for the writing process of an episode of Trapped. I present to you: “R. Kelly's Whack Mad-Libs.”

You remember how to play Mad-Libs, right? This version is quite similar. Simply call out all the stuff in parentheses first, jot down the responses, and then recite the whole thing aloud—but don't say it, sing it. Here goes.


Chapter One: "This Crazy Shit be Like Genesis"


Man, this (swear word) is so crazy. I'm all wound-up and I'd rather be lazy. Just lounging around, high on (name of drug), feeling pretty good indeed. But here I am, arguing with (name of stank ho in room). She threatened to call the police, and there's no need for that. I didn't call her fat. I just need to know what's up with her and (name of sleazy pimp in room). Girl, have you been in his bed? Do you want him instead? All those times we (slang for intercourse, past-tense) don't seem to mean a thing, and neither does my bling. Dammit, (slang for wicked woman), you gotta say something. I got no doubts. We gotta work this out. You're my number one girl. When we get down you rock my world, and I'm sorry I gave you (sexually transmitted disease), but if I may retort, we can't go back in time, so just listen to my rhymes.

You know (aforementioned sleazy pimp) is my boy, and if y'all rattled bedsprings like a baby's toy, it's gonna shake my poise. Wait! I just heard a noise.

I think it came from the (common hiding place). Now (slang for wicked woman), don't be stubborn. You can't hide this from me. I won't let it be. I'm gonna pull out my (deadly weapon) and then count to three. I he ain't out by then, to hell he'll descend.

Now first comes one; my heart is beating like a drum. And then comes two. I want to (excretory function, present tense) on the fools in this room.

The door to the (aforementioned hiding place) flew open. I can't believe what's inside; no, I can't trust my eyes. (Swear word), this (swear word) is so (synonym for psychosis). My brain is going hazy. (Aforementioned name of stank ho) was hiding a (term for little person) all along, and he's got his pants down. This is the craziest (swear word) I've ever seen. This dude is hung like (name of male porn star). If you catch my drift, he's got a huge (synonym for male genitalia). Plus he's pointing a gun. I'm not having no fun. Folks, you gotta stay tuned 'cause the (another synonym for psychosis) (swear word) has just begun!

Thoughts in 2013: “I Believe I'll be Snide.”

Are there any good R & B singers anymore? Ones who don't use Auto-Tuners or publicly disgrace themselves by beating or degrading women? In the original print of this column, I tried to clarify that I don't advocate player-hating, and I cited Marvin Gaye as an admirable (and supremely gifted) Player. With a capital “P”! Is there an R & B singer today with half as much talent as Marvin Gaye? Can the soulful magic of the Motown roster that once included Marvin, Stevie, the J-5, and The Temptations be duplicated even a little bit in 2013? (Cee Lo Green, maybe? I have no interest in the talent show racket he's a part of, but he seems legit.) Feel free to comment, to burst my cozy little time-bubble. Act nice, though. I was a dick about R. Kelly, sure, but you should be nice. I for one think that's fair.

Billy Joel Is My Generation's Dad

1.


My parents kept a modest record collection in the dining room. It mostly went unused, and since I never took interest in the Bay City Rollers and since The Andy Williams Christmas Album seemed worthless 11 (if not 12) months out of the year, my older sister, rather than mom and dad, happened to shape my earliest memories of music. Eight years my senior, she was not inclined to influence the tastes of her younger brothers, least of all me, but when she brought her favorite mixed tape to our uncle's summer cottage, she had that effect on me, anyway. Aside from one anomaly—a hit by Sir Mix-a-Lot (yes indeed, his ode to big butts)--the tape was comprised of songs by Billy Joel.

I recall laying down on a sleeping bag inside a pup tent beside a battery-powered tape deck and fixating on the sonic portraits this man I took to be a legend had to sing about. His outlook on the baffling world of adults fascinated me and he struck me as a sincere storyteller.

Years later, having developed a more critical account of things that occasionally yields some wisdom, I see that Billy Joel matters as a weary yet passionate performer (“Piano Man”), a survivor of atrocities (“Goodnight Saigon”), and a History teacher who sported shades 'cause he wanted to look tough (“We Didn't Start the Fire”). He is also a cranky individualist (“My Life”), a lover of Motown doo-wop who couldn't quite do justice to that sound (“The Longest Time”), and an imitator of John Travolta's theatrical flair in the movie-musical Grease (“Uptown Girl”). All those songs were included on my sister's mixed tape.

In the pantheon of rock and roll, Billy Joel is not the greatest, but when we consider how wildly he spanned the spectrum of excellence and mediocrity, he is perhaps the most definitively human. For my money, Billy Joel is our foremost expeditionary of both sublimity and crap.

Before elaborating on the Billy Joel state of mind, I should tell you how my first tape deck concert ended: My dad stormed into the backyard, unzipped the tent, shined a flashlight in my eyes, and told me to turn off the racket and go to sleep.

2.

Like my dad, Billy Joel is a Baby Boomer. They were both born in the month of May, in 1951 and 1949, respectively, right in the thick of what must have been a truly swell time to reproduce in America. They were of the generation that sprouted proudly from G.I. Bills and victory in Europe and Japan and was later subjected to draft lotteries and failure in Vietnam. It was a generation of free spirits who rode their motorcycles in the rain only to be plagued by the temptation to become snotty big shots when they reached middle-age. The Boomer lifespan is characterized by jarring changes and restless ebbs and flows.

A Boomer can tell you a lot about human progress, but he can tell you just as much about human limitations.

Billy Joel, like family, stirs conflicted feelings in me, and I doubt I'm alone. Regarding both, I err on the side of love because if I don't life seems a bit shittier. Billy Joel has not instilled in me consistent adoration in me as The Beatles or Beastie Boys have done, but the same goes for my family and their paling to all those funny drunk dudes and beautiful heroines that I knew in college. I'm amazed by my dad. He's awake by six every morning and eager to fix a snow-blower at 6:05—and I have no idea what that's like.

But I've been embarrassed by my dad, too. The fatherly comparisons to Billy Joel listed soon are not auto-biographical, but this one is: My dad referred to fried potato wedges as “wedgies,” and when I had two friends over for a sleep-over in grade school, while we distributed portions of chicken and appetizers at the kitchen table, he straightforwardly asked them, “Would you guys like some wedgies?” He had no clue why they laughed at him, and when our definition of “wedgie” was explained to him, he shook his head and said, “Pfft. Those are called undie-grundies.”

In that instance, dad pulled a real “Keeping the Faith.” It was embarrassing—but at least the old man didn't intend it that way.

What I've done, then, is compile a list of BJ tunes which evoke memories and portraits of dads. Because, to my generation—the one after X that precedes the Half-Second Attention Span Generation, brought to you by China generation—Billy Joel is the embodiment of Everyman's dad.

3.

“Piano Man”

Dad experienced his prime before he even realized it. He was wise beyond his years at a time when his wisdom had little to do with coping with age. At parties, dad captivated rooms, made those rooms as vibrant as carnivals, even when he was scrutinizing others, holding them under microscopes but without scorn. He toasted his fellow man and slept with waitresses he only loved for one night, but he was destined for bigger and better things since he knew something they didn't. He really did. It's just that, years later, he'd learn about the things they knew that he didn't, like the fact that not all sorrows are especially romantic.

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

The Biggest Jokes

1.


Beauty
is skin deep.
They dove right in
the shallow end
and twisted their necks—
still we all want to be their friends.



2.

That night by the seaside
they got drunk
out of love for vice
more so than each other
and he ranted scathingly
about the human race
as though he were truly
detached and superior.

She retained nothing
of the conversation in the morning,
but he remembered.
He remembered every last God-damned thing.

After she passed out
he grabbed a stick,
headed to the shore,
and wrote her a love-letter in the sand,
using all the sweetest words,
without a trace of bitterness,
during low-tide.

When she arose achingly
in the morning, he was gone.
She gazed at the high-tide
that stretched closer to her
and felt inexplicably haunted.



3.

Long after the boy
was given pills
to aid his mind
they gave him pills
to fix the damage
the first pills did to his body.
He kept the second pill
in his wallet for a special occasion.

And once in the summer,
on a camping trip,
he left his wallet outside the tent
without knowing
it was going to rain all night.

He awoke to find the second pill dissolved,
reduced to chalky nothingness,
and his brain was at least intact enough to think,
quite rightly,
“This sure sums it up.”

Kind of Likes

^That rare phenomenon of thundersnow is kind of like Mother Nature is somehow burping and farting at the same time.^

My fondness for beer but not liquor is kind of like how I enjoy football but not Ultimate Fighting; I only love those vivid images of livers and men getting pummeled to a certain extent.

Excessive body hair on a man is kind of like evolution failing to realize how rare it is these days to freeze to death due to insufficient back and ass hair.

Those rotten shrubs and signs and fences that block my view of oncoming traffic at an intersection until I creep forward a little bit more are kind of like decorations that flip me the middle finger.

The basketball hoop at the playground that lost its net is kind of like the saddest sight on the planet.

Auto-Tuners are kind of like the answer to the question, “How can we make a singer sound like a robot, but not just an ordinary robot--mind you--I mean a really, really douchey robot?”

Those Faces of Death movies that showed amateur videos of car crashes and other catastrophes that seemed so devilish to me when I was a kid were kind of like the dramatic version of Tosh.O.

That Steely Dan hit "Reeling in the Years" is kind of like a pretentious guy calling his friend pretentious while he plays the guitar like a Philosophy professor who brought his axe into class to impress his students, only--you know--he's still just a Philosophy professor.


Ain't is kind of like a crude mutant of a word and double-negatives are kind of like the antithesis of the intended message...but I ain't never going to preach to stupid people who annoy the hell out of me.

Jokes about Reality Shows

                                                                These men are CLONES!

Sub-titles for seasons of Finding Bigfoot:


Season 1: "He's Out There"

Season 2: "These Things Take Time"

Season 3: "Trust Us, We're Making Progress"

Season 4: "This Is Taking Longer Than Expected"

Season 5: "What an Elusive Son-of-a-Bitch"

Season 6: "We Found Him--and He's Surprisingly Small!"

Season 7: "False Alarm, It Was Just Robin Williams"

Season 8: "We've Wasted Our Lives"

Spin-off: Fuck It, Let's Go Find a Leprechaun



Sub-titles for seasons of Doomsday Preppers:

Season 1: "Hooray for Doomsday"

Season 2: "The Calm Before the Storm Continues"

Season 3: "Apocalypse Soon"

Season 4: "OK, Apocalypse Sooner or Later"

Season 5: "The Reckoning of the Broken Clock"

Season 6: "The Betrayal of the Broken Clock"

Spin-off: Therapy for Sad Freaks


Fun Facts about Storage Wars:


1. At a New Year's Eve party to close 1995, Barry and wrestling legend Ric “Nature Boy” Flair drunkenly agreed to masquerade as the other for the entirety of '96. It was not until recently that the lookalikes confessed their ruse. Consequently, Flair was denounced by middle-aged virgins across the nation for “being part of a sham,” and Barry had to confess that he slept with Xena: Warrior Princess under false pretenses.

2. Historians now regard the Storage Wars as “The most bloodless of all the world's wars.”

3. The cast members never err in their swift estimations of the items they find in the storage lockers, as evidenced by Dave's $800 assessment of a Fanny-Pack stuffed with twigs and the time Darrell pointed at a pile of blank tapes and exclaimed, “I'm a millionaire!”

More on Santa: A Message to My Nephew

I had a column ready for print, but before it got a chance to reach that stage, the newspaper (which endured but never quite flourished) went under. The loss of two graphic designers and a general sense of apathy seemed likely causes. The column, which is merely on this blog and nowhere else, is titled “Down with Santa.”


To further explain my anti-Santa stance, and backpedal on it a   tad--since I do enjoy smiling children (especially my nephew) and the causes of their smiles--I decided to do a sequel to "Down with Santa," and this one is not as Scrooge-like because I don't aspire to become too much of a grouch, or—God forbid—an ultimate grouch: a curmudgeon.

It's just that I can't get past the notion of lying to kids in order to give them cheer. That's a puzzling tradition to me, and when I encounter things I don't understand—which is just about everything—I ask questions and crack jokes.

For instance, does part of the fun of Christmas revolve around the fact that kids are gullible? Generations ago, was the mythology started by some rascally dad who fed spontaneous nonsense to his children purely to see if they'd accept it as the truth?

And did he, by chance, talk it over with his wife later?

“Guess what, dear? I told Susie there's a jolly fat man in a sleigh led by flying reindeer who delivers presents to millions of people across the globe on Christmas Eve. And here's the best part: She bought it! Ha!”

I bought the fib, too, but when I found out the truth, I got distraught. It felt like a cruel prank. My seventeenth birthday was ruined.

Just kidding.

Anyway, I realize that kids really get a kick a out of their imaginations, and it's a shame how adults forget what that's like; in fact, that's part of the reason they tell kids about Santa in the first place: to relive that wonder.

And even though I've shown no inclinations for fatherhood in my 20s, I've lucked into becoming an uncle, and I feel a great sense of loving duty for my nephew. The father/ uncle dynamic is as Batman-to-Robin as they come, but any time I'm needed for an assist, I want to be there to fight the crimes this world may have in store for my nephew.

Furthermore, since I'm pretty sure my brother and sister-in-law will indulge my nephew in the Santa mythology, I have no right to be a Scrooge about it. For his sake, I'll go along with the Santa malarkey for as long as required.

I do have a message for him, however, after he has learned the truth—from his parents, friends, self, or whomever. When I catch wind of his enlightenment, this is the message I'll send him.

Hey Buddy,

If you're reading this, that means you no longer believe in Santa. I hope you don't feel disillusioned about it all like I did. Your mom and dad were mainly trying to grant you joy and excitement, to get your mind  marveling about this life, and while what they told you was not 100% honest, when you're my age, you'll find that discovering the false nature of Santa is far from the worst thing that could happen.

Now that you know about Santa, I think you're old and mature enough to be let in on a few other fibs Uncle Nick either participated in or started. Are you sitting down, pal? You should.

You know that unicorn stable I've told you so much about but never brought you to? Well, that doesn't really exist, either. Those pictures I gave you from time to time of me on a jet-pack feeding deep dish pizza to my airborne unicorns were photo-shopped. I still think you're very smart, but to be honest, I'm kind of surprised you didn't call “Bull-crap” on Uncle Nick last Thanksgiving.

To come clean about another fib involving air-travel, I don't actually own a gigantic gumdrop hovercraft that disappears whenever I say the magic words. That was not the truth, and I told you otherwise because I wanted you to think I was a really cool uncle. In reality, I generally get from point A-to-B in a Honda Accord.

Finally, I was not captured by leprechauns who spun me around in a swivel chair for hours until they finally believed me when I said I didn't know where their gold was hidden when I acted funny at that family get-together. Truthfully, it was St. Patrick's Day and I got awfully drunk. Heck, aside from the designated driver whose identity I can't recall, we all did. Also, those leprechauns I mentioned are fictional, and the same goes for both dragons and my brief yet lusty marriage to that actress who played the Catwoman...but if it makes you feel any better, the jury's still out on Bigfoot.

Sorry. These fibs adults tell tend to snowball on us all. Please don't be mad at me. When you were a year old, because your cheeks were puffy with flesh and inflated with glee, I took to calling you “Chubby Cheekers.” By the time you were two, though, you got to be so word-savvy and verbal that I had to retire that nickname—out of fear that I might hurt your feelings.

The point is, I had to change as you got older. We had to change. It's all around us and unavoidable, and at the risk of sounding like too much of an optimist, 51% of the time, it's for the better.

You're a lot different than you were when I sometimes called you Chubby Cheekers, but my God, your ample jawline was proof that you were as jolly as Santa Claus, and you're still jolly to me. You so often bring a smile to my face and I can think of no finer way to define jolliness.

And, unlike the gumdrop hovercraft, that's no fib. It's the truth.

Love,

Uncle Nick

Bitch Objects to Being Called Ho

CHICAGO, Illinois (Associated Press)--

What began as an ordinary shoot for a rap video bound for YouTube erupted in calamity on Saturday, May 14th. Prior to filming a scene in the parking lot of a Red Roof Inn, local rapper Choco Ballz, 34, was harangued by Bajama Jones, a 22-year-old bitch, for referring to her as a “ho.” At the peak of the dispute, Choco Ballz, born Clarence Ivory, was thrown to the concrete and beaten. Jones later offered the following account.

“(Ballz) started ego-trippin' between takes, tryin' to get the bitches in my group all hot and bothered about his broke ass. He shouted, 'I wanna see some enthusiasm outta you hoes!' And I'm like, 'What? How dare you call me a ho! I'm a bitch.'”

Though Ballz describes the gaffe as “a damn shame,” he maintains that he tried his best to distinguish the bitches from the hoes at the video shoot.

“In the rap game, it's frowned upon to mistake a bitch for a ho and vice versa and I get all that, but hear me out: my director clearly asked all the hoes to form a line to the left of the Cadillac I borrowed from my cousin. So, either she can't follow directions, or else she really is a ho.”

Jake Hostetler, a recent Film graduate from Northwestern University and director of “South Side Joy Ride,” accepts a degree of blame for the misunderstanding.

“While I do adore the hip hop genre, I'm not quite certain how to differentiate a bitch from a ho,” Hostetler admits. “Perhaps I should have emphasized the difference between regular-left and stage-left.”

The apologetic speech Hostetler gave Jones did little to quell her indignation. Jones immediately posed a rhetorical question to the director. 

“First off, how can a 'left' be anything other than a regular left? And secondly, if that hipster don't know that a ho is like a mercenary who'll fuck any dude no questions asked, whereas a bitch is a loyal soldier who'll kill for her man, he shouldn't be directing rap videos in the first place.

“Pasty-faced punk,” Jones added.

The Hostetler/Ballz collaboration got testy not long after filming began. In response to a lyric in the song's first verse, “I got a bald head like my name was Horace Grant,” a nearby Jones howled with laughter and then booed Ballz for what she deemed “a weak-ass rhyme.”

“Who the hell is Horace Grant?” asked a confounded Jones. “Seriously! If you old enough to know who Horace Grant is and you ain't made it yet, you never gonna make it.”

Tension escalated to chaos 20 minutes later, when Ballz made his bitch/ho faux pas. Overcome with scorn, Jones confronted Ballz, shouted obscenities in his face, and wrangled him down when he attempted to flee into the lobby of the Red Roof Inn. Her rampage intensified after she thought she heard Ballz call her a “ho” a second time. In reality, witnesses attest that the terrified rapper was merely screaming, “Whoa!”

         

“Maybe I didn't have to snap that antenna off the hood of his cousin's ride and whip him a bunch of times and maybe I did,” Jones said. “We'll see which way Judge Judy rules when the time comes.”

Filming was postponed indefinitely due to the fracas, and in response to the attack, Ballz is debating whether to press charges or take the case to Judge Judy “for exposure.” Before his gurney was lugged into the back of an ambulance, Ballz had this to offer.

“I've always been one to treat bitches and hoes as equals,” Ballz lamented. “But when shit goes down like it did today, I gotta dig deeper for that conviction. To me, it's a real sad day not only for bitches, but for hoes as well.”

As for those aforementioned hoes, while they voiced disapproval, none interceded in the fight. When asked why her sect failed to restrain Jones, a ho who prefers to remain anonymous replied with five simple words.

“'Cause that bitch is crazy.”

(Hoes' woes continued on page B6: “Bankrupt Hostess Spells Doom for Ho-Ho's.”)