Paper Sack Lifetime

Thanksgiving Is

2006-11-21T10:53:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving is the time of year when we gather together and take all the foods we normally wouldn't touch and bake them into pies or 'candy' them. These deceptive labeling practices allow us to rid the world of a sufficient number of yams and other such despicable items which would otherwise overwhelm and enslave us. It also teaches children to be skeptical: just because it says candied or pie doesn't mean it's not disgusting. These lessons pay dividends later when they receive email regarding very low mortgage rates or very large penises.

Thanksgiving is a time to see extended family members who ask about your clothes and career choices and then remember aloud when you were cute and full of potential. This is to commemorate the Pilgrims' first dinner with the Native Americans at which the Pilgrims relentlessly criticized the 'whorey' warpaint and revealing animal skins the natives wore and persistently suggested it still wasn't too late for them all to become lawyers. The Native American's later killed most of the Pilgrims, but this part of the tradition has sadly been lost to history.

Thanksgiving is a valuable holiday for teachers as it usually results in two and a half days off and justifies having had the children invest the previous three month of the school year creating turkeys from construction paper and the outline of their hand. The quality of the long labored over works of art inevitably leads family members to conclude that each of these children are special and will probably grow up to be doctors or lawyers, though statistics show that most of them will die of disease or end up driving American cars. That's not to say that a skilled construction paper artisan can't make a fortune, but most of those jobs go to Asians for obvious reasons.

Thanksgiving is always on a Thursday because the Pilgrims understood that all the other days of the week are haunted. Originally, the Pilgrims tried to work only on Thursdays but this proved inefficient, though a similar schedule has been adopted by the French and some writers specializing in pointless drivel. Once it was discovered that evil spirits could be kept at bay with a regimen of prayer, witch burnings, and westward expansion, the haunted nature of the other days became less of an issue. It should also be noted that demons fear cranberry sauce.

Thanksgiving is the only day of the year when it is a felony to give yourself a nickname. Technically it is also illegal on Arbor Day, but it's just a misdemeanor.

Thanksgiving is going to be abolished after the revolution though the killing of turkeys as well as the creation of their likeness in paper will remain vital to our national defense. You should be thankful for this holiday while we still have it. And for beavers, because they're also going bye bye.

Lies I Want To Clear Up Ahead Of Our Wedding

2006-11-13T14:37:00.000-07:00

I'm not a vegetarian.

I've been painstakingly molding various meats into vegetable shapes and coating them with food coloring. This has required countless hours and caused me to lose my job, plus it makes it hard to go out (I have to pack my own pre-shaped meat). I like meat and I'd like to eat it in regular meat shapes.

I lost my job.

As noted above, my attendance at work had been spotty since we fell in love. Further, I had taken to selling items from my cube on ebay to finance some of the fancier outings that seemed crucial to the wooing process. There wasn't much in my cube though, so I sold some plants, paintings, and high end electronics from around the office. My former boss assures me that I'll never work in another law firm in this town again. I'm thinking about art.

I'm not a lawyer.

I was actually an assistant at the firm before I got fired. My understanding is that you have to have a clean criminal record to be a lawyer and those pyramid scheme convictions (I was convicted in several pyramid schemes if I didn't mention that [not mentioning is not the same as lying, so that's why I don't feel this deserves a correction all it's own]) would probably disqualify me. That and the fact that I can't read.

I can't read.

All those 'high brow' magazines you remarked on are just there to perpetuate the lie. I get them because they look incredibly boring and I'm confident no one else will read them and want to discuss them. It's really not nearly as much of a problem as it sounds like. I've memorized my way around most places, plus, in my art career words will probably not be that important.

I hate country music.

Yes, even the Dixie Chicks. If I could have read the tickets I would never have gone to that concert with you. But I did, and I've had nightmares about it ever since. I can't say when I'll stop waking up screaming, but at least now you know why. Also, I burned your CD collection last week which led to the big fire.

I started the big fire.

I was trying to make sure that our wedding was country music free and I guess I used a bit much lighter fluid. Once the curtains went it just got out of control. I probably should have just told you how much I hated that music, but at the time a fire seemed like an elegant solution. Also, as long as we keep quiet I think the insurance will pay for quite a honeymoon.

I feel so much better with all this off my chest. Can't wait til' tomorrow.

Love,

Dr. David Rockefeller IV esq.

dbnr (obviously)

Schoolyard Games I Was Led To Believe Everyone Played, But Apparently It Was Just Me

2006-10-30T19:50:00.000-07:00

Capture The Flag - Kyle's Teeth Are The Flag Edition

Wear Your Mom's Shoes Once And Get Called Sissy Boy For Seven Years Four Square

Red Rover Punch Kyle In The Face

Pretend Not To Be Able To Be Able To Master Basic Math So That You Get Held Back In Ninth Grade Three Times Hopscotch

Hide And Seek - Parents Secretly Move To Another Town Edition

Plunger Head

Manual Labor In Teacher's Marijuana Greenhouse For A Passing Grade In Algebra And If You Tell Anyone I'll Kill You Marbles

Eat Dirt

No One Likes You Sissy Boy So Just Shut Up Duck Duck Goose

The Quiet Game - Duct Tape And Rope Edition

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Breaking Up With My Stalker

2006-10-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

Dearest,

I'm afraid it's not working out.

A number of people suggested it was a bad idea to date my stalker in the first place. I saw a devoted individual with a love of slimming black outfits, good camera skills, and an affinity for late night walks in my shrubbery. Everyone else said that your dedication to investigating my garbage, watching me sleep, and collecting the hair from my hairbrush portended darker things. Darker I might be able to deal with, but if anything, I feel like we've fallen into a rut.

Let's be clear, I'm not trying to change you. I like how you call me late at night from the other room and breathe heavily while I vent about my day. While my girlfriends are suffering through Monday Night Football, I'm free to watch The Bachelor as you sit patiently pressed against the living room window. Honestly, I even like having my hairbrush cleaned on a daily basis.

But, other parts of our relationship seem tired. Getting notes on the bathroom mirror in lipstick was exciting when you wrote things like:

I'll get you!

But it's devolved into an expensive and frankly messy way to communicate things that would be better suited to a post it, like this morning's:

I'll get you:
Bananas
Eggs
Milk
At the store, anything else?

I thought the constant videotaping would give us lots of material for home movies, but it's really just a reminder how boring we are. Seeing hours of myself eating and sitting around makes me feel like I'm wasting my life. Am I really that dull?

Plus, it's been two years. I think you can stop dining under the table and in the closet. You're a stalker. I get it. But the constant peeking and leering is tired. Sometimes I don't want to be admired lustfully by a man in black, I just want you to pass the salt.

Maybe I'd be more inclined to overlook these things if I felt more certain that we had a future. But for someone who was devoted enough to pick through my trash when we met, you've been awfully slow to produce a ring. Despite all the bad things everyone said about you when we got together, none of them could argue when I said that at least you were committed. But I guess I jumped the gun. As soon as I stopped calling the police and invited you in it seems like some you lost a little bit of the fire. If you're going to follow me around, I need to know that it's long term. Apparently your obsession with me isn't enough to get us down the aisle.

Lastly, and I hesitate to bring this up, but I found some of Karen Underhill's garbage in the study. I'm not saying that you put it there, I don't know how it got there. But even though things aren't going to work out between us, I hope you'd have the decency not to stalk one of my friends. Karen and I go way back and I don't know how we could continue being friends if I knew that you'd suddenly become more interested in wearing her used coffee filters as hats instead of mine.

Don't call unless you plan to propose and swear off lipstick as a writing utensil.

New 12 Week Workout Plan

2006-10-10T08:49:00.000-07:00

Week One: Consider signing up with a gym. Decide gyms are an expensive waste of money. Try working out at home. Do 500 curls with dictionary and 8 push ups before deciding that equipment is insufficient. Reconsider signing up with a gym.

Week Two: Start gym membership. Feel confident that outrageous monthly fees will inspire diligence. Grab very heavy weights which look 'about right' for various exercises. Attempt unsuccessfully to lift those weights, then exchange them for much smaller weights while acting casual and hoping no one notices. Look at muscles in mirror at the end of each workout. Assure self you see progress.

Week Three: Attempt to shred T-shirt. Chalk failure up to a lack of supplements and powders. Blend all foods and drinks. Purchase several magazines promising to 'blast' or 'rip' certain muscle groups in very short periods of time. Justify purchase of Ipod as essential accessory for getting in the zone while working out. Purchase spandex pants.

Week Four: Wake up on Monday and realize that it is raining. Accept that rain makes going to the gym impossible for reasons you need not explore before hitting snooze. Join co-workers for non-blended chili and cheese laden lunch. Accept invitation to watch game at Hooters after work rather than hitting gym because what's the point of almost being able to tear a small seam in your T-shirt if you can't show it off. Eat wings, drink beer, wake up too tired to visit gym in the morning. Repeat.
Variations: Realize that 'too sunny' is also a weather condition which makes it impossible to visit gym.

Week Five through Eight: Rest.

Week Nine: Get credit card statement reminding you that you're giving half your paycheck to a gym rather than kid's college education. Feel guilty. Discover massive financial penalties involved in canceling gym membership. Make cursory trip to gym, decide to walk on treadmill for half hour. Calculate cost per minute, then per step. Look at muscles in mirror. Realize you've somehow gained weight.

Week Ten: Make trip to gym but decide that perhaps you'd be better off just having a soak in the hot tub. Remain in locker room for entire session. Think about just getting fat and having a hot tub put in at home.

Week Eleven: See news story about overweight Americans/heart attacks and/or Victoria's Secret commercial. Resolve to really get after it and whip self into shape. Starting next week.

Week Twelve: Drive to gym but sit in parking lot. Decide you don't need all this fancy machinery and skin tight clothing. Realize that farmers and impoverished Africans both seem to have really ripped abs and no access to fitness equipment. Decide that technology and gizmos are overrated and have destroyed your focus. Decide that what you really need is a bigger dictionary. Visit bookstore next to gym and buy gigantic dictionary. When cute check out girl makes comment about that being a 'lot of words', smile politely and awkwardly attempt to flex all muscles while handing her cash. Lug book home while deciding she was into you and that all this working out has really paid off.

Don't Focus On The Negative

2006-09-26T10:13:00.000-07:00

It's sad the way that people always tend to focus on the negative. The other day I told someone that she looked like a hefty Jessica Simpson and which word do you think she focused on? It wasn't Simpson, I can tell you that. Negativity is all around you, like a plastic bag that you know you shouldn't play with but you can't help it and then suddenly you're asphyxiating. The best way to deal with negativity is not to pick it up and put in on your head creating an airtight seal that will eventually kill you.

Often you will find that some people are more negative than others and are more intent on transmitting that negativity your way. Police officers, for example, will often find fault with a relaxed attitude and won't be satisfied until they've assaulted you with phrases like 'wrong way down the entrance ramp' and 'dragging a shopping cart for the last six miles' to try to poison your mental state. Don't fall into their trap. Instead, try sending a little positivity back their way, as in, "These handcuffs are very shiny and the way they pinch my skin reminds me of a mighty piranha." Other people you might find focused on the negative and in need of a little sunshine: Lawyers, Judges, Prison Officials.

Work can be another source of bad mojo, especially if your boss is a Negative Nelly like mine. 'Overdue', 'Misappropriated', 'Harassment', these are just some of the buzz words that haunt a typical day in the office. To which I usually say, "Lighten up Tootse. What's it going to cost to get you to forget about that little deadline? I've got lots of cash socked away in a numbered account and I'm willing to share." This has repeatedly resulted in my termination. A less positive person would probably focus on that result and give up on the strategy, but I'm a committed optimist, sweet tits.

But even the most optimistic among us sometimes get the blues. Being a positive person doesn't mean that you won't ever cry, or sleep for days at a time, or dangle your feet off the edge of an overpass and swear that you're going to drop yourself onto the next vehicle that looks like it's piloted by a happy person. Those feelings are normal and an inevitable result of our fast paced modern world. Technically, they're a result of the microwaves which are all around you. If you find yourself in a funk like this, the best thing to do is make a helmet out of tinfoil and constantly repeat "Think happy thoughts," over and over as you go about your business. Other people may focus on the negative aspects of this procedure and try to medicate or lock you away. But that's their issue.

I'm here to tell you that even if you find yourself locked away for 'reckless' driving and 'embezzlement' and your girlfriend chooses to focus on being called hefty instead of being called Jessica Simpson, and the authorities take away your carefully constructed tinfoil negative emotion helmet, ultimately your attitude is still in your hands. You can give in to despair and let it suffocate you like that plastic bag, or you can smile and begin sharpening a toothbrush into a shiv while you contemplate making your escape. I'm POSITIVE you can guess which path I'll be taking, and I'm HOPEFUL you'll do the same.

Gossip About Non Famous People That You Don't Know

2006-09-20T20:50:00.000-07:00

I heard that Ted has hair plugs. If so, I think they look good.

Caroline is cheating on David with his sister. Her parents are sending her to one of those Christian reprogramming camps for gay people.

Alex lied to the cops about being high on glue when he wrecked his dad's SUV. He was sniffing Sharpies.

Nell got fired two months ago and has been pretending to go to work ever since.

Joelle is pregnant.

Your Blog Has Been Kidnapped

2006-09-04T16:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Sir:

You may have noticed that your blog was not updated last week. You may have attributed this to laziness or indecision on the part of those responsible for its contents. It was neither. Your blog has been kidnapped. We have kidnapped it.

These are our demands. First, we want pizza, and lots of it. No veggies. We're kidnappers. We're short term thinkers. We don't care about things like cholesterol and heart attacks. We want lots of meat.

Also, we want a plane. Now, most kidnappers want a 747, and then you go round and round about how you can't get one and next thing you know we're out of pizza. So we're not going to be picky. Any plane will do. Personally, I'd like to see one of those planes with two wings on each side, the ones where you have to wear goggles like the Red Baron? But like I said, any plane will do.

Should you fail to meet our demands we will torture your blog. We've already tortured it a little, just sort of as a test, both to see if we could do it (we could!) and to see if it yielded any information (well...). Your blog has already told us where you keep the money, and jewelry, and your baseball cards. It told us which drawer your underwear is in, and it mentioned that you were running low on ice cream and that you planned to pick up some Wheat Thins the next time you were at the store. To be honest, your blog hasn't shut up. It talked about some dog it saw in the park for like forty minutes, and you know, we're kidnappers, we don't know this blog, so we figured the story was going somewhere. But not really. It was a wiener dog. That was pretty much it. And the torture? We like pulled on it's arm, a little, and you know, off it went.

So really, at this point, we're ready to give the blog back. All we're looking to get out of this is some pizza. You send us that plane and we'll fly the little guy home and you can listen to this nonsense all you want. We're not really interested in reasons why you can't play Taboo with lemurs.

To recap: Pizza + Plane = Everybody wins. If you can't get a plane, just send a bus ticket. Or just a paper plane, which we'll accept as a good effort and the blog can just walk home. Also, some of the guys are getting scared about the cholesterol now, so maybe put some veggies on a couple of those pizzas. And send along some statins. Maybe get us an appointment with a cardiologist. I mean, don't kill yourself, just if it's convenient. The main thing is that we get your blog out of here and let it get back to bothering other people.

You have exactly one hour. If we haven't heard from you in that time we'll probably just give up and go out for pizza and/or doctor's appointments.

Crate And Barrel Catalog Descriptions Which Resulted In My Firing From Crate And Barrel's Copywriting Department

2006-08-21T13:15:00.000-07:00

Athens Occasional Table - 249.00

Sharp and chic with a solid crafted base and bold clean lines. Available in both a birch and an ash veneer, this table is equally at home under simple magazines or your finest objet d' art. What is an occasional table anyway, you might wonder? Isn't being a table pretty much a full time job? Tables need breaks now? They get vacation? On those occasions when a table is not a table, is it drinking somewhere and dialing the phone numbers of ex-girlfriends who married lawyers and listening to them breathe before getting stoned and staring at old calendars while trying to pinpoint the exact day that it's life turned to total shit? Because if so, sign me up, I can hold an objet d' art occasionally.

Mortise and tenon joinery, Lower display shelf, Made in Canada

Bayside Sleeper - 5599.00

Life in the balance: home and work, utility and style, form and function. That's the strength of this microsuede wonder with deep cushions and a relaxed attitude. It's the perfect spot to unwind after a long day of writing catalog copy about furniture and trinkets that you probably can't afford. Pull out the sleeper bed and the inlaws will have a comfy place to crash next time they're in town, assuming that they stop pointing out that your apartment is too small to have a guest room long enough to get any sleep. Park it in front of a big screen HDTV and you'll forget all about the nagging dreams and ambitions that might haunt you on lesser seating and be filled with a harmonious numbness we call: balance. Can a sofa really do all that? It's almost six grand. It damn well better do something.

Coil and air mattress, Kiln dried frame, Matching throw pillows included

Kleiner Table Lamp - 199.00

Marbled glass with beveled edges combined with a white translucent shade to offer soft illumination to your darkest places. Well, not your darkest places. That would take one of those lights like they have in the top of the Luxor, you know, one of those lights that can be seen from space. And you'd probably want to have like a whole team of psychiatrists and possibly law enforcement on hand because, seriously, who knows what's buried down there. Remember when your cousin peed on you in front of Sally Metzger in like third grade? Thought about that lately? Wanna shine some light over in that area and see what's doin? Maybe it's best to just make do with a minimal amount of illumination, soft light as they say. Use it to read a self help book or two.

Poly-cotton shade, Clear cord, Three way switch

Professional 600 Stand Mixer - 499.00

Commercial grade power and style for the home. Don't let the elegant pearl metallic finish fool you, this monster is ready to work. 24 Cup capacity mixing bowl means you can knead dough for eight loaves of bread at once! 18 speeds allow you to do everything from whip to stir. Of course we both know that you don't know how to cook anything that doesn't come out of the freezer and go into the microwave, that you'll just park this little number on the counter where it will collect dust and never live up to it's bread kneading, hyper-whipping potential. No, if you want fresh bread, you eat out. Honestly, turn this on, you'd probably lose a finger. But you've still got to have it because without it no one will be able to look at your counter and whisper to their friends, 'holy shit, that's one of those 500 dollar mixers'. Screw making bread. With this, you don't even have to plug it in and your friends will be too sick with envy to eat anything anyway. Bunch of anorexic morons.

All steel construction, Direct drive gears and transmission, 600 watt motor

Spiral Carved Bowl - 89.95

Freeform lines and top notch craftsmanship combine to bring you this hypnotizing item that will not only fill that empty space on the table, but the one in your life. That's right, you probably didn't realize how unfulfilled you were until you saw this catalog and realized that your problem is not that you hate your job and are dissatisfied with your familial situation, it's just that your shit doesn't match! You just need a cohesive design scheme! What you need, is this motherfucking bowl! This bowl is going to love you like your parent's couldn't, like your wife no longer does, and like those ungrateful hooligans who sprang from your loins never will. This bowl doesn't want anything from you except 90 dollars, and in return it will sit on your table and it will tell people that you are not a failure who spends weekends watching E True Hollywood Stories and drinking wine from a Gatorade bottle. It will say that you have a worldly appeal and an international pedigree! It will scream that you are sophisticated and wise! It will lie for you, and it will never stop, and probably that will go along way towards making you whole again. Isn't that worth 90 measly dollars you cheap bastard?

Hand wash, Black stain, Foodsafe

Notes On Improving Your Sit Com After Our Test Screening

2006-08-15T10:19:00.000-07:00

Just some things we think will really hone the comedy and help this thing be a break out hit for both you and the network:

More misunderstandings.
Communication is the opposite of comedy. We saw countless places in the pilot where one character answered another character's questions in a straightforward manner that left nothing to the imagination. Questions and answers should always leave wiggle room. We suggest reworking the middle scene where John is talking about the death of his dog so that the other characters think that he is admitting to being gay. Misunderstandings about being gay have tested very well in the past.

Less characters / more characters with nametags.
Either way on this one, but the audience really got lost after about four individuals hit the screen. The studio would prefer you just cut characters for obvious cost benefit reasons, but if you want to just have them wear nametags, that's probably workable. But how about instead of names, their tags just have descriptions? For instance: The Wacky Neighbor, The Overbearing Boss, The Sexy Sister. We see this as just eliminating the middle man. That way, instead of having to remember two things, the character name and their role, the audience gets to cut right to the chase.

At least one reference to cooking abilities of a mother in law.
This one's kind of a staple, so we're sure it was just an oversight on your part. Try to work in the word Meatloaf.

More references to the diminished frequency of sexual activity after marriage.
Test audiences love these as many audience members are married and having less sex. Seeing your characters reference this makes them feel better about watching your show from one side of a king size bed with two dogs, a child, and some leftovers between them and their former object of sexual desire. Try to use the phrase, "decade long headache".

At least one moment where the audience (or the sound effects simulating an audience) go Awwwww.
Again, hard to believe you overlooked this. Try working in the phrase, "but I made it for you, mommy."

Not a single person fell down
What, are all your characters gymnasts? They don't trip? They've never gotten tangled up in the curtains? They don't get shoelaces stuck in revolving doors? Come on. This is a sit com we're talking about, not a documentary about Olympians or something.

Less clothing on the female cast members, more on male cast members
As a rule, cleavage is more important than anything else in retaining viewers. We'd didn't cast a bunch of hot, desperate, insecure girls in their mid twenties so you could dress them up like Quakers. We recognize that the show is set in a Quaker community, but maybe it's a progressive Quaker community where the girls dress like they want their show to get decent ratings. And unless you're really running with the gay thing, we'd prefer not to have the males in anything that's cut above the knee. Unless you're doing the gay thing. Gay is gold.

In short, what you have here is a very interesting, fresh, and original piece of work. That really doesn't give us much to work with. But if you can take these notes to heart and learn from your mistakes (quit watching those Arrested Development DVD's and maybe watch some Three's Company reruns) we think we can figure out how to market this thing.

Remember the mantra and everything will be okay.

Meatloaf and cleavage.

And gay jokes.

Product Reviews

2006-08-07T08:14:00.000-07:00

Lemon-Lime Pledge

When my new can of Lemon-Lime Pledge arrived I was very excited. The first thing I did was take it out to dinner. Sadly, Lemon-Lime Pledge performed very poorly on our date, hardly saying a word and barely moving when we went dancing afterwards. On the upside, Lemon-Lime Pledge did not order much and so it was one of the cheaper dates I've been on in some time. In short, if you're looking for a relationship Pledge, I'd have to say that Lemon-Lime is just a lemon (not to be confused with actual Lemon Pledge which I've had lots of good times with).

Oscar Meyer Bologna

I've found that Oscar Meyer Bologna is an incredibly ineffective form of sun protection. First of all, it's hard to apply. Second, once I'd layered the exposed parts of my body with Bologna and attached them with rubber bands, I found that I began to attract a large number of insects and small animals. I went for a jog in the park and ended up fleeing from a pack of chipmunks and small dogs. Numerous areas ended up unprotected because the various animals chewed right through the protective meat layer. Further, when I caught the subway home it was clear that the Bologna had begun to smell from exposure and people tended to move away from me or vomit in my area. I have found it more effective as a window shade for my car, but overall, I'd have to give this product a thumbs down.

Phil Collins Greatest Hits

Phil Collins Greatest Hits is an excellent CD. I can't speak for all of his CD's, but the edges of this one are exceptionally sharp. I've used it to slice tomatoes, carpet, and a would be mugger. I brought this CD to a holiday gathering and everyone went wild. Gift wrap need cutting? Phil Collins Greatest Hits. Got a tag on that new sweater? Phil Collins Greatest Hits. Time to cut the ham? Phil Collins Greatest Hits. Before I got this CD I cut most things Karate style with the sides of my hands which was really inconvenient and not that effective (ever try carving a turkey with karate chops?). Since getting this master work I've not only saved a lot of wear and tear on my hands, but I met a girl named Karen who fell in love with my utility and married me and who also thinks that Phil Collins Greatest Hits is the absolute best. We now have a baby on the way and I bet you can guess what we're naming it... that's right, Phil Collins Greatest Hits. Do yourself a favor and get this CD today!

Thoughts On Our Recent Trip To Hell And Back

2006-07-31T13:06:00.000-07:00

Friday plane - airport was a zoo. Lady in front of us actually started smoking on the plane. Attendant told her to stop. Lady asked what exactly would happen if she didn't stop. "We are going to Hell," she pointed out. Smokers came out of the woodwork after that. Rough landing due to tires melting on touchdown.

Accommodations were as advertised, hot, pointy, red, but somehow I was hoping for more. Brochure showed lava flowing through the rooms, but lava was mostly confined to the lobby. Also, no HBO.

Locals were not terribly friendly. Tolls to cross every river or bridge. Everyone is damned. Everyone is hopeless. Very hard to get them to smile for photos. Nearly impossible to get them to take photo of us and the kids.

Food was sub-par. I was ready for hot, spicy, melt your insides and make you beg for mercy, like Indian times a hundred. But for the most part, everything was just charred. Like, black. Is it meat, vegetable, other? Who knew. Very tough. No flavor. Zero points for presentation. I won't even start about the ice cream.

Scenery was initially impressive, but then it like, okay, I've seen the pits of souls, the flaming seas. Hell, there's pointy rocks in Utah! There's just really not much variety. You could certainly see it in a day. Even a long layover would give you the flavor.

Did see a small patch of snow. Took lots of pictures. Locals were not impressed. Asked why they were not more amazed to see the place frozen over. Apparently it happens all the time, contrary to popular belief. Deleted most of the photos. In retrospect, snow is snow.

The Devil. Wow, what a wait. And honestly, kind of felt like a tourist trap. Yes, he has the horns and the tail, and even that little beard thing, but five hours in line? When I wait five hours in line, you better deliver Mickey Mouse or some sort of trained animal that can balance something on something else while riding another thing. He was polite, though. Told the kids they'd be welcome back anytime. I suggested he'd need some HBO and better cell coverage if he wanted my kids to see Hell again.

Celebrity sightings - sure, a few. I mean, they're all about if you look, but it really wasn't that impressive. Hell seems to be rough on your looks.

Flight back got stuck in Limbo. Very boring. Around our thrity fifth hour in the terminal I decided we're definitely sacking the travel agent.

Would I go back? Doubtful. If I need a lake of fire, I'll head to Cleveland and get a place with some HBO. Not that we're going to Heaven next year either. I've heard customs there is a bitch. Sea World probably.

Results of Poor Partner Selection On 100,000 Dollar Pyramid

2006-07-24T11:08:00.000-07:00

Giving

The ocean, the universe...
Things that taste like Cinnamon?
A mountain, a jumbo jet...
Things you would say to an umpire?
The universe! A sperm whale!
Sperm? Now, I'm totally confused.
Pass.

A cloud, a baby blanket, a teddy bear...
Things you scream at.
What? No! Kittens, fresh pillows, marshmallows...
And you're sure it's not things you scream at?
Pass!

OK. Slurpees, Big Gulps, hot dogs.
Things you shouldn't put lotion on.
Dear Lord.
Ways you start letters to the editor.
No, that wasn't a clue, I'm just-
Things that aren't clues.
Pass!

Receiving

Ok. You'd find these at the place I went when I was ten.
Also at the place I went when I was eleven.
Also when I was twelve.
I have no idea.
I was ten.
Yes I heard that part.
Also eleven.
Can we pass?
It's so easy. I was ten.
Just pass.
Really?
Yes.
It was things you find at summer camp. I can't believe you didn't get that.

Allright. Here we go. Um.... Tom Cruise.
People you see in a movie theatre.
No. Tom Cruise.
Things in a blockbuster.
No, no, no. Like, think about Tom Cruise.
People who are famous. Things you find in a cult.
No. Man, I'm having trouble thinking of anything better than Tom Cruise. Tom Cruise, Tom Cruise, Tom Cruise, what do you think of?
People who are handsome. People who dance in their underwear.
This is getting us nowhere. It's things with sharp teeth. You've never noticed that about his teeth? They seem really sharp. Almost like an alligator or a shark or something.

This is the one. We've got this. You don't turn these on with a switch. They're pretty poor conductors of electricity. They're not radioactive.
Things that are... made of wood?
Close. Um, they're not made of rubber. They don't hibernate. Sometimes they're on fire. Peaches. You don't turn them on with a switch.
I have no idea. I give up.
Come on. Not radioactive. Peaches.
Things... you eat.
Yeah, yeah, close. No hibernation.
Things you eat for breakfast. Things you eat for lunch. Things you eat for dinner.
No, no, no, they're NOT made of rubber.

Things We're Not Going To Do In The New Place

2006-07-17T21:40:00.000-07:00

Family,

In an effort to make our recent move more than just a change of address, but an entirely fresh start, I'd like to suggest five simple groundrules that I think will allow us to enjoy our new home for some time to come.

1. No cattle.
Do I wish we still had the ranch? Of course I do. In retrospect it was foolish to take the deed with me to that poker game just to show off its nifty font, but what's done is done (it was a swell font though, really), and we all need to move on, and that means no more livestock. Sally, you may have fooled me into thinking you just had a terribly unattractive young friend who always wanted to stay the night at the last house, but I've got my eyes out this time. If you think I'm going to be buying any more bales of hay for your 'slumber parties' you're in for a rude awakening. I know it's hard, but I think we're going to see a marked improvement in overall household odor and a marked decline in stampedes as a result of this rule.

2. No firearms in the dining room or the family room.
Now I know this sounds extreme, but hear me out. Seeing that news report on the so called 'shootout' that took place in our last home after our debate about the proper audience for a certain breakfast cereal (I still maintain there's nothing inherently 'for kids' about Trix) made me realize that our brand of conflict resolution was simply not going to be understood or accepted in 'the burbs'. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, and believe me, I enjoyed yelling 'draw' and reaching for a piece as much as the rest of you, but I just think it's time to adapt. So from now on, each of you will be outfitted with a sword and scabbard. All disputes will be settled with the time honored clash of metal on metal. This should not only satisfy the uptight neighbors, but hopefully result in less damage to things like the walls and the television, which you all know took the brunt of our 'shootouts'. And remember, this only applies to the dining room and the family room. In your own rooms you can fire at will.

3. No more math books.
If there was one thing that ignited more furor than breakfast cereals it was debates about Nascar drivers. But since we're not even going to discuss banning Nascar races, I suggest we leave another instigator of trouble in our lockers from now on. Your mom and I have long since forgotten our algebra and so forth and we simply cannot help you. It doesn't do any of us any good to beat our heads against the wall trying to make sense of this stuff only to eventually end up frustrated and firing wildly into the ceiling (I know enough to count to 2300, and that's what we spent on roof repairs trying to get Billy through that semester of trig). Do your homework where it's supposed to be done, at school. If you have problems, let their roof suffer.

4. No more cowboys and indians.
It was okay when you all played with each other, but roping (literally) unsuspecting citizens into these games just seems to lead to trouble. When I was a kid a good game of cowboys and indians often meant someone went missing for weeks, but people are just a lot more edgy around here. They get worried if family members don't come home EVERY NIGHT. Is that crazy? Maybe, but it's not our place to say. So no more lassos, no more hold ups, no more bandana gagged strangers mumbling in the corner when we're trying to watch a race. Let's see if we can stay on the neighbors' Christmas card lists for a while this time.

5. No more moonshine.
This one will take some adjusting, no doubt, but I think it has to be done. The fumes, explosions, fires, not to mention the uptick in both armed conflict and stampedes when a batch was enjoyed are all clear signs to me that this lovely elixir can simply no longer be a part of our lives. What will we give the baby when she won't sleep? I'm not sure. What will Johnny suck on when we're tending to those gunshot wounds (hopefully just sword wounds now)? Don't ask me. What will we put in our vehicles to make them go? Maybe, just maybe, it's time to start buying gas.

Will any of this be easy? Of course not. But the world is changing all around us. If we want to survive, we're going to have to evolve. Not in some cockamamie ape into man way, but in a bathtubs are for bathing not distilling kind of way. If we work together I think we can make a real go of it here and make some beautiful memories. Will there be anything worth remembering without the guns, cows, bullets, indians, and gin? I honestly don't know. That's something we're just going to have to find out. Together.

World Cup Injury Report For Today If All Players Are As Injured As They Initially Lead Us To Believe

2006-06-12T10:55:00.000-07:00

Broken Ankles - 24
Torn Knees - 17
Fractured Femurs - 4
Injuries Requiring Amputation - 7
Deaths - 5

The Baby - Reprinted From The Berkley Fiction Review

2006-05-26T16:23:00.000-07:00

My wife became pregnant very suddenly. One night she suggested I put some pickles on her Hagen-Dazs. The next morning she looked ready to pop. What’s going on here, she asked upon noticing the basketball-sized lump that had taken up residence in her belly. Did you do this?

***

The doctor seemed unconvinced that the entire situation had sprung up overnight, and he looked at me more strangely each time I repeated the story. I asked if it might be a reaction to the pickles, or the ice cream, or the combination of both. He remained skeptical.

It’s not pickle related, he said.

But I made a mental note to throw them out, along with the ice cream, just to be safe. The doctor checked and double checked his tests and scans and declared that we were no longer eligible to receive the traditional nine months preparation time. In fact, he said my wife could give birth at any minute.

Well, she said forcing a smile, that really doesn’t give us much time does it?

We did our best not to appear blindsided as we rushed out and began to collect all the tools required for proper child rearing. While we were purchasing the crib, diapers, and high chair, my wife kept pulling up her shirt, studying her belly in disbelief, mourning the loss of the perfect abs she’d been religiously honing for an hour each morning before going to work.

While we collected the mobiles, music boxes, and pacifiers, my wife consulted the detailed calendar she used to insure a smooth and even flow to our lives. Normally she could say with certainty which cases I’d handle for a given week, or where we would dine on a Wednesday evening six months hence, but it was clear the baby was going to put her plans in disarray.
I’ll have to throw this whole thing out, she said, holding the little calendar like it a beloved pet someone had just run over.

Yet by the time we gathered the rattles, rocking chair, and stroller, we’d managed a rally, convincing ourselves that certainly we could triumph over something so small and round. We completed the shopping with eight coordinated outfits to allow the baby to ease comfortably into our normal wash cycle and a new calendar for my wife in which she not only rewrote our itinerary to accommodate our unexpected guest, but made arrangements for its first birthday party, still a year away.

We took everything home and unwrapped it, then folded some items and unfolded others, set some things out and put others away, and by late that night we looked at each other and smiled.

Not bad, I said.

For short notice, it’s not bad at all, she agreed with a little pat on her roundball belly.

We packed a little suitcase and set it by the door so we’d be ready when the moment came.

And then we waited.

***

A week later we were curious.

Any minute, the doctor assured us.

After a month, we were nervous.

It could be any second, he said.

Nine months later, we were confused.

This, he said finally, is a head scratcher.

Again I brought up the mysterious pickles and again I was roundly dismissed. Everything looked proper he said. Everything was ready. In fact everything had looked proper and ready for nine months.

So what’s the problem, I asked.

The baby… just doesn’t seem to want to come out.

My wife and I looked at one another.

Well, can’t we go get him, she asked.

We could, the doctor explained, but because of the particulars of my wife’s medical condition, any attempt to remove the baby could pose a serious threat to her health.

It should only be a last resort, he cautioned.

So what do we do?

Well, as long as the situation remains stable, I guess we wait.

So we kept the little suitcase by the door where it slowly collected dust and the items trapped inside began to go out of style.

***

On the one-year anniversary of the pregnancy my wife had still not given birth but the party had been planned for so long that we agreed canceling it might give the impression that something was wrong. So we pressed on. My wife bought a gorgeous new dress and cut a hole in the center to expose the guest of honor and we strapped a party hat around her sideways so that it stuck out from her belly where we approximated the baby’s head to be.

Our parents came (anxious would be grandparents) and co-workers and friends and neighbors and acquaintances and business contacts and clients and prospective clients. They came wearing perfection, driving cars we desired, saying things we wished we’d imagined. They patted my wife’s stomach and ate our food and inspected our home for signs of bad taste or disorder. Occasionally someone mentioned that the child was lovely, or incredibly well behaved.
Those who had babies of their own who had already emerged from the womb and were getting on with the business of utilizing all the tools their parents had purchased in order to raise them properly, began to compare notes. Some of the babies exhibited incredible musical ability, pounding out Beethoven on plastic xylophones. Others were reading various American and European classics. One of the babies could perform differential equations by merely shuffling brightly colored blocks around the floor. Another had begun fingerpaintings of such quality that her renderings had outgrown the family refrigerator and required a downtown gallery show of their own. The family was putting the proceeds away to fund her education at a prestigious pre-kindergarten art academy where it was virtually assured the baby would be accepted.
Amid all this startling news, my wife eventually laid flat upon the kitchen table and we inserted a single candle into her belly button. We lit it and everyone sang, and the musically gifted babies played along. By the time she blew out the candle protruding from her belly and swallowed the first piece of cake on behalf of our reluctant offspring, we were both painfully aware that we were allowing our child to fall behind. And after we’d smiled long enough to see our friends and their talented tots out the door, we looked at each other and felt ashamed.

***

My wife took her maternity leave immediately and we began the process of helping our poor remedial child catch up to its peers. I read aloud from the encyclopedia on odd number evenings and from the dictionary on even ones (the dictionary was slightly drier and tolerable only in smaller doses). We enrolled the child in a pre-pre kindergarten as well as music, dance, and swimming for babies. Our child’s ability to perform many of the exercises was limited by its reluctance to leave my wife’s womb, but we felt that if nothing else the experience of getting out of the house and being around its peers could only be good for the baby.

This thinking was largely backed up by many of the self-help volumes we purchased in order to shape ourselves into better parents. We discovered what seemed a very promising section in the bookstore dedicated to dealing with your inner child, and though the books did not, as we had hoped, pertain to our exact situation, we felt on the whole they were helpful.

We were thankful to see that though many of the experts and authors themselves had run into troubles with divorce, or adultery, or estrangement from their children, or lacked children altogether, it didn’t stop them from providing us with volume after volume of much needed advice. My wife and I each started to see experts independently as well as together for group counseling sessions once a week.

But because we’d allowed ourselves to fall behind and were overwhelmed with the tasks of catching up, and because we were in need of so much counseling and advice, and because the baby was so limited in the things it could do independently, my wife and I began to get tired.
After she’d run out of maternity leave my wife was forced to resign in order to keep up with the baby’s lessons and schooling. She’d always strived to demonstrate that gender had nothing to do with her abilities. So to leave her career because of a never-ending pregnancy was intensely disheartening. She began to walk with a pronounced slump and if I asked after her she responded that everything was great, that this was a miracle. Though I never requested it, she started to make me lunches for work. Usually the sandwiches were smashed and dry, and occasionally the bag bore the imprint of one of her shoes. I did not complain.

Her new job, taking the baby to vital classes and events, brought her little satisfaction. Being highly educated, she found many of the subjects simplistic and boring, but she was willing to endure for the good of the baby. Though she was eventually asked not to answer any more questions on the baby’s behalf (the teachers felt that my wife’s mastery of the abc’s was not necessarily representative of our child’s) she did enjoy having a school-sanctioned nap built into her daily routine. She told one of the teachers she’d been to Yale. The teacher let her be water fountain monitor for a week.

With my wife no longer working, I was forced to take extra cases in order to defray the costs of providing the right tools and environment in which to raise our shy, but otherwise healthy progeny. Good cases were fought over like meat, and quickly disappeared. Those of us in need, who had troubles, were forced to take the dregs. I had little interest in working till midnight on zoning cases or permit abuse, but I too understood that sacrifices had to be made.

For the most part we managed to follow every rule and heed every suggestion, even the ones that seemed contradictory. We listened to every expert and authority and generally gave ourselves credit for being the best parents we could be with the circumstances as they were.
But despite all the effort, despite all the advice, the baby did not come, and though the books and the experts would never have tolerated it, we secretly began to blame one another. The staggering amount of work that went into keeping the baby healthy and competitive was like an all consuming furnace, taking every scrap of energy we could give and then demanding more. When we ran out of fuel, we powered ourselves with anger. We burned inside over long unanswered questions about how exactly we’d come to be in this mess, boiled at the way our plans had been rewritten, and seethed at the idea that as we drove ourselves relentlessly ahead we might still be falling behind. The source of our power was invisible, because to show it would be to admit that something was wrong, that we’d encountered something that was somehow smaller and yet larger than us at the same time. Instead, we kept it to ourselves. For two years, eleven months, and six days of our child’s gestation we quietly used that anger to wake, work, and provide for ourselves. It was this invisible anger that kept in the race, our silent rage that kept us presentable. Then, one fateful Thursday, our couple’s therapist canceled our session to deal with his own divorce, and the dams that had held back our contempt began to crumble.

We’d agreed long ago never to argue in front of the baby, (all the books were against it) and since the baby was always present, our long festering marital meltdown was necessarily cordial. We let our words drip like honey and hoped they would land like punches.

My wife explained how she’d come to believe that I was at fault for our difficult situation. I was always rushing, always in such a hurry. She cited the way I often failed to wait for her in parking lots, walking five to ten steps ahead in my haste to get to the movie or the grocery store or the mall. The way I darted through traffic, and pushed through crowds, and generally acted like we were always headed to or from a fire. She remembered how I claimed not to be able to help it, how I said the need to rush was in my blood. Not only was it in my blood, she said, but it extended all the way to my genes. My sperm, according to her, were as pushy as me, and had gone in and rushed things just as one would expect my sperm to do. The baby had been spooked by all the pressure and hurrying, and was now simply afraid to appear. She concluded her case with an angry smile and stroked my hair softly as she repeated, this is all your fault, dear.

But I had my own theory, which removed all blame from my shoulders, and placed it back on my wife’s where, I said while offering her a massage, it truly belonged. I reminded her that she was an insatiable perfectionist, and asked her to recall our wedding day when she burst into tears over the fact that the bathroom floors had been paved with red rose petals instead of pink and again upon discovering that the cake cutter and the cake dispenser had gotten confused and switched jobs. That these errors were invisible to everyone else was immaterial. Because the day did not match her abstract vision of perfection, it was considered a disaster. I then reminded her of her precious calendar on which she’d organized to the day all of the major events of the next decade, the calendar she’d spoken about incessantly, the very calendar she’d had to toss out when we learned of the baby. According to her original vision a baby was not to be conceived until Thursday, March 6th, four years from now, and not delivered until Tuesday, November 8th of that same year. And though she claimed to have thrown her old calendar away I’d seen her sobbing and clutching it on numerous occasions. And so, my theory went, because the baby had chosen its own days rather than those pre-ordained by my wife, it seemed clear, though she’d never dare say it, she viewed the whole situation as a disaster. This was why our baby had not arrived. Either out of some incredible will to please its impossible mother, or through her own shocking determination to stick to her original visions of perfection. But certainly, I concluded with a kiss on her cheek, not through any fault of my own.

We stared at each other in the yellow incandescence of our bedroom, both of us having finally glimpsed the fury that propelled our endless motion. But a glimpse was all we could betray, because as much as we wanted to be rid of it, we feared that without it we could not go on. Without it we would quit, would give in, would lose. So we swallowed what we hadn’t shared and decided we should hug, for the baby’s sake. With concrete grins we embraced and each of us tried to squeeze all our anger into the other until we turned out the light and cuddled together in a big ball of hate.

The Baby - Part 2 - Reprinted From The Berkley Fiction Review

2006-05-26T16:17:00.000-07:00

The Achilles’ heel of my theory was that it was testable. If the November 8th my wife had selected were to come and go and the baby had not been released by my wife, or chosen to appear on its own, then my whole argument would be discredited and blame for the situation would be laid at the feet of my overzealous and pushy sperm. I spent many a night in the office reflecting on this very weakness in my attack. In the beginning this was merely another source of my anger. Anger at myself for offering a proper and experimentally fallible theory, and anger at my wife for doing just the opposite. But as the days outgrew their hours and blossomed into weeks and the weeks passed all their days and graduated into months, my anger turned to fear. Fear that in fact I might be to blame. Fear that I alone might end up with the knowledge that something I’d done, something latent and internal, might indeed be the reason for the pain and torment that we, including the silent but loveable baby, had all endured. This thought was too awful to consider, so instead I assured myself that I would be vindicated. That the baby would arrive and would already know the multiplication tables, the backstroke, and the meaning of quiescent without ever missing a beat. I would follow the rules. I would heed the advice. The baby would be fine. My wife would be to blame.

***

Thus, we pressed on, trying to provide every advantage to our long overdue addition, while subsisting on our fury and the advice of people who’d failed in other situations, but knew best how we should handle ours. I kept up the work so my wife could keep up the classes. We put the baby in cub scouts where it attained the rank of Weebelo, and my wife spent at least three days a week at the park making sure the baby got its exercise and the opportunity to bond with its classmates. And on occasion, when our efforts to keep up and blend in appeared to find success it seemed that things between us might soften, that my wife and I might reach an understanding, find some other way to fuel our persistence. But these moments were rare. It was disappointment that was in abundance.

The play dates we arranged never seemed to work out. The other kids didn’t like playing with the baby and the other mothers didn’t like playing with my wife. Further, the burden of carrying a baby around for several years had not only robbed my wife of the graceful figure she’s worked to mold but had begun to severely tax her back. The doctors outfitted her with an outrageously comical specialized walker, which looked strangely like a rolling TV tray on which she could rest her belly as she moved. When she passed by people indeed stopped and stared, but for all the wrong reasons.

I felt for her, but could never find the words to say so. To preserve our veneer of marital and parental bliss we’d learned to smile when we wanted to scream, to profess love with our mouths and hate with our eyes. We became trapped in our own happy lie, and neither of us had the courage to let the other out.

***

As the birthdays ticked by we kept up our ritual, inviting all our friends and family over to celebrate, begging them to pretend our situation was normal, that our efforts to keep up had at a minimum allowed us to stay in the race. But each year as the number of candles in my wife’s belly button grew, our wish as she extinguished them became that much more intense. Please, we prayed as the fire was transformed to wispy trails of smoke, please let this end.

***

Years passed this way, the two of us doting on one another with unsatisfied rage as we broke our backs to keep our baby from falling behind until finally we found ourselves perched on the edge of that special Tuesday, November 8th, the one hand- picked by my wife all those years ago as the date she would deliver her first born. I felt an odd confidence that somehow we were only hours away from meeting the child who hadn’t left our sides in all these years. I dusted the little suitcase by the door and prepared myself for the impending drive to the hospital.
Though she’d always disagreed with my theory, my wife seemed strangely full of hope. If indeed she’d been responsible, it was clear she was ready for it to be over. If the baby didn’t come, it wouldn’t be for spite on her part.

Neither of us could sleep. We laid together in the bed and briefly dipped our toes in dreams that the baby had come, only then to lie awake in the knowledge it had not.

Day refused to break, sending only a lesser form of darkness in its place, a dull grayness that seemed poised to flatten us from above. The hope that had floated our spirits only hours before drained from the house with every passing hour. We waited in silence, until even the day got bored and went around to the other side of the world. Together we stared at the clock until midnight came, and with it the assurance that if the baby was coming, it would not be this day. This day that my wife had selected long ago would be like all the others she had not. She was absolved of all wrongdoing.

My fears were confirmed. Whatever had happened, it was surely my fault. With that realization all my contempt for my wife disappeared like that 8th of November, just faded into the past and became nothing more than history.

It’s my fault, I said. You were right all along. My sperm must have rushed. I scared the baby. I told her she was a wonderful wife, and a wonderful mother, and I assured her that there was nothing wrong with wanting things to be perfect.

It’s not you, she said. It was never you. It just is what it is.

For the first time in years we held each other close and refused to share our bed with thoughts of doing one another harm.

***

After that we burned the books, deciding that we could certainly do no worse on our own. We withdrew the child from classes and dropped any pretense of being a normal family with a normal child and embraced the idea of being a special family with an extremely special child. My wife went back to exercising, concentrating not on her abs but her back, building her muscles to support the baby without the aid of the rolling TV tray. I took some time off from work and we took the baby to see the sights. We did Disney World and the Grand Canyon, a little camping, a little hiking, and stopped the car every time the baby kicked, and gave the child a few moments to examine whatever happened to surround us, wherever we happened to be.
And pretty soon we just forgot to be waiting and moved onto enjoying our situation the way it seemed destined to stay. Our friends with incredible things and incredible children plowed ahead, but we never remembered to feel left behind. To others we were two people and a medical curiosity. To us, we were just a family, and that was enough.

***

After a decade of pregnancy we held a quiet tenth birthday celebration at home, just the three of us. We each put five candles in our bellies and from our backs we blew them out wishing not for the baby’s immediate delivery, but for its permanent well-being. We retired to bed and kissed our dodgeball shaped loved one good night, and promised that we looked forward to seeing one another in the morning.

At 2:58 the phone erupted from my nightstand. I grabbed it after a single ring and looked at my wife, who edged close to consciousness before slipping back into the comfort of her dreams.

Hello, I whispered.

Hello, came a voice from the other side.

Who is this, I asked.

It’s me. The baby.

I gasped for air, as if more oxygen were the key to understanding this information.

Where are you?

Where do you think I am?

I looked over at my wife’s inflated midsection and watched as it rose as fell with her easy breaths.

You can make calls from in there?

Yes.

How?

It’s complicated.

I see.

Well, look, I was just calling to say that I’ve decided something. You’re great people, both of you, wonderful parents, but I’m not coming out. I was really thinking about it, planning on it actually, and I figured tonight, after ten years and all, tonight would be as good as any. But I just can’t do it. It’s just not for me.

Did you feel I rushed you? I never meant to rush you.

Rushed me, are you crazy? I’ve felt quite welcome to take my time.

I hope you don’t think you mother didn’t want-

No, no, it’s nothing like that. I told you, you’re wonderful people, and I’ve been lucky to have you.

So, is there any particular reason you never wanted to come out?

It’s really comfortable in here. The best. The funny thing is that no one really has to leave. It’s sort of an unwritten rule that you get the nine months and then you’re supposed to hit the road, but most kids do it and then immediately regret it. As soon as they realize what they’ve done, that there’s no turning back, well, you’ve been there, they just start screaming and crying.

Then why does anybody leave?

Monkey see, monkey do, man.

So why did you stay?

Don’t know. Guess I’m a little bit of a maverick.

I like that, I said. I’m proud of you for that.

Yeah, but it’s bad for mom’s back, no matter what she says. You guys need a break. It’s time. So I’m going to be leaving.

Where are you going?

Back where I came from.

You can do that?

Sure.

How?

It’s complicated. But you guys are going to be fine, don’t you worry, I’m sure of it.

How do you know?

Well, it’s not like I have a crystal ball or anything. A telephone yes, crystal ball no. But I can tell. Please let mom know I love her and thank her for the ride. I’m going to miss you guys.
We’ll miss you. Very much. Will we ever see you again?

Of course.

When? Where?

It’s complicated.

There was a pause and then, I love you dad. Good-bye.

Good-bye.

The line went dead and I held the phone to my ear and listened to the drone of the dial tone until the operator took it away. I dropped the phone in the cradle, and I went to bed.

***

When we woke the next morning my wife was skinny as a rail and the mere idea of anything with pickles made her ill. I told her about the phone call and she seemed saddened, but somehow able to understand.

For a while we weren’t sure what to do. We decided that what was required was a send off of some sort, something better than a late night phone call to say goodbye.

A funeral seemed too sad, so we decided on a graduation, though we didn’t specify from what. We invited all our friends and the baby’s now pre-teen contemporaries. My wife taped a mortarboard to her abdomen and we opened the thoughtful gifts of Cross pens and personalized stationary that our visitors had brought. Everyone was careful not to mention that the guest of honor was absent, that the graduate, had in fact, already moved on. They just smiled politely, and we smiled back.

Six months later, among the thank yous and other mailed pleasantries from all our invited guests, we found a folded note with no postage. On the front was a crude drawing of a kite blowing in the wind and inside, the paper revealed itself to be a piece of graduation stationary. There was no signature, no letter, no explanation at all. Just two words, Thank You, that appeared to be written with a fountain tipped Cross Pen.

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When Senators Get Into Rap Battles: Immigration Edition

2006-05-22T21:34:00.000-07:00

Sen. Brownback:
Need a wall, build it tall, to keep the criminals out ya'll
Terror and drugs, gangsters and thugs
Stealing jobs from our slobs who can't find nothin to do
Takin up them services and sendin the bill to you

Ted Kennedy:
Land of the free, purple mountain majesty, fences and fences far as the eye can see
What happened to opportunity, chance to feed yo family?
Jobs from our slobs? More like snobs
They just say no way to hard work and low pay

Sen. Brownback:
No one even speaks English anymore
Driving cars so damn low they almost scraping the floor
They want to come over so bad, tell them it's fine
Learn to speak the language and then get in line

Ted Kennedy:
You want to make criminals out of people who work
Lets raid all the offices and throw out those jerks
Hey you, you been here since the dawn of time?
Or did your people just come before coming was a crime?

Sen. Brownback:
Let me sum up by puttin it this way
This country and yo children in serious danger today
Got Swiss cheese borders like we don't even try
We gonna let them bring down more buildings while learning to fly?

Ted Kennedy:
This has nothing to do with terror whatever they say
This about people afraid to change wanting everything to stay
Just like it is with them at the head of the class
Everybody else they want out on their ass

Questions I Did Not Think To Ask When We Started Our Relationship That Probably Would Have Saved Us Both A Lot Of Time

2006-05-08T17:58:00.000-07:00

Are you or have you ever been diagnosed as certifiably insane?

When you're upset, do you tend to set things on fire and throw them at the person you're angry with?

When you have more than two glasses of wine in a restaurant, do you tend to sob uncontrollably and pull off your clothes while calling out the name 'Gary'?

Are you for or against sleeping with your significant other's coworkers?

What's your policy on taking unidentified medications to 'clear your head' before visiting your significant other's parent's for Christmas? If you took such medications and attempted to 'dance' with the Christmas tree because it was 'just so fucking classic' and then ended up in some sort of wrestling match with the tree, do you think you would be likely to start a small fire in the kitchen later while everyone else was cleaning up?

How many times have you driven a vehicle into a stationary object?

If you were pretending to be a graduate student, approximately how many years do you think you would perpetuate that, including paying imaginary tuition and going to fake study sessions that lasted until four in the morning and resulted in you being passed out on the front lawn?

Rate yourself on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being very happy with your appearance, and 10 being so unhappy you might end up in the hospital after secretly consuming nothing but diet coke for ten days.

Are you the sort of person who can look so beautiful and fragile, so utterly helpless and needy, that when you break down and apologize for even the most egregious of transgressions, that it's virtually impossible not to want to help you, to fix you, to complete you, to fall in love with you over and over and over again for approximately three and a half years? Do your kisses taste like lemonade? Do you have a special way of whispering 'I'm sorry' in someone's ear that makes their brain melt and the hairs on their neck stand up? Do you use sex in places like laundromats and elevators to intentionally cause amnesia in your partners? Do you look a certain way when you wake up in the morning wearing a significant other's shirt that makes it virtually impossible for them to leave even when they've sworn the night before amid a hail of flaming debris that this is it?

Would you call yourself a fan of country music?

Channel Surfing

2006-05-03T17:22:00.000-07:00

It's 2:30 in the morning when I answer the phone to hear my father screaming at his television. His complaints are interrupted by painful tones that cause me to hold the speaker away from my ear as his fingers mash the buttons on his phone.

What the hell is wrong with BEEEEEP. Come on BOOOOOP of crap!

Lying here I can picture the scene in the darkness above me. My father, sitting in his recliner, aiming his cordless phone at the television, hopelessly pressing buttons, and wondering why the channel won't change.

Son of a BEEEEP. I ought to BLOOOP.

These are the conversations that have finally taught me what I need to know about my father's condition. When he knows I'm listening he insists he's fine. It's only when he tries to change the channel with his speed dial that the truth comes out.

Dad, I scream into the dark, though my wife has asked me not to. I'm sure she's right. I have yet to get his attention this way, and God only knows what would happen if he actually heard his remote control calling him Dad, but I have trouble hanging up the way she wants me to, the way I know I should. In the blackness I can picture that scene too, the moment after the operator has warned him to hang up and then sent him that endlessly repeating tone until he looks at his hand and realizes that his mind has betrayed him again, that he's suddenly lost in the house he's known for forty-seven years. I want to be with him at that moment, to tell him it's okay, to assure him I'm there even if I'm not. But I've screamed myself hoarse and so far I've never been present in that tragic instant when the remote becomes the phone. Eventually, I always hang up and the things that happen after that, my father and I face alone.

Goddamn it!

There are several loud clunks and suddenly everything sounds different. The blaring TV is now further away and there's a particular way the sounds echo through that house that almost makes it possible to picture exactly where my father has thrown me. I listen to the program for a minute, trying to imagine we're watching it together.

Would you just hang up already, my wife says finally. She rolls away from me and takes more than her share of the covers in case I've failed to note the displeasure in her voice.

Dad, I yell one more time causing my wife to yank my pillow out from under my head and place it over her own. But my voice has no effect on the sounds coming back. I hear a familiar jingle as the program goes to commercial and I lean over and put the phone back in its cradle.

In the new silence and old darkness I imagine how this particular episode will end. Probably he'll hear the phone beeping and go to get it, perhaps not even remembering having tossed it across the room. With any luck I decide that when he's up to retrieve it he'll spot the real remote somewhere and return to his chair and everything will be fine. Tonight, I tell myself as I lay my head back on the pillowless mattress, everything will work out.

How To Be Happy

2006-05-01T00:20:00.000-07:00

Don’t be sad. Being sad never did anything for anybody. Sad people are hard to stand. They leak, convulse, make too much noise, and sometimes throw things they hope will break. And their problems tend to be contagious. It’s best to stay away. If you’re sad try not to get it on anyone else. If you weren’t sad you wouldn’t want it on you either.

Cheer up. Happy people tend to avoid sad people. Misery still loves company, but company has filed for divorce. Company is seeing other people. Company has moved on. You should too. Happy people can be found in restaurants and at parties, usually in groups. Happy people are also loud, and convulsive, and tend to be contagious, but unlike sad people they are not hard to be around. Unless you are sad. Then they’re pure evil.

What’s wrong? Nothing. That’s what. Anything other than nothing is something, and something is a messy answer to a nice clean question. Don’t make a mess, especially in public. Be clean and tidy and keep your somethings to yourself. If someone seems to be asking for something, have the decency to give them nothing. Nothing goes with everything. Nothing is the new black.

Feel better. Feeling bad is a choice, like being gay or republican, and you’ll feel so much better as soon as you decide to stop feeling bad. One easy way to feel better is to pretend. Chemicals might speed this up. If too much time passes and pretending to feel better doesn’t make you feel better you’ll probably just go back to feeling bad, which will bother the people who fell for your ruse, and probably leave them feeling bad, which will make you feel a little bit better.

Never give up. Because tomorrow is a new day. Different things could happen tomorrow. They could fall from the sky, or run you over in the street. Tomorrow might be a different shape than today, or the same shape, but in different wrapping. Tomorrow is a Christmas present from today and everyone loves to get presents. Tomorrow might just be a sweater, but it could also be a remote controlled car. And you. You could be a new person by tomorrow. You might not even be you. Tomorrow’s you might be today’s you with a smile and a remote controlled car, and you’d certainly want to stick around to see that. Wouldn’t you?

Flight 2347 LAX to DIA

2006-04-28T10:16:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Cindy, I'll be assisting you today along with our other flight attendants Mark and Keri. This will be a full flight, so I want to encourage you to take the first available seat. Assuming the captain isn't in one of those passive agressive moods where he punishes us for his own problems, we should be getting underway on time.

Hi there everyone, this is Captain Stevens. Looks like we should have a pretty smooth flight ahead of us and the weather in Denver is mostly sunny. Some people call that partly cloudy, but I think it's important to put a positive spin on things, unlike certain flight attendants who can never see past the negative and want to forget all the good times.

Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see the captain has turned off the seatbelt sign which you may assume means you're free to roam about the cabin. But I can personally attest that this particular captain is somewhat controlling and even though he said you could roam about the cabin, he'll probably get jealous and angry if you do. I'd stay seated with your mouths shut and focus on counting the minutes until you can get out of here. And then I'd call that nice guy you dated in college who went on to be a doctor. That's what I did and I'm very, very happy.

Hey guys, Captain Stevens here. Looks like we're going to be hitting a few bumps ahead. Not that that's any reason to panic and run away, I mean, rough patches are part of life, am I right? So if you're not the type to turn tail and give up at the sight of a little turbulence I suggest just hanging out in your seat and we'll come through this just fine, together. Together.

Ladies and gentlemen, we will be coming through the cabin with beverages and snacks momentarily. Normally I'd offer beer and alcohol for an additional charge, but we seem to be out today, which is odd because the plane is always fully stocked and only the flight crew has access before we're on board, but whatever, I guess it will just have to remain a mystery. Big mystery.

Hey gang, we're starting our descent into Denver and should be on the ground in the next half hour or so. Of course, sometimes descents go faster, sometimes it feels like the bottom just drops out and you're in free fall, sometimes you find your girlfriend and your copilot in your bed eating the last slice of your birthday cake and you feel like you're going to fall right through the floor. But not today. Today I predict a smooth landing.

Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the airline and your crew I want to welcome you to Denver International Airport. I know it looks like we've arrived, but our captain does have a serious problem with commitment and I wouldn't put it past him to just sit out here idling for say, I don't know, three years, while all the other planes get to take off and come in looking all pretty in their dresses and making little planes and having families. And then, if God forbid, we did something to try to wake the captain up, to remind him that we were still here, well he'd probably just take off again. So I know it looks good right now, but let's just see how this is going to play out before we get too excited. I'd hate to see you all get hurt.

Well guys, I guess this is it. We had a good run, right? Not that bad. Heck, there was a lot of good, wasn't there? But for now I guess it's goodbye. Unless you want to stay. Unless maybe you decide you want to come back. Because in spite of whatever problems we may have had, I think we're good together. I think we work. So come back, will you? Please? Because honestly, it's not going to be the same without you. We know you have choices when you fly, but we'd be so happy, and so ready to take our relationship to the next level if you just chose us. Until then, please enjoy your stay in Denver.

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Brief Appeal To Jonathan Franzen, David Foster Wallace, And Aimee Bender

2006-04-26T13:25:00.000-07:00

Hey Guys,

Big fan. Huge. Really.

Just wondering if you might be amenable to halting your writing careers and moving on to something else. Anything else. Gardening is something that people do. Also knitting. Or maybe quality control for an industrial chemical manufacturer. It's totally up to you.

I don't know if you're sports fans, but maybe you've seen someone hit a home run before. And then maybe you've seen the pitcher, who was just doing his best and really trying to do a good job, you've seen him take off his hat in frustration and then hang his head in defeat as the hitter makes that run around the bases and humiliates him. Well, that's what it's like for the rest of us charged with arranging words for a living every time you guys publish something. At least in baseball the pitcher can plunk the next batter. Who do you suggest I plunk?

So listen, you've had your fun. You've expanded and challenged minds. You've entertained and empowered, blah, blah, blah. But some of the rest of us, we have any number of bad habits to service and we certainly can't do it on the salary we're getting from Arby's. So what if you took your talents to one of those other fields I suggested and left writing to us hackier folks. I'd thank you. I know my girlfriend would thank you. And I'm sure that countless self delusional wannabes around the country, nay, the world, would thank you.

So ask yourself - would it really be so hard to stop? Wouldn't you like to grow your own veggies? Make your own hats? Insure the quality of dangerous chemical compounds?

Thanking you in advance,

Kyle

p.s. despite retiring, if any of you wants to do a blurb for my new book, I'm totally on board.

Incredible 3br 2.5bath - History Meets The Future

2006-04-19T00:41:00.000-07:00

Are you looking to break out of the cookie cutter? Well, Welcome Home!

This utterly unique property marries a fascinating history with futuristic features you won't find anywhere else. Reconstructed nearly fifteen years ago (full disclosure, the previous structure did disappear into some sort of highly localized vortex) on lushly forested acreage once belonging to an exclusive pagan ritualisim and social club, this charming home has features you'll be hard pressed to find elsewhere. The kitchen comes fully equipped with self opening and closing cabinets and doors as well as a lively and occasionally talkative refrigerator (don't worry, mostly it just moans and it's never said anything that would offend junior's ears). You'll find hardwood floors throughout with periodic rolling tides of a delightful deep red liquid to brighten things up. Hate to feel alone? You'll find the home's rotating cast of gravitationally unencumbered characters (yes, they're included!) will make you feel cozy and accompanied all day and night. And feel free to turn Fido loose in the large backyard. It's a virtual treasure trove of archeological delights including bones, sacrificial altars, and pagan temples, all tucked neatly under a bed of soft Kentucky Bluegrass.

It simply must be seen to be believed!

Sellers are highly motivated and will entertain all offers. Please give a 30 minute courtesy call before visiting the property. Should you encounter the 'bleeding' floors or walls, please make an effort not to track anything onto the front deck, it's new. Also, should the home threaten you in any way, likely with the booming voice of a demon calling himself Mefisilies, or quickly moving objects (possibly sharp), it's best not to show fear. Just announce in a calm and firm tone that you have an appointment and that you'd appreciate a modicum of cooperation. In almost all cases that's been effective. Also, please do not let the cat out.

Don't let this one get away!

Ted

2006-04-17T10:02:00.000-07:00

My other head is named Ted. That was not my doing. That was Ted’s doing. That’s pretty much the problem in a nutshell. Ted is the kind of head that would name himself Ted the head.

The doctor says that this is a fixable situation. He says that there’s technology and procedures. Ted doesn’t hear any of this because I bought him an Ipod and he listens to music while the doctor is describing how we could remove Ted’s head from my body and make me just like everyone else. I could have one body and one head. It could all be mine.

Ted likes country music and songs about the stars. He hums to himself while we talk about incisions and sutures. He whistles when I ask how long it will take to heal.

The doctor says he thinks we should really give this some thought first, that it’s not reversible, that it’s somewhat extreme. He says that some might look on our situation as a blessing. Something special. A team. If we’re having problems, maybe we want to see a counselor. I tell the doctor that I’ve been trying to become a vegan for the last eight years. Ted, however, is addicted to barbecue. He likes sausage and ribs and his steaks cooked rare. I ask the doctor if he knows what it’s like to share his stomach with someone else. He says he doesn’t.

We schedule the surgery.

Ted asks how the appointment went. He’s under the impression that this is all related to my veganism, which in some technical way it very much is. I tell him it went well and he’s satisfied with that. Ted is satisfied with whatever you tell him. He’s a sucker, which is why we own a lot of kitchen gadgets and have changed long distance carriers so many times. It’s also why Ted can’t watch TV late at night or answer the phone anymore.

What are you thinking about?

This is one of Ted’s favorite questions.

Nothing, I tell him, even though it’s not possible to think about nothing. Even thinking about nothing is thinking about something. But Ted never questions this.

Oh, he says. I was thinking about my favorite color. Do you know what my favorite color is?

Your favorite color is blue, Ted.

It sure is. It sure is. Blue, he says while licking his lips as if it’s something he can taste. Blue.

***

Elise is French. Her hair is straight. Her nails are long like garden tools. When we have dinner she sends things back until they are exactly the right temperature.

This duck should be 167 degrees.

This salad needs to be 14 degrees cooler.

Her tongue is very, very sensitive. When she kisses me she can read my mind.

You are thinking about something, no?

I check to make sure that Ted is asleep. When she drinks properly chilled wine, Elise tells wonderful stories about herself and her travels and stupid people who don’t even realize they are stupid. These stories put Ted to sleep because he is not sophisticated.

I saw the doctor, I say.

Elise raises her eyebrows. Her fingers unfurl across the table and get mixed up in my own. Yes?

I’ve set a date. For the, I lean in and whisper, surgery.

Elise brings her lips to my ear and takes in a breath like she’s going to say something. Instead I feel her magical tongue brush against my earlobe and I vibrate like a guitar string.

She pulls back and licks her lips, deciding something.

Almost perfect, she says.

The vibration in my core stirs Ted to life.

Well, hey E-lise. How’s dinner?

Almost, she says again without acknowledging Ted at all. As long as she looks at me I can never look away. If she decides I should stay at this table for eleven months, three days, and six hours, her eyes will be enough to keep me.

***

Ted wants his party at Chuck E Cheese. He doesn’t even ask what the party is for. Since it is a going away party I allow it.

All of the neighborhood kids are there. They love Ted. Brice, Kenneth, Tyler, Andy. They all think Ted is so funny. I’ve tried to explain to them that there’s more to life than being funny. There’s work and success. Assets and finances. Books and politics. And living with Ted is no easy task, I’ve told them. But they don’t understand because they’re only kids and kids don’t understand anything. As soon as they do, they stop being kids.

I let Ted play in the ball pit for almost an hour. I let him waste money on video games and air hockey. He eats almost a whole pizza by himself, one covered in layers of greasy cheese and ground meat. I can feel the pizza mix with the lentil soup I ate before the party and I feel sick.

This is the last time I will ever eat pizza, I think as Ted takes another bite.

At the end of the night Ted takes all the tickets he’s collected and spends them on a stapler. It’s a tiny stapler that wouldn’t hold three sheets of paper together. I try to tell him that we already have a stapler, one that, in addition to being functional, probably cost less than what we spent in order to win this one. I try to steer him towards the big lollipop on the grounds that it’s at least useful for its intended purpose. But the economics of the situation mean nothing to Ted. He wants the stapler. So at the end of his going away party Ted comes home with a very small, very expensive, and utterly useless stapler.

***

My house is my house. It’s not Ted’s house. I paid for it with money I got from doing my job. I got that job with my degree. And I earned that degree with the facts and figures that I stuffed into my head. Ted’s head is just along for the ride. So Ted’s head doesn’t get to make decisions.

I’ve meticulously collected and arranged everything in my house. It flows. Things complement one another. There’s a sense of purpose, of intent. It is a sanctuary. I have pictures of it on my desk at work the way other people have pictures of their children. It calms me to look at them. It fills me with pride. It’s very nearly perfect.

Except for one little spot.

It’s a spot near the top of the wall in the bedroom, the spot Ted stares at when I lay down to read. To keep him from complaining incessantly and asking how soon we could turn out the light I decided to let Ted decorate this little space. Ted thought about it for several weeks, looked at paint samples that I had suggested, looked through catalogs. At night I could almost feel him imagining the possibilities. I admit to being briefly hopeful about his decision. Then one day as I was rushing through the mall Ted cried out that he saw what he wanted. And since then there’s been a poster of Garfield the cat eating a tray of lasagna on the wall of my otherwise perfect home.

When Ted looks at it he giggles, and then within minutes he’s asleep.

The poster should have made it possible for me to read in peace. Instead, I often find myself distracted, my eyes picking at it like a little scab, going over and over it so that it never heals, never fades, never gives up my attention. Often I turn out the lights in frustration, but even in the darkness I know it’s there.

I’m looking forward to taking it down.

But tonight I’m not distracted. Tonight my reading has engrossed me. The materials outline the procedure in detail. They say that it’s remarkably simple. The head is removed. The nerves are clipped. The wound is sewed up. When it’s over I will have a scar. That’s all. Just a scar.

Hey. What does cranial amputation mean?

I look over and discover that Ted is awake, his eyes squinting as if looking into a sunset as he tries to make sense of the words and pictures in my hands.

Nothing. It’s just work stuff. Go back to sleep.

His eyes drift back over to his poster. He giggles. His lids droop and seal.

That’s Ted. Too innocent for his own good. Too trusting to survive. I’m helping him, I think. I’m protecting him from a world he’s not equipped to handle. This is mercy, I think, for both of us.

What do you think Heaven is like, Ted suddenly asks without opening his eyes.

I don’t believe in Heaven, I say. I think this life is all there is. That’s why each of us must do what’s necessary to live it to the fullest.

Ted doesn’t respond and suddenly I find myself staring at the Garfield poster. Frustrated, I turn out the lights.

Then, from the darkness Ted says, I think it’s probably a very pretty blue.

***

I’m intentionally vague about what we’re doing. Lying there, I keep thinking that Ted will ask more questions, but he doesn’t seem the least bit worried, not the least bit suspicious. They draw some dotted lines with a felt tip pen where they’re going to cut. They put a big X on Ted’s forehead to make sure they know which head to take and which head to leave. Ted laughs when they draw the X. He says it tickles.

I see the doctor through a window. He’s in the other room washing up, getting ready. I begin to feel nervous. Ill. I want Ted to ask what’s going on. I’ve spent hours preparing my explanation, now I feel the need to hear it again. Not for Ted, but for myself. But Ted doesn’t ask.

The doctor comes in hidden behind layers of plastic and rubber. His voice is the only thing familiar.

Are we sure?

I make a decision. I decide it’s up to Ted. I decide that if Ted wants to stay I will let him. All he has to do is ask. But still he doesn’t say a word. And in the end I can’t forgive him for that. If Ted can’t speak on his own behalf, if Ted isn’t interested enough to wonder what’s happening, then I will not feel guilty. I will not be responsible. I wait and I wait and the nurses wait and the doctor waits. Everyone waits and Ted only smiles.

Finally, I nod. We’re sure.

The doctor turns to someone. That someone presses a button, turns a dial. I begin to feel heavy. My limbs sink into the bed, my muscles let go of my bones. The weight tips my head to the side and as my eyelids give way, I find myself staring at Ted. There is a giant X just above his eyes drawn in blue marker.

Then the world feels like it gets sucked up by a vacuum, pulled away as I try to hold on. The last thing I remember is Ted smiling at me.

Goodbye, is what he says.

***

At dinner Elise kisses me.

Perfect, she says again and again.

Meat no longer sneaks its way into my stomach.

At work I’m no longer interrupted by silly questions, not embarrassed in meetings. My boss tells me that he’s eyeing me for a promotion.

The neighborhood kids stop coming by. Even on Halloween, when I turn on the light and have a bowl of candy waiting, they all stay away. By Thanksgiving I’m sick of all the leftover chocolate and I end up throwing most of it out. I realize I never really liked chocolate. It was Ted’s thing.

When I visit the doctor he says that I’m healing very well. He says he doubts there will be much of a scar at all.

There is, however, the issue of disposal.

Disposal?

What would you like us to do with the… removed item?

Oh.

I end up taking Ted home in a jar. I think it’s a jar. I tell them to put the jar in a box, and even though I keep thinking I will, I never open the box. I take it on faith that Ted is inside.

On a Sunday afternoon in the fall I take the box to the park and I dig up a hole in a place I think Ted would have liked. I put the box inside along with Ted’s stapler and I say a couple things. I say that Ted liked country music and that he was very naïve. I say that the neighborhood kids miss him, and that while he was not that bright, he was also not that bad. I want to say that I miss him, because I think that’s an important thing to say. But the truth is, the scar is almost healed. The evidence is almost gone. By the time I cover the box up, it’s almost like Ted never was never here at all.

That night Elise rakes long fertile rows in my back and makes love to me like an adult. We hold each other and she says that she feels like a cigarette, but neither of us smokes. Instead, we just lie there tangled up in one another. Two bodies. Two heads. The silence tries to fuse us together, presses on us like an ocean crushing a submarine. But it never quite works. We end up staying ourselves.

Elise looks at Ted’s poster on the wall and wonders when I’m going to take it down.

It’s hideous, she says.

Tomorrow, I say.

But when tomorrow happens, I leave the poster right where it is.

Letter From Me To The Team Responsible For Paper Sack Lifetime Entries

2006-04-10T17:29:00.000-07:00

Hey gang, kudos all around. Really. I've gotten some swell compliments regarding your work, and you know how I feel about compliments. I love them! A couple people have asked how on Earth I come up with this stuff. Of course, I didn't mention anything about your little group being locked up in that tiny room, but I want you to know that when I said, 'I guess it just comes to me', what I meant is that it just comes to me from some talented and starving individuals who are desperate to see sunlight.

But enough of the ego stroking. Lord knows, there isn't room in that cell for any big heads, am I right? There's also a couple issues I want to touch on right quick. The first is production. Now, all of you know that in order to be released from the various nets or cleverly disguised holes that you stumbled into you each agreed to create three entries a week for this site in perpetuity. Yet, lately I'm told your work has been slightly erratic: posting at odd times, or missing days altogether. Partly this is my fault. As you may have heard, the Learjet needed new upholstery last month and when the bill came for your gruel rations, I just didn't think I could swing both. But I'm back on track this month and hopefully you're eating a big bowl of gruel as we speak and there are no hard feelings. As an added incentive, if you can power through another year of entries I'm willing to get each of you a spoon. Will they be shiny? You bet!

Your minders tell me they've been hearing some 'concerns' about living conditions. When are we getting hot water? How soon will the latrine be finished? Are the shock collars really necessary? Let me remind you that asking questions really won't help you get these entries done. And should you fail to get the entries done, I don't think there will be any confusion over whether or not the shock collars are necessary. But I'm sensitive to your concerns. Just last week the 'return' button on my plasma TV remote stopped working, meaning that in order to get back to the last channel I was watching I had to manually enter the channel number. I'm sure you can imagine how frustrating that was. But you know what? I persevered. I entered those numbers. I watched my shows (the Sopranos are just great, just great). And I think I'm a little bit better person for the adversity. So the next time you find yourself thinking, 'what year is it?', or 'when is the gruel coming?', just remember, this is all building character. When you look at it that way, you'll probably feel like thanking me for those leg irons. Not necessary. Just keep up the good work.

Secondly, I've been thinking about frogs lately. I'd like to see more frog related content on the site. Also, paperclips. Do something funny about paperclips. Beavers, lasers, they were cute the first time, but now... I'm over it. Maybe a fake press release about a frog. Or a letter from a paperclip. I don't know, I leave it to you guys as you've got much more time to think on these things than me. But if you can do a frog and paperclip related post in the next month that gets me to smile, I'll arrange to have the sunshine let in for an hour, hour and a half. How about that? I'm sure your wheels are turning already.

Well, look, I just wanted to say good job while at the same time laying out a veiled threat of bodily harm in the event that you don't shape up, so I'll let you get back to work. If we get any more good reviews and make sure that you're all allowed to share in the glory. Until then, keep writing and conserve your oxygen.

Many thanks,

Mr. Kyle

Minders, you may now seal them back in.

Possible Reasons Your Prayers Were Not Answered

2006-04-07T11:44:00.000-07:00

Hi there. I'm in the prayer complaint department and we're constantly hearing from the faithful who are upset that their prayers seem to go unheard or unanswered. The following is a brief list of things you can think about to improve your the odds of making your prayer successfully heard and potentially acted upon.

1. Which God are you praying to?
As you know, there are a number of world religions, and most of them are mutually exclusive. So if you're not praying to the proper God, you're just talking to yourself, and that's silly. I'm legally unable to name the proper God, but I can tell you that praying to the wrong one is the number one mistake made by most people. If you're too lazy to sort out the one true faith, perhaps begin a regimen of praying to all possible Gods (though this will upset some of the Gods) as a way of covering your bases.

2. Are you praying or wishing?
A prayer is a search for answers, guidance, relief, or strength. It is not a request for a new Xbox. Also, prayers are not directed at birthday candles or twinkling stars. That's Disney's department, not ours.

3. Style counts.
As you can imagine, we hear a lot of prayers. A lot. Imagine getting billions of letters everyday. Even if you could read them, wouldn't you be more likely to respond to the ones that were well written, on nice paper, and completely legible? Prayers are the same way. We've heard it all. Twice. So getting your prayer noticed requires you to be inventive. Think before you pray. Is this the most interesting way to phrase this? Am I just wandering off on a tangent and talking about my day before finally saying thanks and good night? Would my prayer be better if I set it to music or accompanied it with a laser light show? Just remember, if you want the big cheese to put some time and effort into a response, the least you can do is pretty up the request.

4. Is your prayer sports related?
God has no interest in sports whatsoever. Unless it's curling. Women's curling. Otherwise you're just talking to yourself. Often on national TV.

5. Did you pay for postage?
Used to be that a simple Amen would get your stuff up here, but times are changing. In an effort to cut down on frivolous/sports related prayer, we've found ourselves forced to start charging. The prices are still in flux (it's an emerging market) but the going rate is roughly one kind word or deed per prayer. That's it. Help that lady across the street. Tell that guy his pants are on backwards, and your stylish, well written, non wish prayer will get to the proper authorities (assuming, obviously, that you've chosen the proper religion). It's pretty cheap when you think about it.
Also, doughnuts are an acceptable payment. Krispy Kreme. Left on the front porch, Santa Clause style.

Astronaut

2006-04-03T00:34:00.000-07:00

Dear NASA,

I was just wondering if you needed any Astronauts. I guess it's probably a stupid question, but I figured, hey, if you don't ask, you'll never find out.

Dave

Dear Dave,

Funny enough, we were just talking about taking out an ad. Usually we go through the military and scientific community, but whatever, they're kind of square. You're not square are you? Send a photo of yourself in a jockstrap with a pair of those waterwings floaties on your arms to prove otherwise.

NASA

Dear NASA,

No way! That's so awesome! To answer your question, I'm not square at all (see photo). Does this mean I qualify? Do you need a resume or anything?

Dave

Dear Dave,

No resume necessary. You're photo was perfect, just what we're looking for. Do you have access to any liquefied oxygen and/or plutonium? That would really speed things up.

NASA

Dear NASA,

Um. No. I wouldn't even know where to look for stuff like that. Maybe I should come down to your place and we can talk about it.

Dave

Dear Dave,

Don't come down. It's squaresville here, trust us. We'll send you everything you need. Watch your mailbox. Or possibly for a tractor trailer. Probably it will come on a tractor trailer.

NASA

Dear NASA,

Got your package. Must say, not exactly what I was expecting. I did get a rocket. It's big, but you know, not that big. They look bigger on TV. Also, I was under the impression you could get in them. I'm almost sure I've seen that before. This one just has a large velcro patch on the side. I guess that's supposed to connect to the velcro on this suit you sent? Speaking of, the helmet, again, no expert, but looks a lot like a fishbowl that's just been duct taped to the suit. Did I get the right stuff? Also, were there supposed to be instructions besides: light fuse, grasp rocket tightly?

Dave

Dear Dave,

Regarding your perceptions of the equipment, we're not made of money over here, not anymore. As you may know, space research was initially greenlighted under the theory that the moon was made of diamonds and would be a great base station for a super exclusive fat camp (did you know you weigh 1/6th what you weigh on Earth up there?) but neither of those theories really panned out. So, yeah Dave, budget cuts. Welcome to space in the 21st century. We kind of hoped this wouldn't be an issue, but you're sounding suspiciously square about the whole thing. Maybe we should have picked someone else.

NASA

Dear NASA,

I'm sorry. I was just curious. I'm really excited. Really. I quit my job and told all my neighbors and everything. They like totally can't believe it. Really. They're actually in a state of disbelief. Not a single one believes me. Funny huh?

Dave

Dear Dave,

You ride that fireball into space and leave a nicely charred bit o' backyard and we guarantee that will shut the neighbors up. Seriously, we're proud of you Dave. This will be your finest hour. Also, we mailed you a satellite. The thing that looks like a jambox. If you wouldn't mind launching that? Much appreciated. Oh, and if you could get a friend or neighbor to paint the letters USA on your back before you light that fuse, well, it would be good advertising for the program. We think this is going to be the beginning of something special Dave. You're a real pioneer. Pi-o-neer! Best of luck, Dave. Do us proud.

NASA

p.s. you are so totally not square.

Dear Dave,

Saw the launch on the news yesterday. As you know, there's always some kinks to work out when you're trying to get a new program off the ground (no pun intended). Who knew they could just tip over like that once they were lit? To our credit, you have to admit we did a hell of a job with that velcro. Looked like you were fighting pretty hard to detach while that thing was moving around the backyard. Anyway, we're totally willing to send you another rocket when you get out of the hospital. And if you don't feel up to it, we understand that too. Honestly, most of the people who've been to space say it's only so-so. Now, and we hate to even mention this, the news said something about you retaining a lawyer. We're not sure what that's all about, but given our budget constraints we're sure you wouldn't want to sue us. That would just get ugly all around, Dave. This was a mutual thing, Dave. No one side is more at fault than the other just because one side designed and tested the rocket. The important thing is: we have photos of you in a jockstrap and waterwings, Dave. There, we said it. We don't want to have to use them. Please don't make us.

Speedy Recovery!

NASA

Taste Tests

2006-03-31T00:27:00.000-07:00

Head On A Platter v. Head On A Stick

Revenge Served Cold v. Revenge Microwaved 30 Seconds

Guinness v. Motor Oil

My Dust v. My Shorts

Cotton Candy v. Candy Coated Cotton

Chicken v. Exotic Animals That Taste Like Chicken

Accident Prone pt 1 - Reprinted from The Black Warrior Review

2006-03-24T16:50:00.000-07:00

This is Bill’s indigestible life. He chews, and chews, and swallows, and he never feels full. He chokes down mornings at his computer. He gnaws tirelessly on empty handfuls of hours. He swallows another day in his cube. It passes painfully through his system, the sharp corners poking at his insides until it exits looking just as it did before he ate it, and ready for him to dine on tomorrow. This is Bill’s liver flavored life, his asparagus flavored depression.

***

Bill leaves the building because the clock says it’s okay. But the clock is fickle, and Bill knows that by tomorrow it will call him back. His work is not finished, but this is not particularly important. His work is never finished. No one is waiting for his work, but everyone is upset when Bill is not working. Bill leaves the building and steps into the leftovers of the day.

Bill checks his watch as he leaves the parking lot. His program starts soon. He can miss it, but this complicates things. His life is more digestible when it’s broken into tiny bites, organized into known quantities. Bill keeps things very orderly, in the hopes that when everything around him is in its place, he’ll find his own. Bill lives in a file cabinet. Just keep chewing, he tells himself. Chew and chew, and then swallow. Bill is thinking this, concentrating on how he will digest the next few hours of his life when he pulls into the intersection. His light is red. The semi’s light is green. Everything goes black.

***

Bill does not wake up for several days. Nearly a week passes through his system before Bill can open his eyes. When his lids part a nurse is looking down on him.

You’re a lucky man, Bill, she says with a smile. Her teeth are whiter than Bill remembers teeth ever being before. Bill is powered by her grin. The moment tastes like chocolate.

Chocolate, Bill says, discovering the sound of his own voice to be a song he could never grow tired of.

Not today, hon. I’ll bring you something sweet tomorrow.

She smiles again and Bill dines on every tooth, her peppermint canines, her wintergreen molars.

***

When Bill is released his senses are overwhelmed. The day is a banana split so beautiful it makes him cry. His house embraces him with colors he does not remember, smells that force him to smile, and a taste he hopes never to forget. He checks the address to be sure. 1088 Waverwood. This is Bill’s house, his file cabinet, right where it’s always been, just like he’s always left it, but he feels certain this is the first time he’s ever been here. He is not just home, but glad to be so.

***

Bill wakes to fresh squeezed sunshine. He makes himself some toast, two slices, light butter, his morning meal for the last twenty years. The first bite knocks him out of his chair.

This toast is fucking amazing! says Bill to the empty room. Bill does not curse. He has never cursed. Even when the office paper shredder tried to take part of his finger, Bill did not curse. Fucking amazing, he repeats because it happens to be true. He takes another bite and begins to sob with joy. His tears drip down into his OJ and he eats his toast and drinks his juice, a healthy dose of vitamin C and salty drops of his uncontrollable pleasure.

Monday is a brownie sundae. Tuesday is fine wine. Wednesday is a hearty filet. Since leaving the hospital each day is selected from his new menu, and every item is five star. The limp spinach hours of processing reports, the bland noodle nights at home, these are memories, dishes served to characters in history books. Now work is a loaded baked potato, melting with butter, overflowing with sour cream. Nights are good steaks, each cut more succulent than the last. Every moment is a feast for the senses. His palette, once dulled and gray, is now aware, is now happy, is now so totally alive.

***

Bill gorges on his life for six months, feeling full and contented, healthy and well fed. His unceasing grin confuses his co-workers, stumps his neighbors. His life looks exactly the same. No one can see how amazing it tastes.

He’s come back too fast, they say as Bill bounces around behind his smile.

Something’s not right, they decide, noticing Bill’s giddy glee while laboring over the very tasks that used to make him numb.

Why don’t you take a vacation, someone finally suggests. You don’t seem like yourself.

No need, says Bill with a genuine smile, then reaches up and dishes himself another helping of reports.

***

Bill’s job centers around reports. He processes reports, he files reports, and occasionally he writes reports about the reports that he processes and the reports that he files. This last part of his job was always the most loathsome, the dish he could never stomach, the meal so foul he could not keep it down. But when Mr. Phillips stops by, Bill is not disturbed. And when he requests the annual report on the reports, Bill isn’t apprehensive in the least. His diet is fresh, he reminds himself, his tastes have changed. This, like everything else since the accident, will be a task to savor, a treat to die for.

No problem, sir. I’ll get on it right away.

Bill brings his work home and lays it out on the table like dinner. He opens a folder and happily digs in. It’s only moments later that Bill begins to sense something unpleasant, something forgotten but familiar. He takes a break and drinks some water, hoping the sensation will pass before he presses on.

But as he works his way through the reports the feeling gains strength and clarity, a bile flavored dread creeping up from his stomach. By the time he’s exhausted himself for the evening his mouth is pasty and dry while his stomach rolls and churns like a dryer with shoes in it.

I must be coming down with something, Bill tells himself as he heads to bed. I’ll be better in the morning.

***

Morning comes in neutral colors. It’s as flavorless as water.

Must be stopped up, thinks Bill as he waits on his toast. He spreads his butter, he pours his OJ and he takes a seat, pushing the reports aside so he can enjoy his new favorite meal. He takes a bite and prepares for what has become his daily taste of delight. He chews, and chews, and swallows, but feels nothing more than the wad of crumpled toast drifting south to his stomach. He takes another bite, then stares at the bread as he swallows. He waits, questioning his tongue, demanding a report.

This is not fucking amazing toast. This toast just tastes like toast, Bill says with fear in his voice.

He rushes to the bathroom and takes two of every medicine he can find.

Bill medicates himself for two days despite being healthy as a horse. His nose is clear, his head is free, his eyes are shiny, and his ears are not clogged. But something is terribly wrong and Bill wants desperately to believe he is ill. He wants his problem to be a bug, an infection, a sickness he can cure, and cure quickly, because it’s been two days and his toast still tastes like toast, and his morning is like mud in his mouth.

Bill’s back, he hears his co-workers whisper as he stares blankly at his computer. Their smiles return just as Bill’s goes missing.

He swallows mouthfuls of air, rubs them on his taste buds hoping for something, anything, sugary nitrogen, malty oxygen, the spice of carbon dioxide. Nothing. The air is just air and somehow he knows the pills will never change this.

Bill, says Mr. Phillips suddenly standing in the opening of Bill’s cube. How’s the report on the reports coming?

Fine, sir, Bill says unconvincingly. I think I’ve been sick.

Okay then. Well, let’s get that report on my desk. We’ll need to get it processed, and then we’ll need to get it filed.

Yes, sir.

Bill looks at the work before him, but can’t bring himself to take another bite. He gets up and shuffles toward the breakroom, all evidence of spring gone from his step.

Good to have you back, says a neighbor as he ambles past her cube.

Bill pulls a soda from the machine and pops the top with a prayer. He pours the liquid and feels it dribble through his insides, rushing past the sharp corners of his morning. The soda is just soda, not special or exciting, and Bill is sure that it’s gone. Whatever it was, wherever it came from, the flavor that made his life briefly edible has been cooked away. What’s left is tough and dry, and Bill shudders at the idea of ingesting another piece.

He thinks longingly back to the accident, the moment he woke up to a new life, to the intense colors and unprecedented flavors, and the days so delicious he hungered for them in his sleep. He stares at the soda machine and gets a crazy idea. It’s so crazy he shakes his head and waves his hand to bat it away like a bug. He heads for the door, leaving the idea behind when he remembers what’s waiting at his desk. Reports to process, reports to file, reports to write. He knows this will be an eggplant afternoon. The idea catches him again and seems more reasonable in the face of his alternatives.

It’s worth a try, Bill says, and he walks to the giant soda machine and tips it over on himself. The metal creaks as it goes, but Bill never hears the crash. Everything is black.

***

The chocolate nurse with peppermint teeth returns and Bill grins even as he notices his body covered in casts.

How are you feeling, sugar?

Bill is aware there is pain in his limbs, but as he squints into her brilliantly white teeth, he realizes it does not bother him. Much better, he says. I think I’m going to be fine.

Accident Prone pt 2

2006-03-24T16:43:00.000-07:00

Bill is better than fine. He’s amazing. His toast is not toast, but sliced and buttered ecstasy. His co-workers fret, but his smile will not fade. He powers through the reports and writes reports about powering through. Mr. Phillips answers his production by giving him more to do, but Bill eats it all and then asks for seconds, thirds. The copier jams, the printer breaks, the company will no longer provide free bagels. His co-workers choke, but Bill swallows these everyday atrocities with the greatest of ease. Every second is prepared by God himself, and every day leaves Bill licking his lips for more.

Until a Friday five months later when Bill is chewing on a jammed fax machine. As he battles with the beige little box his life suddenly goes flat as old bubble gum. He can chew and chew, but it’s only exercise. The flavor’s all drained out.

He frets for a moment that it’s gone, but he knows how to get it back, and at the very least, there is comfort in knowing. He gnaws through the rest of the day, then sets out to rescue himself again.

For three tasteless nights he works in his front yard and his back. Death is simply a condiment, Bill says as he cuts a sheet of plywood in half. Smeared over one’s life it can make any day and any task not only palatable, but amazing. Bill’s joy is living on borrowed time, stealing days and then sucking them dry. It’s like gambling with the casino’s money, he thinks while taking a careful measurement. Days that are given, that aren’t earned, that are free to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, these days are worthless. They get scattered, get lost, fall behind the bookcase and end up not being worth going after. Bill can suffer these days no longer.

He looks at the ramp in his front yard and the ramp in his back yard and he imagines how tomorrow will taste. Knowing the ingredient that’s gone missing from his life, Bill plans to grab himself a sizeable quantity in the hopes it will last a while, if not forever. He considers the setup and tries to decide if it will do the trick. It looks dangerous to be sure, but Bill wants this to be the last time such measures are called for, so he ups the ante and loosens all the bolts on the landing ramp before retiring to bed.

The next evening, with chunks of an awful day still poking at his insides, Bill heads for home. But instead of calmly pulling into his driveway and heading in to catch his program, Bill stands on the gas and aims for the ramp.

Neighbors pause as they gather their mail and wonder what Bill could be up to.

Where you headed Bill, says Mrs. Johnson as Bill careens toward the end of the ramp.

Backyard, he says as he whizzes by.

The car whumps! against the launch ramp and then suddenly he’s airborne. Cotton candy air begins to scream through the windows and Bill drinks it in with abandon as the car drifts over the roof and toward the backyard. He realizes now how afraid he is, how much he does not want to die, and how alive that makes him feel. The car’s metal creaks a complaint about the sky, and groans with desire to rejoin the ground. It tips ever forward as the landing ramp rushes toward the windshield. Bill gulps down one more sugary breath and hopes it will not be his last. The rubber squeaks. The ramp collapses. Darkness descends.

***

Sugar, you’re getting to be a regular around here. And that’s not a good thing.

Bill stares into her impossibly blue eyes. The moment is so juicy he can feel it run down his chin.

***

Sadly, the flavor doesn’t last forever. In fact, Bill has barely gotten his latest casts removed when a mere flat tire takes all Bill’s favorite colors and turns them gray. His toast? Cardboard. Bill’s hopes for a permanent solution are dashed. The first accident tided him over for nearly half a year. His latest stunt proves tasty for barely two months. Bigger is not better, Bill sadly proclaims. Any old disaster will do. When he gets to work, he hurls himself down the stairs.

***

For a while every fall earns him a month or so of scrumptious days. Then he’s running out by the end of every week and spending Saturdays in the emergency room getting a meal ticket for the next. Then suddenly he can’t make it past Wednesday, and he’s spending almost as much time in the hospital as out.

His co-workers say he’s accident prone. They take away his scissors and bolt down his chair. They insist he avoid the stairs and use the elevator at all times, though no one dares to ride with him. Mr. Phillips doesn’t care. Whatever Bill does, he keeps coming to work with a grin, and chowing down on reports like a starving animal. Bill produces with such vigor the company awards him an Atlantic cruise to say thanks. His co-workers stare at him with disdain, unable to suffer his smile.

Eventually the office is sealed up tight, the sharp corners on everything covered over in thick foam padding. Bill can bounce from office to office like a bumper car in a rubber room and never do himself the slightest harm.

So when he’s out on his lunch break and discovers his soup no longer tastes different than his spoon, he shoots over to the zoo and hops into the lion’s den. When he recovers he feels so fantastic he goes back. But when he falls in the tiger pit, the shark tank, and the snake house all in the same week, the keepers get suspicious. Bill is banned from the zoo.

He crashes his cars, he chews his power lines, and between brushes with death feels invincibly alive. He’s dropped by all but one insurance carrier who calls to say they’re raising his rates yet again.

You realize we have no choice. You’re heading to the hospital several times a week. Frankly, your premium’s going to skyrocket.

Bill’s bruised and battered face breaks into a smile. That’s the price of fine dining.

He savors the crumbs of every day and dreams of taking bullets in his sleep. He sees himself dancing among landmines, and falling from the sky, and then he wakes up and cries as he eats his criminally fantastic toast.

Bill’s life is a heavenly buffet sprinkled with bites of searing pain and recurring lapses into darkness.

***

And after the darkness, she’s always there, the chocolate nurse to welcome him back to the world of taste and color, health and well-being. But this time she’s not alone. Another person, her eyes sweet and kiwi green, is looking into his bed reflecting his own broken jaw smile.

Sugar, I told you you couldn’t keep going on like this.

The other woman leans in. How do you feel, Bill?

Amazing.

Are you aware you’ve made hundreds of visits to the hospital in the last six months?

Yes, he smiles.

Are you trying to kill yourself?

Of course not. I’m elated to be alive.

How do you explain all the accidents?

Just throwing myself slightly painful life preservers.

It sounds like you might be depressed.

Not anymore.

There are other ways to deal with depression. Have you tried watching TV?

I’m fine. This is healthy. It’s natural. Death and danger are part of life. I just wasn’t getting my share. I’m eating a balanced diet now, and I feel great.

You’ve nearly died on numerous occasions.

I’ve broken every bone in my body in order to appreciate the incredible taste of my toast, and I’d gladly do it again.

That’s an awfully extreme view. Life isn’t sustainable at the extremes, Bill. It’s like the globe, you have to live somewhere in the middle.

Her kiwi eyes turn to the chocolate nurse and she nods. The nurse raises a syringe and adds its contents to Bill’s IV.

I warned you, sugar. Her teeth are still glowing white, but her eyes seem filled with sadness.

Blackness swallows him.

***

Bill’s scissors are returned. His chair is unbolted. He’s encouraged now to make full use of the stairs. Bill is no longer a danger to himself. He’d need to care to be dangerous, and Bill’s medication prevents him from caring in the least. Taste is not important. Color is a useless luxury. As long as Bill swallows his pill each day he can eat dirt and razor blades without mustering the energy to even dream of chocolate and steak. Bill is cured. His co-workers are glad to have him back. His insurance company is pleased to see he’s come around.

Only Mr. Phillips misses the old Bill, who despite his mental issues, displayed unparalleled zest for reports. Bill’s medicated production has declined drastically, and though it seems wrong, Mr. Phillips can’t think of a workable reason to prevent the new Bill from taking the cruise the old Bill so richly deserved. He does the only thing he can and demands Bill write, process, and file a report on the adventure.

No problem, Bill says without looking up from his desk.

***

Somewhere in Utah a delivery man decides he’s tired of Spam flavored days spent delivering packages and drives his truck full of wares down to Mexico and starts an all-percussion band. None of them can afford drums, so they start to play the boxes that will never reach their destinations.

Bill is in the middle of laying out his clothes for the cruise when he realizes his box of medication has failed to arrive. I’ll probably run out, he thinks, but I guess it’s not important. Bill’s now an expert at not caring one way or the other.

***

The ship made of plastic sails a sea of tofu waves. Bill wanders from deck to deck, consuming meals and shows and games of shuffleboard and pinochle, and he manages to do it all without caring in the least. He chews on the scenery, the water and the sky, without so much as a thought about its taste. He retires to his room, which could just as easily be a broom closet, Bill wouldn’t be able to tell.

Just as Bill begins another Styrofoam day at sea, he discovers he’s run out of pills. Oh well, he says. I guess that’s the end of that.

But as the day moves west, a haze begins to lift, and by the time the sun has faded, Bill’s memory is clear. He looks around him like he’s just remembered he has eyes. There’s color under dust, hidden flavor for those who dare to taste. He looks longingly at a heavy lifeboat that seems to be hanging by a thread, offering to crush him with pleasure. His mouth begins to water as he spots a plate glass window ready to splinter into deadly shards. He’s hungry for the moment, starved for lost time, and takes a step in the window’s direction when a painful realization stops him dead in his tracks.

The chocolate nurse is no longer his friend, and on the other side of darkness his menu will never change. He feels completely hollow. His life cannot be eaten and the only hope he’s offered is to chemically not care. She’ll only start the pills again, Bill thinks, and probably up his dose. He turns his back on the window and moves away from the dangling boat.

Defeated, he wanders to the top of the ship and stares into a darkened ocean he longs to taste. He watches the ship cut the water far beneath him and from the classroom in his mind, an idea raises its hand. Maybe I just won’t go back, he says with a hopeful breath.

He judges the distance below him. A solid seventy feet. A long trip, a few tasty seconds at the least. He steps closer to the rail and looks around to confirm he’s alone. He considers the bargain as he raises himself up, one last feast or a lifetime of flavorless gum. It takes less than a second to decide, and he’s hurtling through a candied breeze and into the delicious darkness below.

***

He expects the blackness, but not for it to move. His limbs flail in delirious confusion, pushing at the darkness all around, until his head breaks the surface and he finds himself floating on an ocean of fudge. Pillow mint stars start to twinkle in the sky and he looks left to see the boat pressing on, hundreds of whipped cream waves cresting in its wake.

This ocean is fucking amazing, he screams and he sucks it in with every pore. He floats on the fudge and smiles to the sky until the boat is just a sprinkle on the horizon. It’s quiet, and Bill’s alone, as alive as he can remember being. There’s a delectable heaviness in his arms, a tasty burn in Bill’s lungs. Minutes pass in ecstasy until Bill starts to gain weight from the feast. His head dips under the fudge in ever lengthening doses before resurfacing to drink in the night. Somewhere in his mind he knows he’s getting heavier, but it all tastes too good to stop. He melts into the fudge again and considers staying below. His heart cries out for one more slice of sky.

He breaks the surface once again and swallows all that he can see. His body is extremely heavy. Bill is getting full. Then suddenly, on the horizon, he thinks he sees an island. An island with snakes and spiders, cliffs and lava, and if he’s lucky a helping of natives with spears. It’s ten miles away. Twenty at most. Right over there. Wait. No. Over there. It seems to keep moving, jumping left then right. He can’t be sure.

It’s okay, Bill says with confident glee. I’ll find it.

He takes one last nibble of the world above the fudge, and then lowers himself beneath its chocolaty surface. With an indelible grin, he pulls his weary arms through the dark, and begins the swim for shore.

People You Like Which Makes It Hard For MeTo Have A Relationship With You

2006-03-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

Nancy Grace

Russell Crowe

The Simpson Sisters

Your Ex-Boyfriend

Your Mother

Dr. Phil

Tyra Banks

Yanni

Young Professionals Seeking 'Parental' Arrangement With Promising Youth

2006-03-20T14:40:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wished for a different set of parents? A better bred, more successful, and wealthier set of parents? Well, this may be the opportunity you've been looking for.

My wife and I are in our early forties and at dinner the other evening it occurred to us that we'd forgotten to have children. Now, certainly it's not too late, but in discussing the matter further we felt that there were just too many down sides to doing things the 'traditional' way. Crying, for one, is something that neither of us can really tolerate. Also, we're big fans of being able to control and manage your own bowel functions. And those pictures of kids with food smeared all over their faces that everyone thinks are cute, well, that simply wouldn't play at the places we eat.

So we've decided to adopt. My wife is a busy physician and I've just made partner at my law firm, so we don't have a lot of time to sit around coddling a youngster, going to school plays, baseball games, etc. In fact, we've pretty much ruled out anyone who's pre-teen (though if you happen to be a child prodigy in something or maybe Dakota Fanning then you're welcome to at least send a resume). The teen years seem formative and a good place to start, but they're also a time of significant rebellion and we really aren't looking to take anyone on just so they can start hating us and throwing parties that piss off the co-op. We have a house staff for that.

What we're really after is a high school graduate, or possibly a university freshman. My wife is quite insistent that you'd need to be headed to Harvard or Yale. I think that's elitist and am willing to open it up to any of the Ivy League schools. NO STANFORD.

In addition, we'd have to insist that you be getting a useful degree from one of these universities. Unless you can convince us that you're going to make it your life's ambition to teach at the very school you attend then we'll have to say no all English and most -ology degree seekers (unless that's biology and you're willing to take it to med school). In short, we really see ourselves as the parents of another doctor, lawyer, or businessperson, though, again, we're flexible when it comes to prodigies.

Appearance is also a key concern. My wife and I are very attractive and we think our offspring should be too. We're looking for a head turner with perfect teeth, straight hair, nice eyes, and a well toned build. Obviously, you should have complete control of your diet and not be struggling to hold yourself at a presentable weight before you inevitably balloon to your actual size (see Britney Spears). We're not fans of anorexia, but if you meet all the other qualifications, we can discuss it.

Should you meet all the requirements and actually be chosen to join our family, we would have to insist that you not only change your name (your whole name, not just the last name. My wife is really hoping to have an Anna Beth. I like Tessa. Boys we haven't sorted out.) but also cease all contact with your former family. Otherwise, the whole thing would just be weird. Going forward, you'd need to refer to my wife as 'Mother' and me as 'Father' (actually, I know it's cliché and my wife hates the idea, but I would LOVE it if you called me 'Pop'). Also, we don't necessarily plan to tell anyone that you're adopted. You might think our friends would find it suspicious that we were suddenly joined by a child nearing twenty, but with proper boarding schools and nannies most people we know don't really see their kids until around that age. We're pretty sure a few of them have gone this route themselves.

What you'll get is a pair of loving and cultured parents who are willing to dedicate themselves to seeing you become a proper and envied member of society who will carry on the family name without crying or making a mess. Our pool of resources, both financial and otherwise, is vast, and to the lucky applicant will likely be quite a boon. So if you're a young, attractive, brilliant, ambitious, Ivy League student with no interest in useless degrees (English) then please send a photo (full body, we don't want any surprises) and resume. We hope to send the stork (our Gulfstream 14 passenger jet) to bring our child home for Christmas. Will you be the hit of our tastefully decadent soiree? There's only one way to find out. Apply today.

Your new (better) Mother and Father (Pop) await.

Editor's Note - Reprints

2006-03-16T17:23:00.000-07:00

[ed. note - a very small number of people have asked for copies of some previous publications that were not also made avaliable online. While I always suggest supporting the journals that lack the good judgement to avoid my materials they are often only easily avaliable to a regional audience and, not having read a lot of literary journals, many of us are reluctant to seek them out. So over the next however long I'll make avaliable some of the few pieces that were not or are no longer avaliable online as well as in print, likely reassuring most of you that not buying literary journals has not deprived you of anything worthwhile.]

Missing - Reprinted From One Last Carcrash

2006-03-16T17:18:00.000-07:00

Only during my fourth or fifth shower of the day do I really become alarmed. Only then do I realize I've in fact lost my mind.

Early on, when I was never worried about the location of my mind, when I was confident it would always be in the last place I left it, I didn't take so many showers. Usually just to get clean, maybe one a day. If I didn't smell, maybe I'd skip.

But ever since I noticed my brain was missing I've been returning to the shower like the scene of a crime, the last place I remember seeing a good friend before he disappeared. It's my fourth or fifth shower today, and I'm confident it's really gone. It's my fourth or fifth shower of the day. Without my brain I can't be sure.

When I had my brain I often used it to think. Sometimes without even trying even. When I had my brain I could think inside, or out, awake or asleep, shaken or stirred. I would think about Mars. I would think about blue. I could think about almost anything you could think of. But more and more frequently I would go seeking my mind and discover he was not at home. More and more the only place I could be assured I would find him was in the shower. Something about being naked and wet. Something about overpaying for the apartment but getting my revenge by using tons of piping hot free water. Even as we saw less and less of each other around, I could always find my mind in the shower, right between the shampoo and the soap. Then it would be like always, the water falling on my back like applause as we were reunited. Now it's just rain that pounds on an empty doghouse with this hollow sound that makes you question the quality of the materials from which the house is constructed. The dog is gone. The dog is dead. We remember him. In general, what he looked like, how he had a particular dog smile, how he chewed the leg of the table, but no one is exactly sure when he died. He just very quietly slipped away until we looked and he was gone. It was spring we think. Probably a weekday.

I dry myself off and wonder what it will be like without my brain. Though I cannot think, I still seem to remember things, to know things. I know useless things and important things. I know Curt Shilling's ERA. I know my high school locker combination. I know light is somehow both particles and waves. I know what fatuous means. I will have no new thoughts. I must content myself with the things I already know, sift through the file cabinet of someone who's died, keep wandering the same party with a smile, though no one new ever shows up.

Suddenly I'm afraid. How will I get along? How long will I be able to survive without my old friend? I go to work terrified. I walk the streets in a panic. Everyone can see the for rent sign behind my eyes. I will be overwhelmed. I will be abused. I will be lost.

But my fears turn out to be largely exaggerated. My mind is hardly missed. What I know is sufficient to do my job, and it occurs to me no one there was ever very interested in what I thought anyway. People ask questions. Hot one, eh? How about that game? Doesn't this coffee taste like shit? I simply answer yes and this seems to satisfy them. At some point someone asks, have you lost your mind? Yes I say, but he just laughs and pats me on the back. At parties I take all the things I remember and put them in new clothes and always they pass for original thoughts. Labels prove helpful. They prevent me from drinking bleach, and putting glue in my eyes, and mixing my darks and lights. Signs are lifesavers as well, reminding which streets are one way, where not to enter, which beer makes me sexiest and which toothpaste will save the world.

When I used to think, I would write things down. I'd be so busy thinking, my mind so productive, I'd have to move thoughts to paper to clear some space. Now I can only write lists. Lists of things I used to think about. Things I wish I could consider. Things I already know. Sometimes I type the lists after I've written them. This makes them seem more important, more like thoughts. Sometimes I take a bunch of typed lists and make a stack. Some stacks go in files. All files go in a cabinet. The cabinet gets full and sometimes when I look at it in the afternoon, when the light is a bottle of scotch spilled on everything, the cabinet reminds me of my old brain. If my brain were here, we'd agree the cabinet is really empty.

Occasionally I wander the empty cave where my brain used to be and I try to remember what my last thought might have been about. Some days I remember it being about tow trucks. Others it seems it was about flight attendants. It makes me sad that I don't know, like not remembering someone's last words.

There are some side effects. Movies tend to confuse me. I often repeat myself. And for some reason now everything tastes like bacon. It takes a little getting used to. My first bacon banana is a real eye opener. I no longer order bacon and eggs, as it seems redundant. Just eggs. Scrambled.

Mostly, my life hardly changes at all. If I'm tired or bored or lonely, there's sleep or radio or television. In time I almost forget to remember that things were ever any different. In time, the missing posters fade, loosen from the telephone poles, and blow away. The milk expires, the cartons find themselves entombed in landfills, and the little picture of my mind along with the pleas for information about it's whereabouts slowly degrade into the Earth. Eventually I shower only once a day again, and just to get clean. If I don't smell, sometimes I skip.

Tax Tips

2006-03-15T10:24:00.000-07:00

1. If You Ate It, It's deductible - A lot of people miss this. Income is what you make after expenses. Some people will tell you that you can only expense food and meals that you consume in your capacity as a businessperson. But logic dictates that if you only ate when you were working then you'd starve and die. Your dinner out with friends, the beer and dog at the game, the 3am extra large supreme pizza that you binge and purge because you're fat and no one loves you, these are the meals that sustain you and make it possible for you to go to work in the first place. Without them you wouldn't have the strength to get that phone to your ear and put that person on hold while you contemplate how long you could lie dead in your cubicle before someone discovered your body. In short, food is what makes you the important asset to the workforce that you are. A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, but all of it comes off your taxes.

2. Receipts? Who Keeps Receipts? - Only losers and pack-rats keep receipts. The rest of us dispose of them immediately in the hopes that they'll be recycled or returned to the Earth. Some people see this love of nature as presenting a problem come tax time. How do you know how much to deduct for all the food you ate and cars you gave to charity? The answer is to 'guesstimate'. This is an estimation that's also a guess. The IRS frowns on guesses and estimations and prefers exactness. So when you guess, try to avoid round numbers. Real numbers are not usually round and the IRS has computers to watch out for them. Try sharp and unruly numbers like sevens and especially thirteens which are haunted and will usually scare the computers away. Also, use those decimal places. Anyone who can remember what they spent down to the decimal place can't possibly be lying.

3. A Lot Of People Depend On You - What would happen if you didn't come in to work tomorrow? Probably nothing. But eventually you'd have to be replaced, either by a machine or some sort of trained mammal, possibly a German Shepard or a monkey. And what about the crazy guy on the corner who calls you Jim and offers to sell you his left foot everyday? He'd be forced to find a new Jim and flip him off. All these people (or animals) depend on you. And as dependents, they qualify you for some quality deductions. While there may be any number of people who are dependent on you, claiming more than eight often raises eyebrows. Also, if you forgot to claim them last year, start with a small number, one or two. And try to give them trendy names, like Caden and Briana that lend credibility to the idea that they just joined you in the last year. And never mention that any of your dependents might be monkeys. The IRS has a thing about monkeys.

4. Appropriate - It hardly seems fair that you do all the work generating the tax dollars and don't get a say in how it's spent. So make use of the memo section on your check to give suggestions as to how you'd like your tax dollars spent, such as: Not for use on statues or Alaskan bridges, or Please put this in the crater sized pothole on I-10. This is also a good place to have a little fun. Remember, in addition to computers that are afraid of the number thirteen, your return is being read by people in cubicles who probably think about suicide as often as you. So fun notes like: Don't spend it all in one place, or Buy yourself something nice, can really brighten someone's day.

5. Audit Starts With A - And so does Arson. And in the inevitable event that you're audited you'll want to remember that relationship. Burning down you home and all your 'records' is your best defense against any sort of investigation, be it the IRS or some other agency. Always take precautions to get pets and dependents out of the house as they will come in handy on future tax returns. As for your food, let it burn. You can rebuy it all and deduct it later along with whatever you spent on the gasoline or other combustibles you used in your audit defense.

Report Card Comments From The Straight Talking Coach Regarding Your Son Chuck's Football Prospects

2006-03-13T14:34:00.000-07:00

Mr. and Mrs. Garman,

Honestly, I don't think Charles is a football player (he says that you guys prefer people call him Chuck, but he likes Charles and in this case I think he's onto something). He's explained to me how adamant you both were about getting him into football, and I can appreciate your enthusiasm. Charles has indeed tried very hard, but I don't think this is his game.

I've tried putting him in any number of positions. We noticed he had a tendency to run on his tip toes, almost prancing if you will, so we tried him at wide receiver. However, he tended to bat the ball away from him rather than drawing it in like we'd want a receiver to do. When the ball did hit him in the chest it tended to take him down and sideline him for a good ten minutes.

As a blocker he tends to confuse the word 'hit' with the word 'slap' which might have worked in Rosie Grier's day, but today it's not only illegal, Charles is far from being the next Rosie. Far.

As a running back he is indeed good at eluding defenders, but he tends to run backwards in order to avoid them. Since the object is to advance the ball, this sort of defeats the purpose. When defenders do get close he often throws the ball at them in a last ditch effort to stop their charge. Again, effective, but counterproductive.

As a quarterback, he routinely engaged the huddle in lengthy and meandering discussion, often about the attitudes of boys playing defense or the way his teammates were failing to wear their uniforms properly. I'm told that he used the word 'tacky' often in these discussions.

When I've asked Charles why specifically he came out for our sport, he said that mom and dad wanted me to 'turn him into a football player'. When I asked if there was anything he personally liked about the game he said that he did enjoy the 'pageantry' but that he felt the school's colors were 'hideous'.

So this is what I have to say to you as parents. Honestly, I can teach anyone to play football, but years of experience have taught me that I can not 'make' them a football player. Charles is a great kid with lots of energy and ideas. After he was injured by a pass that hit him in the hands we made him a manager for a week and things in the locker room have never run more smoothly. He also rearranged our coaching office and I can't tell you how much easier my job has been now that I can actually find the things I need.

I've been told that I could be sued for suggesting other athletic activities like ballet, figure skating, aerobics, or possibly even tennis, that I think might be more appropriate for Charles. So I won't suggest any of those things. What I will suggest is that you have a long conversation with the boy, and yourselves, and think about just how hard to you want to try to make Charles into Chuck. In my opinion, Charles is a crap football player, but a hell of a kid. I have no idea how Chuck would turn out.

Coach

Please Stop Using My Name

2006-03-10T15:58:00.000-07:00

Dear Sir,

I wanted to write you to ask that you please stop using my name on your site. My name is the same as your name and I am also a writer. But I don't really like your stories or the way you talk about things. You do not make things sound pretty or nice which is what I do. I think you might be a little mean. Anyway, when people search for my name they find your name, which is my name, and they are finding your stories because you have a lot of them, and not my stories, which also there are alot of, but all at one place, not in lots of different places which I guess is how you get your name high up in the searches.

You probably have another name that you could use, either a middle name or a different one that you always wanted. Did you know that Mark Twain was really named something else? So you could be a Mark Twain and still write your not pretty not nice little stories. Or just use your initials.

Earlier this year there was a man in the south who was old and went to jail for killing black people or for burning churches down and he had a name like ours and that was upsetting too because when you searched for my name (also I guess for your name) then you got stories about this very mean old man and my stories were way down the list. I wrote to several of the reporters and asked that they not use his name in so many pieces, and most of them seem to have stopped writing about him at this point and his name is down the list in the searches, so it's really just you and me who need to work out the rest.

Also, you may think I could become Mark Twain, but I am older than you and had our name before you and have been writing better stories for longer, so I think I should get to keep our name and you are the one who should move out. If you don't want to move off your name, then that is okay, as long as you stop writing. Either way.

Thank you very much.

K.y*l$e K,i;l:l'e?n
(I had to write my name like that because I don't want the search engines to see it and point to this email because it is not part of my page that I am trying to move up)

Celebrity Death Pool: Long Odds Items

2006-03-07T06:55:00.000-07:00

Dionne Warwick trampled by hippies - 50 to 1

Don Rickles fatally struck by frisbee with his picture on it - 10,000 to 1

Elton John fails to heed the following warning in his new Baby Grand Piano: Thank you for purchasing this Baby Grand Piano. Do not load this Baby Grand Piano with bread or butter. Doing so may result in serious injury or death. - 50,000 to 1

Dick Cheney gives stirring eulogy at Dionne Warwick's funeral, declares undying love, jumps on casket, is buried alive - 1,000,000 to 1

Ashley Simpson falls from stacks while getting book at library - 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 to 1

Acceptance Speech I Would Have Given Had I Been Nominated And Then Won An Oscar This Sunday

2006-03-01T13:12:00.000-07:00

I'd like to begin by thanking my fellow attractive and politically aware celebrities. With any luck we'll soon end all of the world's problems by making movies. First and foremost I know many of you join me in calling for the end to the many abuses to animals, including medical research and domestication and, God willing, we'll soon be able to live in a world where both cows and cancer are allowed to roam free.

Prior to winning I was prepared to talk about how just being nominated was an honor. But now that I've won I see that winning is the only real honor and being nominated is much like making it to the Superbowl only to lose the big game, something I experienced earlier this year when I secured tickets to the big game but was unable to convince either team to let me play. The feeling I had as I watched the clock tick down and realized that I would not get to hoist the trophy over my head is one that haunts me to this day.

A lot of people told me that I'd never get up here. You may have seen some of them trying to wrestle me to the ground just moments ago. But clearly I was more determined than those people, and also willing to coat myself in Crisco so that I could elude their grip and claim what's mine. It's that same determination that will allow me to escape the gaggle of police officers gathered at the edge of the stage and to someday scratch off the name engraved on this statue and replace it with my own.

It's become standard to thank a whole list of people in these situations, agents, managers, cast, crew, and family. As I'm told every time I call their offices, my agents and managers all died and are buried in unmarked graves in other countries. Regardless, there's really no need to acknowledge their contributions. As for the cast and crew, it's been some ride, eh guys? I know many of you doubted my vision and abilities, and found some of my habits (covering each of you in Crisco daily) somewhat off putting. But here we are, or more specifically, here I am, up here, and there you are, down there. Who belongs in an institution now? As for my family, let me repeat that last question, Who belongs in an institution now?

Well, I hear the orchestra and I've noticed several of those laser aiming dots on my body, so I'll wrap up. In summary, this has been a real honor, and I'd simply like to tell all of you at home to never give up. With a little focus, effort, and shortening, you too can hoist one of these naked golden men in your greasy hand and finally know what it means to truly be alive.

Title Bout

2006-02-27T13:27:00.000-07:00

Challenger: You
Dominant Hand: Right
Jab: Weak/Kitten Like
Record: No Victories
Vitals: Age - 30's
Weight - Less than a sedan
Allergic to Ragweed
Notable Opponents: Acne, Calculus (both matches declared a draw)
Likes: Beavers, Lasers
Dislikes: Portuguese Cars

Champion: The World
Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous
Jab: Lethal
Record: Undefeated
Vitals: Age - 4.5 billion years
Weight: 6,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 kilograms
Molten Iron Core
Notable Opponents: Dinosaurs, Parachute Pants
Likes: Beavers, Lasers
Dislikes: Comets, Greenhouse Gas

Tale of the Tape: The challenger has not fared well in these matches up to now and has shown a propensity for getting tangled up in the ropes. He says he doesn't expect to win, but would like to at least land a couple punches. The champion has a history of hitting below the belt and finishing opponents quickly. Look for him to make short work of it yet again in order to be home in time for Friends reruns. Regardless of the outcome, look for a rematch again next Monday as this seemingly endless series of battles shows no sign of slowing down.

PSL Has Been Hit By Laziness

2006-02-24T17:07:00.000-07:00

Paper Sack Lifetime is currently traveling and has come down with a serious case of laziness that is common to this region. Although attempts to vaccinate ahead of time we made, PSL was none the less infected. Doctors have urged aggressive treatment including caffeinated beverages and electrical shock, but thus far this has only resulted in an urgent need to use the bathroom and an increasingly deep fear of metal objects.

Having come down with laziness and seeing the people of this region who have also been afflicted with this serious disease, PSL would thinks it's time to call for action. While this particular case of laziness will hopefully lift within a week, it remains a chronic problem for millions worldwide. By banding together to attack the problem at its root (the daytime television and comfy couch industry) we could see a significant decline in laziness levels in our lifetime.

In any case, PSL hopes to return to form very soon and apologizes for an inconvenience you may have experience as a result of our sitting around and doing nothing.

Daily Time Management Briefing

2006-02-22T11:01:00.000-07:00

Look, I'm not going to waste a lot of time on this. Time has already been wasted on all the other aspects of this project, so I won't waste it here. You may not be aware of it, and judging by your performance, you're not, but our time is valuable. We once did a calculation, a lengthy and time consuming calculation if you must know, and we determined that every second is worth approximately one Starbucks Skinny Grande Vanilla Mocha Latte. So every second I spend talking to you is like dumping one of those on the ground. I respect this company, and coffee, and the Guatemalans, or whoever make the coffee, too much to do that.

So let me get right to the point by saying that time is of the essence here people. I can't stress that enough. These things don't build themselves. And yet every day I have to come down here and spend an hour, maybe two, explaining to you how valuable time is, and how we need to be making better use of it. Do you think I like giving these speeches? Do you think I like dumping coffee on the ground? But every day I come down here and give a longer speech about the utter importance of time and everyday you people get less done. The only conclusion I can draw is that I'm simply not getting through to you. So let's find our seats, someone turn on the projector, and let's get going. This is probably going to be a long one. Hey! Hey! You in the back. What are you doing? No working during the presentation. I'm here to teach you how to get more done. I can't do that if you're working.

Unpopular Party Games

2006-02-17T00:19:00.000-07:00

Trivial Pursuit - Periodic Table Edition

Tattoo Pictionary

Carpet Cleaning Races

Pin The Flaming Tail On The Flammable Donkey

Dr. Phil's Funtime Therapy Session

Home Dentistry Olympics

When Did This Expire?

Put On Additional Clothes Poker

Monopoly

Bluebeard Answers Your Financial Questions

2006-02-15T18:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Bluebeard,
What do you think a good ratio of equities to bonds would be given the current market?

Looks to Bluebeard like stocks are still walking the plank. But the yield curve has me worried about bonds as well. I'd diversify into the precious metals; gold, silver, maybe look at jewels as well. Call Bluebeard old fashioned, but I still like assets I can keep in a chest. Arrrrr.

Dear Bluebeard,
Is it time to sell my shares of Google?

Me thinks Google's near to havin' a mutiny on her hands. I've been on ships where you're suddenly so flush with treasure that everyone's got an idea how to spend it. "Bluebeard, let's get out own 'pirate island'." "Bluebeard, let's all get hooks made out of gold." "Let's build a space elevator, Bluebeard." In my experience, when you've got that kind of cash, the only source of sound advice is the parrot on your shoulder. I don't see a lot of parrots at Google. Sell the scurvy dog.

Dear Bluebeard,
I'm facing an audit. I don't think I did anything wrong, but should I get representation anyway?

Never face the IRS without at least a dozen good men. How do you think Bluebeard ended up with this hook?

Dear Bluebeard,
What's you opinion on the housing market? Is this a bubble?

It's a bubble as sure as Bluebeard's the saltiest dog in the seven seas, and I'd say she's about to pop. Bluebeard says sell your overvalued heap while you can and get into something more mobile, maybe one of those swanky Airstreams like Will Smith has. Load up ten or twenty trusted hands, a couple good wenches, and hit the road. For the next few years the only money in houses is going to be made the old fashioned way. Pillaging other people's. Arrr.

The True Story Of Valentine’s Day

2006-02-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

Often men who are too lazy, cheap, and possibly drunk to get a Valentine's day present for their significant other will accuse it of being a 'Hallmark' holiday, designed only to force individuals into spending millions on useless trinkets in order to prove their love. These men tend to be shifty and should not be trusted around valuables or sharp objects, but on this issue they are absolutely correct. Valentine's day is a Hallmark holiday.

But before Hallmark was a global corporation bent on enslaving us all, it was a man, a man named John Hallmark, who dreamed of a Utopian society where money was made of chocolate and people communicated via humorous or sentimental quips written on slips of paper which he called 'cards'.

In 1812 Hallmark secured a large tract of land in what's now Idaho and invited otherd to join him in this promised land. But after a fantastic beginning Hallmark's utopia ran into problems. A wave of tooth decay swept the settlement leading to the decimation of the local beaver population, as people sought replacement 'choppers'. As teeth became harder and harder to find their value skyrocketed, and villagers over-farmed the land in an effort to scrape together enough chocolate to buy the prized 'beaver dentures'. Panicked residents began speculating at a frenzied pace about the future of the settlement, and their constant communication led to the deforestation of the area as trees were turned into cards at a breakneck pace.

In 1815 Hallmark received a Ziggy card (originally developed by a settlement member) from one of his deputies which showed Ziggy's pockets inside out and Uncle Sam standing over him with a baseball bat. Hallmark quickly gathered that the government had denied his group's tax exempt status and meant to collect on the years of back chocolate taxes he now owed.

Ironically, the threat brought the settlers together, who under Hallmark's direction decided that they would not fight the government, but defeat it with the love and kindness that had been the cornerstone of Hallmark's original vision. As the government threatened them with legal and then military action, Hallmark's settlers prepared to face their enemies not with weapons, but with adorable stuffed bears made from excess beaver pelts, as well as nifty arrangements of local flowers, remaining stores of chocolate, and the best cards that locals could create (Garfield and Peanuts characters were created just for this conflict).

Sadly, on Fetheuary 14^th, 1815 the settlement was invaded by government troops led by General Teddy St. Valentine. They quickly slaughtered the stuffed bear and flower wielding locals and the bears (which thereafter became knows as Teddy bears in honor of the man who had captured them), chocolates, and flower arrangements that were not destroyed in battle were then auctioned off to cover the town's tax debt.

The auction was so successful that the government decided to make it an annual fundraising event under the auspices of the Department of Defense, which began to open Hallmark stores around the country to auction off items on February 14^th. The success of this holiday led directly to the rise of what's now known as the military-industrial complex. Original Hallmark stores sold guns and ammunition along side the flowers and cards, but later the stores were spun off from the Defense Department and their offerings were pared back to those gifts we associate with the occasion today.

So indeed, those drunken, lazy boyfriends that make up a large part of society today are correct, this is a Hallmark holiday. But now that you know the truth you can see that it's about more than just chocolate, flowers, and military might.

It's also about beavers. All too often that gets overlooked.

Standard Celebrity Marriage Contract Rider

2006-02-10T00:33:00.000-07:00

1. Till death do us part is understood by both parties to mean 'at least several weeks, give or take'.

2. Marriage will be dissolved should one party change their appearance substantially (also known as 'hitting the wall').

3. Marriages that result in some sort of fusion of the couple's first names (i.e. Benifer) will be dissolved as soon as the fused term fails to appear on the cover of any supermarket periodical (tabloid) for a period of nine days.

4. Marriage will be dissolved should either party turn out to be gay. However, if rumors of homosexuality persist without actual proof neither party is allowed to dissolve the marriage without A) finding a suitable replacement for themselves before dissolution or B) providing the other party with an offspring so as to attest to heterosexual tendencies.

5. Marriage will be dissolved should the distance between the two individuals 'lists' ever become more than a single letter grade (i.e. A list and C list). One party being unlisted is grounds for annulment.

6. Marriage will be dissolved should either party find themselves shooting a film with an attractive and available member of the opposite sex.

7. Should the parties decide to separate, they will do so only after making a sufficient number of vows through the media that they are absolutely not separating.

8. Any offspring produced by the married couple will be given obtuse, annoying, or blatantly misspelled names.

9. Divorce proceedings, when they arise, will be handled in a public manner, with disclosures made about the violent, drunken, and/or emotionally destructive actions of each party. Any sex tapes will be auctioned off with proceeds going towards legal fees.

10. Marriage will be dissolved should the bride reach the age of 30.

Little Known Presidential Tattoos - George Washington (1st In A Series)

2006-02-08T00:42:00.000-07:00

George Washington - Not only was George Washington the first president of our country (and noted train engineer) he also invented the tattoo. Due to the abysmal state of science and medicine in colonial America, ink was widely believed to have magical and curative properties. In addition to its use in writing letters and very fancy looking grocery shopping lists, ink was also spread on crops (to induce growth), poured on cats (to induce levitation), and baked into pastries (to induce blueberry muffins). Also, at Washington's suggestion, it was poured on open wounds, which, when healed, retained the ink in the form of a tattoo (originally referred to as a 'cat levitation juice mark' but later shortened for convenience).

Most of Washington's tattoos, which resulted from the treatment of his numerous battle wounds, are well known thanks to the US Post Office stamp series 'Washington's Battle Derived Tattoos'. However, very few know of the tattoo on his abdomen, just to the left of his navel, which resulted from a row with a noted bayonet maker of the time named Chuck Jones.

Legend has it that Washington commissioned Jones to make him a very special bayonet to take into his final campaign in the Revolutionary War. Honored, Jones spent nearly a full year carefully honing and crafting a bayonet like no other. During this time Jones was rumored to have been drinking and inhaling vast quantities of ink (as was customary in the trade at the time) and the hallucinogenic effects may have had something to do with his ultimate design.

Finally the bayonet was complete and Jones presented it to Washington along with several blueberry muffins and an ink covered cat which was in no mood to levitate. However, far from being impressed by the intricate design and craftsmanship of the bayonet, Washington was appalled. Rather than going with the traditional 'pointy' design, Jones had sculpted the metal into a small blunt figurine which he imagined General Washington driving right through the heart of countless British officers. Washington exclaimed that the bayonet was useless and completely incapable of stabbing anyone, and as a result he refused to pay.

Upset by the criticism and perhaps eager to prove the stabbing power of his design, Jones attacked Washington, stabbing him once in the abdomen before being subdued and banished to what is now Daytona Beach, Florida where he subsisted exclusively on a diet of ink for the next century and a half before rejoining society and using his old bayonet designs in the booming field of cartoons.

His first sale was based on the very bayonet design he had shoved into President Washington, resulting in the first president's least talked about tattoo. Jones later decided to call the design 'Marvin the Martian' out of deference to the great leader (who as you're aware was known as Marvin to his friends). This design again became popular in the late 90's, though few who requested it were aware of its historical significance and all would later deeply regret having it permanently placed on their bodies.

Next time.... Bill Clinton

Five Keys To Successful Train Engineering/Piloting

2006-02-06T13:17:00.000-07:00

Trains have a long and glorious history in this country (not like in some other countries where they've gotten involved with drugs and satanic music) as do the people who sit at their helm. George Washington was a train engineer at one point, as was Dick Van Dyke, and Ted Kaczynski (aka the Unabomber). So as you add your name to this illustrious list, there's a few things you should keep in mind to assure your career is as successful as theirs were.

1. Engineers are no longer engineers, but pilots. Back in Washington's day, engineer was more descriptive of what the man at the helm of these wondrous mechanical snakes was actually up to, what with the wood and coal and boilers and such. But much of that work (thankfully) is now done by computers that are capable of shoveling coal and boiling water on their own. Your job is mostly to stay out of the way and press some buttons to begin and end the journey. This makes you a pilot. Pilots of other craft, notably airplanes, have objected to this name change, as well as our affinity for referring to one another as 'flyboys'. Most of the more raucous of their number can usually be quelled with liquor and assurances that our trains in fact have wings but that we choose not to use them because it would be too easy.

2. No sudden turns. The steering wheel was initially added as a sort of joke to weed out the less capable members of the engineering ranks. However, after years of wrecking trains and their cargo in the name of ferreting out weaker pilots, the practice has mostly been discontinued. Regardless the shape of the controls you find yourself behind, just remember that 'straight is great'. A number of engineers in the past have looked at route maps and seen opportunities for 'shortcuts', and no doubt you will too. But rest assured that all those wheels become very uncooperative when separated from the track and your shortcut will become the long way around. As for your instinctual desire to jerk in one direction or another in response to things on the tracks ( livestock, couches, tied up damsels) you must resist. The train is built to run right over these things and the damage will be far more severe should you try to 'go around'. Unless you see loose change on the tracks. That stuff will wreck you every time and should be avoided at all costs.

3. NO Doritos/Cheetos. This should not be considered a comprehensive list, but one that is suggestive of a category of products you should avoid while piloting the train. It's certainly fine to drink and eat, in fact it's encouraged to help you resist the temptation to try to steer or maneuver the train in any way, but as a courtesy to fellow pilots, try to avoid snacks that leave this sort of fine orange powder on everything. Rumor has it this is what drove Mr. Kaczynski to leave the field.

4. No cabooses. As you're no doubt aware, we cut these sad sacks loose years ago but that doesn't mean you won't still find them wandering the tracks begging to hitch on for 'just a few more miles'. Some of these guys look like fun and may tell you they know all the hotspots in the next town, but you must resist their siren song. It's hard enough to get the rest of the flyboys to take us seriously as pilots and toting around little red wannabes isn't going to help. If you're looking for a good time when you're on break, better to seek council from one of your (airline) pilot brethren. They know all the best bars and strip joints.

5. If you forget something, forget it. Piloting/engineering history is littered with ugly tales of what happened when a man at the helm realized that he left his wallet back at the last stop and threw the train in reverse to go grab it. While trains do travel almost as well backwards as forwards (assuming you're faithful to the 'straight is great' dictum) you're not alone out there. Trains headed towards one another on the same piece of track require you to do all sorts of steering and maneuvering and other things that should typically be avoided. Much better to just get yourself a fanny pack and make a habit of checking for all your gear at the start of each piloting day.

Bush To National Audience, "I Feel Duped"

2006-02-02T14:23:00.000-07:00

Washington D.C.
by Kyle Killen

In a stunning move, possibly inspired by syndicated talk show host Oprah Winfrey's similar actions last week, George Bush appeared on national television today to apologize to fans and register his disgust and disappointment with the authors of The Case For War In Iraq, which he had previously championed.

A sometimes angry, sometimes tearful Bush asked Vice President Dick Cheney why he "felt the need to lie." Audience members often groaned and gasped at Cheney's halting, stuttered admissions that certain facts about Iraq had been "altered" but that the essence of the case for war was real.

"I don't think of it as fiction," Cheney said of the case, which had been offered to previous presidents but rejected. "I still think it's essentially, more or less, basically, an approximation of the facts that we knew at the time."

When subjected to an intense, almost line by line, questioning of the statements made in the material, Cheney appeared to struggle. On the issue of whether or not there were really ever any weapons of mass destruction Cheney said, "...that's... I honestly don't know... that's... I've struggled with the idea of that."

"No. The lie of it, Dick. That's a lie, not an idea," Bush said before a stunned audience.

Bush's appearance began with a montage of various interviews and appearances in which he'd previously offered his vigorous defense of The Case For War In Iraq, calling charges that many of the underlying facts were exaggerated or fabricated "much ado about nothing".

"I regret those interviews. And I regret those statements," Bush told his audience. "I left the impression that the truth doesn't matter, and for that I'm sorry."

Also called to the stage was Donald Rumsfeld, who's military had put The Case For War In Iraq into production. Bush asked if he'd looked into any of the materials more outrageous claims, such as supposed ties between Al Queda and Saddam Hussein before they started "blowing things up." Rumsfeld said that they'd done their best, but that fact checking is something that is time consuming and not really a military strong suit.

Bush then lectured Rumsfeld on his responsibilities: "I'm trusting you, the military, to tell me whether this is fiction or actionable intelligence."

Bush's support of The Case For War In Iraq has already earned the phenomenally successful material billions and billions of dollars, and while he said that he now sees that his judgment was 'clouded' regarding the facts in the material, he chose not to withdraw his Presidential Seal of Approval from the piece, meaning War In Iraq will still be available, albeit with a new note from the military explaining that most of the underlying case was 'enhanced' and that the names mentioned should be seen as 'characters' rather than real individuals.

"I feel duped," Bush told Cheney, "but more importantly, I feel you betrayed millions of Americans."

Isn't There More? Vol. II

2006-01-31T22:34:00.000-07:00

Circumstances too odd (or possibly boring) for explanation have culminated in yet another opportunity for you click on something which will allow you to whittle away a small chunk of your life reading words that have been pre-arranged in a mildly satisfying manner.

The Five People You Meet In Hell by Mitch Albom

2006-01-30T23:24:00.000-07:00

1. The one who gets a certain sense of self satisfaction from telling you that he doesn't even own a TV.
2. The one who explains what her dog is doing to you by saying, 'oh, he does that to everyone'.
3. Tyra Banks
4. The one who really enjoys John Tesh, no matter what he's up to.
5. The one with bumperstickers that express a point of view about something via Calvin urinating on something else.

I Don't Like Monkeys Any More Than You Do

2006-01-26T23:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Sir:

I just wanted the thank you for taking the time to read over my manuscript. I know you said in your letter that it didn't meet the current needs of your publishing firm, but what I probably didn't make clear in my initial submission is just how flexible I am regarding the content. I am absolutely willing to cut, add, or change any number of words, themes, characters, or chapter titles to better suit your needs. In fact, short of actually having my name appear somewhere on the book (even there I'm flexible, maybe just initials or one of those symbols like Prince uses) I'm not really married to anything you read.

For instance, you mentioned that you didn't find it credible that a monkey could attain such a high level political office or be involved in such a complex love triangle. To be clear, I don't like monkeys any more than you do. In retrospect, I don't even know why I put that in there. I think that somewhere in my head I'd just really gotten attached to the idea that monkeys probably sell books. But it seems clear I was confusing monkeys with something else that sells books, possibly sex. It would have been much better if Bubbles had lost in the primary and then Kathleen had broken it off with him before they ever got tangled up with the magician. I'm working on a draft to that effect right now and could have it in your hands by the end of next week.

You also noted that Kathleen's discovery of the hidden treasure through clues hidden in Norman Rockwell paintings felt like an obvious rip off of The Davinci Code, which is odd because I haven't even read that book. I thought it was a manual for a very old means of communication similar to Morse Code, but in, like, Italian. In any case, I've since read a summary and there do appear to be some similarities in the plot lines. I'm having my lawyer look into it, but since it appears The Davinci Code was published before I began work on my manuscript, he's skeptical that we'll have any legal recourse. Meanwhile, what if instead of burying the clues in paintings, they were woven into reruns of Friends? I really liked that show, and I think a lot of other people did too, and I think tying it in would probably really boost sales. We could even bring Chandler into the narrative as a witty and self deprecating antagonist to the ninja.

Regarding your thoughts on the 'Choose Your Own Adventure' format really being a dead end, I have to admit that my first reaction was that you must be some kind of whack-job. But, I've had a little time to process it and, dead or not, I think the story can function without it. Really, it's probably going to make a whole lot more sense now and we won't even need the wizard character (unless you liked him), not to mention that eliminating eleven of the twelve possible endings will really help to tighten the page count (I agree, 1400 pages was a tad long).

Other suggestions you can anticipate me taking to heart in the draft that will be available next week: numbering the pages, not drawing doodles about my coworkers in the margins, and not attempting to depict the various characters' emotional states with a bar graph at the end of each chapter. While I do feel that charts and graphs are really under used in fiction these days, I know it's hard to lead a revolution and I think it's more important to get published first and worry about changing the world later. As for the numbering and doodles, those were just oversights, much like letting that monkey win the election (seriously, what was I thinking?).

In closing, not only am I more than willing to address all of the concerns laid out in your letter, I'm willing to answer any future issues that might be a roadblock to us working together. What it really comes down to is this: I know a large number of words (which I can also supplement with dictionaries and reference materials) and I'm willing to arrange them in whatever order you find most pleasing, with or without graphs. Also, it would be great if we can get the thing published ASAP because I already told several people at work (you may remember them from the margin doodles) that I had a book coming out and I'm not sure they believed me. Sally from HR (in a LOT of the doodles) actually laughed at me, but I think she'd really change her tune and possibly reconsider my marriage proposal if we could get this thing on the shelves.

Thank you again for your time and expertise.

Kyle Killen

p.s. I have some wicked cover designs in mind as soon as you're ready to discuss that. All I'll say is: bar graph.

p.p.s. Again, sorry about the whole monkey thing.

I Remain Committed To You

2006-01-23T22:43:00.000-07:00

Better late than never is what I've heard some people say, usually people who were late for something. Annoyingly late. Avoidably late. These people are terrible and everything they have to say should be discounted and ignored.

However, there is something to say for commitment, the kind of commitment that has me writing this useless entry in the closing hours of this day despite both of us knowing that I have little left to offer. It's been a long one. Well, let's get real, no day is any longer than any other, and people with kids and paralyzed limbs probably have long days, not unemployed writers who wake up when a cat stands on their head. But it still feels like it's been a long time since those furry paws helped me greet the noon day sun.

So I'm putting this out there for my benefit, not yours (it's more for your punishment) because I'd like to continue forcing myself to blather on three days a week. I'm doing it because I'm committed. And you have to be committed if you ever want to see the top of anything without falling off of something else. That's what it's going to say on my tombstone. But I won't be under that tombstone, because I'm going to live forever. Or possibly come back as a cat with a job as some schmuck's alarm clock.

The Cars Driven By Attractive Women

2006-01-20T16:44:00.000-07:00

When you see an attractive woman it is okay to ask yourself, 'I wonder if she drives a nice car?'

Most people assume that attractive women drive nice cars. This is because they think that attractive women tend to be married to rich and powerful men, usually the heads of companies or small countries. People who think like this are sexist. Attractive women might also drive nice cars because they get promoted more often that homely women. They may also be singers or supermodels who, you may be aware, do not get out of bed for less than 10,000 dollars.

If you see an attractive woman in a parking lot, keep an eye out for a German vehicle. This is probably hers. Attractive women like German vehicles. This does not, however, mean that they like other German things like Schnitzel or heavy beer.

But not all attractive women drive nice cars. Occasionally you will see an attractive woman get into an American car and you will be confused. There are any number of reasons that this might happen, and all of them are bad. She might be an idealist, unwilling to trade on her looks. She might be philosophically committed to living a spartan lifestyle free of pretentious excess. She might like American cars. In any case, she should be avoided because she is crazy.

Judging people based on how attractive they are, what clothes they wear, or what kind of cars they drive is wrong in the same way that judging a book by the cover is wrong. However, bookstores have an awful lot of books and reading all of them before deciding if you should purchase one is time consuming and tends to result in your eventually being asked to leave. Therefore it can be helpful to eliminate books based on their covers, such as books with pink covers, pictures of buttons, or ones with the word diet on them. You will inevitably miss out on a good read about a pink buttoned diet, but life is made up of a series of tragedies.

The important point is that attractive women mostly drive expensive German cars and don't have much time for reading. If they did, they would only read from really sharp looking books. So if you see an attractive woman get into an American car, it's okay to assume that she's lonely and incomplete, and probably headed to the library, and that her suffering is in some way a penance for the sins of the world. This should make you feel better, and you are free to honk at her and roll down your window, and shout that 'God works in mysterious ways'.

Why I Can’t Go Back To Starbucks

2006-01-18T12:18:00.000-07:00

As you know, Starbucks is an evil corporation that supports things like rape and murder, and also does not serve beverages that are smaller than ‘Tall’. I used to like them a lot. But now they don’t like me, and I think the feeling is becoming mutual, though I do still weep a little bit when I think about the times we had.

Starbucks and I had any number of arguments over the years. Nothing serious, just the sort of lover’s quarrels one would expect from a carnivorous coffee chain and an undercover neurosurgeon who likes to bathe in public restrooms and nap on comfy couches while enjoying an eclectic soundtrack and inhaling the intoxicating aroma of coffee that other people are paying four dollars a cup for. In the end, our mutual respect for one another was always enough to help us put our disagreements behind us and we ended each day as we began it, with my arms wrapped tightly around the closed and dark glass of the little building while I waited for it to open up again and welcome me.

But yesterday was different, and I think that everyday after yesterday, including both today and tomorrow, are bound to be different too. It started when someone asked if they could help me. The regular staff and I are well past this, and all of them know that the best way to help me is just to let me sleep it off, or in some instances, put more hand towels in the restroom so that I can get dry. But by now these are things we can communicate without speaking, so it was startling to once again hear a question I thought we’d settled long ago. I assumed that it must just be a new staff member, and I would have to train him like all the rest. I asked him his name and he said Jeff. I told Jeff that it would be very helpful if he could turn down the stereo because I needed to catch forty winks and then in about a half hour I told him that he could start running warm water in one of the bathroom sinks.

It turned out that Jeff was not a new employee, but a corporate stooge of some sort sent to investigate a case of persistent loitering and possible hobo like behavior. I assured Jeff that I’d be on the lookout and tried to get back to sleep, but he continued to pester me. He asked if I might like to order something and I explained that I did not like coffee, and that even if I did, just between him and me, I’d never be stupid enough to pay four dollars a cup. Jeff asked what I was doing here if I didn’t like coffee, and I told him that I enjoyed the ambiance while waiting for pages on my undercover neurosurgery pager. Jeff pointed out that my pager appeared to be a severely damaged garage door opener. I explained that that’s how I remained undercover.

We went back and forth like this for a half hour until the police appeared which at first I thought was incredibly handy. I explained to them that this man, this Jeff, was badgering me and preventing my nap and thus endangering any patients I might have to see later in the day. But Jeff turned out to have the police in his pocket, bribed with big jugs of complicated coffee. There were laws and regulations and some such and apparently I was in violation of them all.

Am I being evicted, I asked.

Jeff told me that I didn’t live there. He said that I was welcome to come back if I wished to purchase coffee, but otherwise I was banned from the premises, and if I failed to comply he would prosecute me. He asked again if I wanted to purchase any coffee.

Long story short, I ended up in the back of the police car after I tried to remove what I assumed must be a tumor in Jeff’s brain that was causing him to ask me the same questions over and over. Sadly, the utensils at Starbucks are all plastic and I was not able to penetrate Jeff’s skull cap before the authorities interrupted. After I was released I tried to go back and inform Jeff that without intervention his problem would only get worse, but I wasn’t even able to enter the building before I was in the back of another police car.

So apparently, I can’t go back to Starbucks anymore, and Jeff’s tumor will just go on growing unchecked until he dies. I don’t wish anyone ill, but if you won’t listen to reason, it serves you right. In any case, I won’t pretend that I haven’t cried a little over the injustice of it all. I’m crying right now. When I close my eyes I’m almost there, the scent of coffee beans in my nose, some inoffensive lite-rock in my ears, and the comfy embrace of a padded bench under my back. But when I open them it’s just this cell which smells faintly of urine and lacks all the aesthetic appeal of my former love. If these painful memories persist I’ll have no choice but to dig them out of my own head, and that’s not the kind of operation you want to take on unless you’ve had a good rest and a bath. Until yesterday I’d have known just where to I could find both.

Isn't There More?

2006-01-17T11:54:00.000-07:00

If you strongly feel that you simply haven't had enough, you can always try this.

Excerpt of The Speech I Would Have Given Had I Been Valedictorian

2006-01-13T14:46:00.000-07:00

If there’s one question I get all the time it’s, “Why can’t I be as smart as you?

This is a very good question. And one, given your inferior intelligence, that will require a good bit of explanation. However, given your short attention span and limited cranial capacity, I will try to simplify (aka dumb it down) for you.

I am extremely smart.

Some people refer to this as being gifted. This term is misleading. It implies that intelligence was handed to me like a present in a box that upon shaking feels like it might be a video game or the keys to a vehicle with a ‘thumping’ sound system, but which upon opening is just a sweater with an embroidered pussy cat on it which gets you beaten up when you wear it to school three days in a row. Instead, my intelligence had to be earned, fought for, spilled and cleaned up, and constructed through hard labor by foreign workers who were not as smart as me and thus didn’t know to look for better jobs. The blueprints for my genius can not be found in any textbooks or manuals, nor can they be described by the infantile ramblings of so called teachers, professors, or my many assigned and frequently visited parole officers. My brilliance is a tree that grows in the fertile soil of experience, and extends 74 miles into space where it catches passing satellites which not only hang from it’s beautiful branches like multimillion dollar Christmas ornaments, but also impart to my brilliant tree all of their satellite knowledge. This is how I know the license plate and social security numbers of so many young and attractive celebrities, and it’s the only reason, no matter what else you heard. It’s also why you get such great cell phone reception in my presence.

In short, unless your brain is a 74 mile tall tree that catches satellites, that’s the first reason you can’t be as smart as me.

Second, I know the answer to every question that has ever been asked and that can ever be asked. Each and every answer is written on a sort of cheat-sheet that I keep folded up under my watch band (which may sound like cheating, but it’s not because I memorized all the answers when I wrote them down so I don’t ever actually look at the sheet, I just like knowing it’s there). You may ask (and I knew you would because it’s on my sheet) how it could be possible to get such a wealth of information onto a piece of paper that could be folded up and put inconspicuously under my watch band. The answer is lasers. (Lasers are also the answer to almost all the other questions that have ever been asked or could ever be asked, so if you less intelligent folks out there find yourself facing a tough question, try just answering: lasers.) But these are not ordinary lasers, they’re special lasers, that I invented, potty trained, and put through school. And they write their information in a font that I also invented which can only be deciphered by people like myself whose IQ is an infinity symbol.

Some of you may think that you’ve heard me answer a question incorrectly, or you may have a court order that seems to show that from time to time I make a mistake. These apparent errors are not reflections of my lack of intelligence, but merely part of my carefully conceived plan to insure that no persons (or vindictive supernatural beings) ever discover my cheat-sheet. These ‘incorrect answers’, ‘failing grades’, or ‘insuffcient explanations for stalker like behavior’ are merely my fanciful and careless marks on the Scantron sheet of life that allow me to be the smartest person ever without arousing suspicion or incurring further beatings like the savage one visited upon me on day four of the pussycat sweatshirt marathon.

To summarize, unless you can read the infinity IQ font written by special home schooled lasers and happen to have made a cheat sheet containing all the answers to all questions which you keep in your watch band, that’s the second reason you can’t be as smart as me.

There are 847 more reasons why you can’t be as smart as me, but our time is short, and really, is there any point in dwelling on that which you can’t change? (The answer is: no. But if you said lasers you were close.) If you would like more information on your inability to be as smart as me, send a two liter bottle of Big Red, a Whatmacallit candy bar, and a self addressed stamped envelope to Smartest Man In The Universe. You don’t need to write anything else. They’ll find me. The law always does. Reason number 8 involves sticky buns, and reason number 612 details my nightly aluminum foil mummification ritual. They’re all good reading and well worth your investment in time, soda, candy, and stamps.

To conclude, there are 849 reasons you can’t be as smart as me, but you lack the wherewithal and I lack the time to cover all of them now. But my hope is that when you see giant trees extending into space you’ll think of me and my mind, and you’ll want to leap into the branches of those trees and begin to climb, reaching ever higher until you grow too tired and hungry to continue and eventually fall and wonder why you even tried to ascend to the heights of my genius.

If I could say one final thing to each and every one of you, it would simply be this.

Lasers.

Wednesdays Are New And Improved

2006-01-11T13:13:00.000-07:00

The following are the guidelines for New and Improved Wednesdays:

The first D in Wednesday is no longer silent. The day should be pronounced Wed-nes-day. Also: Favre (Far-ve) will be pronounced Fav-re on Wednesday.

Wednesday may no longer be referred to as 'hump day'. Camels may still be ridden on Wednesday, but their humps must be referred to as 'animal mounds'.

Wednesday now has it's own special cocktail, 'The Wednesday'. It is delicious, invigorating, takes the place of a 55 minute workout, and costs 8 dollars. 'The Wednesday' is available exclusively at TGI Fridays.

All disagreements will be settled with rap battles on Wednesdays. This includes long festering geopolitical disputes (China v. Taiwan, Palestinians v. Jews).

The word 'whimsical' may no longer be used on Wednesday (unless it's tightly integrated into a rap battle).

All financial transactions must be completed in pennies on Wednesday. People who complain about this practice must
a) do so in rap form
and
b) purchase a 'Wednesday' from Fridays for the person to whom they are complaining at a cost of 800 pennies.

Conversations must be supplemented by charts and graphs on Wednesdays. This applies to conversations of any length on any subject. Even threats. And yellow must figure prominently in all charts and graphs because yellow's birthday is now Wednesday.

Everyone will walk, bike, or use a bulldozer on Wednesdays. Tanks and other treaded vehicles ARE NOT acceptable substitutes. Bulldozers must have a shovel shaped device on their front end. Violators in other types of vehicles may be bulldozed at any time. Also: Obviously all bulldozers should be yellow.

Wednesday now begins at noon on Sunday and ends and 8:37 p.m. on Friday.

Apology From Inside Locker #413

2006-01-08T23:54:00.000-07:00

Hello,

Hopefully this note finds you well and standing somewhere in the hallway between the cafeteria and the library. If you look to the west wall you should find locker #413 about half way down. Likely, I'm still inside.

To the best of my knowledge I've been here eight days. I think there was a weekend in there somewhere. I've lost my voice yelling and I'm now too weak and tired to pound on the locker door. I suppose it's hard to hear me over the din between classes and every time the janitor passes by he seems to be running the floor polisher. If I get out I'm really going to take a moment to admire those floors, because I'm thinking they must be reflective by now.

Speaking of reflection, I've had a lot of time for that lately, and I want to apologize (particularly to those of you who placed me here last week). I know that my personality has rubbed some of you the wrong way . I petitioned to have the football program cut to provide money for mandatory Latin classes (it's a dead language for crying out loud). I fought to have the chess team recognized with it's own pep rally. I often refer to my umbrella a bumbershoot. And I've been told that I am both 'ugly' and 'smelly'.

For the first two or three days, none of these things seemed that egregious. Different strokes for different folks, right? But around day five I had a real enlightening conversation with my coat, which had a surprisingly great deal to say (can't rule out the possibility that this was a result of eating the plastic sack my lunch came in) and my coat suggested that I might spend less time in lockers if I were simply less insistent on being myself. As an object that spends a great deal of time in lockers, I feel like the coat can be trusted on this subject.

So here's my offer. If you'll kindly let me out, the combination is 45-12-33, I vow to fall into line. Haircut, shower, some appropriate attire, and an end to my push for a more challenging curriculum. And I dare you to try to demonstrate more spirit than me at the next pep rally for the football team. I plan to have a foam finger the size of a van (unless that's weird, in which case forget it, I want to fit in remember). What I'm saying is that you really won't be letting me out at all. The me you stuffed in here over a week ago is gone, set straight by starvation, ingested plastic, and a talkative fleece jacket with a broken zipper. So if you'll kindly just open up, you'll find my metamorphosis quite complete, and utterly permanent I assure you. As a bonus you may have all the non edible items that remain in here with me, including my talking coat, and my umbrella. It's just a plain old umbrella now, and I promise that's how it will stay.

Warmest Regards,
Locker #413

[ed. note - all words went into a hat and Amy chose one at random. Feel free to leave a new word for wednesday.]

Things I Heard Today Which Made It Hard To Maintain My Train Of Thought

2006-01-05T20:58:00.000-07:00

Man: So, I don't understand why you suddenly think you're a liberal.
New Liberal: Because I hate Wal-Mart and I wouldn't have voted for Bush.
Man: And that makes you liberal?
New Liberal: I think so. (long pause) I guess I should sell my truck.

Girl: Would you guys rather be able to fly or read minds?
Boy and Other Girl: Read minds. Definitely.
Girl: Me too. (pause) And I'd also want to fly.

Teen: And I also got this calendar. It's a Spongebob calendar. I'm not big on Spongebob, but they won't be getting any more I Love Lucy ones until Monday and I'm going to need to know what day it is before Monday.

[ed. note - Experiment alert. Monday's entry is in your hands. Just put a single word in the comments and somehow that will become Monday's entry. Should keep us all from having to endure any more crap about 'bat people'. If there's no one reading and no one gives me a word I'll just hit myself in the head repeatedly with a dictionary Sunday night until I pass out and whatever word I see after coming to will have to do.]

Tips For Dining Out With People Who Are At Least Partly Bats

2006-01-04T08:24:00.000-07:00

Dining out with people who are at least partly bats can be difficult. While they look much like the rest of us, people who are partly bats navigate mostly by sonar and thus tend to make loud and, to human ears, inappropriate noises, in order to assess their current positions. This can be awkward. Here are some of the ways you can minimize the discomfort and maximize your enjoyment when dining with these special people.

Bat people (not to be confused with Batman, who's just a rich guy with a gravely voice that might or might not annoy you, but which really isn't inappropriate) tend to screech or speak really loudly for the first ten or fifteen seconds of a conversation until they hear their own voices echoing off the walls around them, at which point they tend to realize that they're shouting in your face and begin using their 'indoor voice'. If however, there is a lapse in conversation, bat people will have to perform this recalibration all over again, forcing you to endure more fire alarm like screeching and shouting. Best to just keep them talking incessantly. This may force you to endure all sorts of discussions (bat people are suprisingly keen on talking politics) but it beats having them repeatedly hearing them get going from a cold start. When in doubt, ask for a detailed account of the weather in their area.

When ordering, bat people tend to talk to their waiter or waitress as if this person is deaf. Adding a new person to the conversational mix forces them to perform their sonar related screaming, and often the waiter or waitress is not around long enough to see that the bat person quiets down after performing this check. Instead, the bat person will often scream their order, possibly along with a lengthy series of clicks, and sometimes point animatedly to the menu. Short of ordering for the bat person in your party (they usually hate this, but you may find one amenable) there's little you can do about this. Best to leave the area and place your order separately if possible, thus minimizing the chances it will be dropped on the floor or spit on by a less that understanding server.

If they can be convinced to go the take out route, bat people are extremely well suited to ordering from drive thrus, where their handicaps prove to be strengths, allowing them to get orders through on the second or third try where it would take you or I seven or eight.

If you happen to be dining out with more than one person who is at least partly a bat, and you happen to be called away to say, the restroom, and upon return you discover that your companions have allowed a lapse in conversation to develop, the best thing is to run. With both bat people needing to recalibrate their voices, and a strong chance that their conversation will be political, the table is now a powder keg and you should get out of there before one of them starts screaming and clicking about republicans and the other about democrats.

Depending on the degree to which your companions are actually bats, they may also engage in other 'strange' behavior, including but not limited to, futile efforts at flight, attempts to eat inedible items from the table, attempts to eat condiments, yelling at condiments to determine their distance, and in the case of people who are partly vampire bat, attempts to draw blood from restaurant employees. Knowing these things in advance may not allow you to stop them, but may allow you to choose a more appropriate restaurant, for instance, a Chuck E Cheese, where these behaviors will not be so out of the norm.

Bat people have a lot to offer, and should not be confined to their homes simply because their particularities make them awkward dining companions. That said, it's your job as a dining companion to do your best to minimize the confusion and maximize the fun when in the company of these special people.

Yearly Letter From Editor To Both Readers

2006-01-01T23:01:00.000-07:00

My advice would be to stop reading right - now.

I see. You're one of those types, too good to take a little friendly advice. Very well, then please sit still and try not to breath as we welcome 2006 and say goodbye to 2005.

This whole mess started a year ago when I resolved to make one million dollars and attain washboard abs. And to write a blog about it. I did that for about... a week and I realized that I'm horrible at talking about myself. Blogs are mostly like Entertainment Tonight about non famous people. I just didn't feel like anyone really needed or wanted to know about my non adventures. Often I didn't want to know, but my efforts at self induced amnesia have only led to higher insurance premiums. So I stopped mentioning anything that had to do with me and started chronicling the things I observed around me, conversations, actions, all of which took place while I was trying to work, and most of which were more interesting than what I was working on. That drew the interest of someone named Gone Away and some of his pals. Their attention and comments are the only reason I bothered continuing to add to the site. The format got a little stale for me, and since then I've just sort of used it as a place to deposit nonsense, much to the chagrin of those who've bothered to stop by.

But, I digress. The real issue on this one year anniversary is the million dollars and the washboard abs. I'll be straight with you. The ads you see at the top of the page have earned me six dollars and some change, much of that probably through my own 'inadvertent' click fraud. Add that to my other writing income and I achieved .005206% of my goal. As for the abs, sometime around July they were visible under proper lighting conditions and if I was flexed and bent in just the right way. Suffice to say they are less so now.

Many people have resolutions that work out this way, and I can't tell you how often I hear people say things like, 'I don't make resolutions' or 'Resolutions are a waste of time', their reasoning being that these are all just promises that we're bound to break, and after a time there's really no point in even making such promises.

But once you start the whole 'there's no point in this because of that' game, well you might as well just find a nice place to lie down and wait for someone to cover your body. Is there really any point to anything? We're all going to die, etc. etc. So yes, there's a strong chance that this year may end up like last. There's a chance I won't live to the end of this year and whatever I resolve will seem ridiculous and insignificant in light of the horrible plane crash that ends up doing me in. And there's a chance that this time next year I won't have the energy or enthusiasm to make new promises. But here's the key. On this day last year I honestly believed I'd make a million dollars and get washboard abs. It sounded ridiculous, but if you haven't gathered as much, I'm an idiot. It bothers me that it didn't work out, but it would bother me a lot more if the fact that it didn't work out meant that I didn't really believe the promises I was going to make for this year. Luckily that hasn't happened.

This year I only want to achieve two things. I want to dunk a basketball and sell a novel. I should mention that I'm 5'11 and my novel may contain a beaver and Matt Lauer, so feel free to start making your own odds. It sounds pie in the sky, but for some reason I'm sold. Don't expect much in the way of updates for the reasons mentioned above, but do feel free to stick your head in, say hi, and gorge yourself on the letters and sentences which I will continue to arrange for your putative enjoyment.

Until 2007,

Mr. Kyle

p.s. am I the only one who finds it odd that the Blogger spell check does not recognize the word 'blog'?

Paper Sack Lifetime Will Return

2005-12-19T14:34:00.000-07:00

But not until after the first of the year. It's the holidays, and 'the holidays' is a good blanket excuse for not taking care of things, just like 'car wreck' and 'chicken pox'. Personally, I just write 'it's the holidays' on all bills that I receive in the month of December and I suggest you do the same. You may find yourself freezing in the dark with no phone service, as I often do, but I promise a general feeling of warmth in your heart which you can then use to toast marshmallows or those very small cocktail wieners.

Should you be so kind as to return with the new year I hope to bring you the same mess of words and poorly used punctuation that you've come to expect. Until then, I wish you all a very happy holidays and a completely non cynical, hope renewing New Year.

Man's Teeth Ruined By New Kittens

2005-12-13T23:51:00.000-07:00

A man in a bookstore yesterday told his friend that he was having to get caps put on several of his teeth as a result of the two kittens he had recently adopted. He said that when he was petting them he unconsciously ground his teeth together because they were so 'damn cute'. After a couple months with the cats he said that he started noticing that his teeth were very sensitive to hot and cold. A visit to the dentist revealed that he'd ground an entire centimeter off his front teeth and nearly flattened his incisors. Not only was the procedure going to set him back significantly just before Christmas, the man said that his dentist had suggested that he wear a mouthpiece when playing with the cats in the future to protect his teeth.
The friend asked if the man was going to get rid of the cats.
The man seemed surprised and said he wasn't even considering it. He'd only hurt his teeth because he loved them so much.
No point in having a perfect smile, he said, if you don't have anything to make you want to use it.

Improvements To Our Debate Program

2005-12-12T00:58:00.000-07:00

Parents,

We here at Public School 315 are always looking for ways to improve not only the inner city students in our care, but the opportunities that we have to offer those students. Thus, it is with great pleasure that I'm writing to tell you about some exciting changes we've made in our debate program.

Traditionally debate has lacked a certain cache among students in inner city areas, with interest lagging far behind other activities like basketball or football. And the disinterest is not just restricted to students, but their parents as well, many of whom have failed to show up for, or remain conscious through, our various debate events. And perhaps most importantly, even our most successful debaters have told us that on the whole, the experience has been less that positive. It seems they've been honing their argumentative abilities while other students are increasing their physical skills, and so when an 'argument' breaks out in the halls, debaters often find themselves winning the discussion and yet losing blood.

To address all of these shortcomings we've decided to take an 'if you can't beat them, join them' approach and are offering two new courses this year, Greco-Roman Debate and Lincoln-Douglas Boxing. These exciting new classes will offer students the opportunity to improve both their bodies and their minds, and train them for the types of 'debate' they're most likely to face in the real world. Not only will students be able to effectively take either side of difficult issues like migrant worker policies or nationalized health care, they'll be able to knock a few teeth loose while doing it. We're also hoping that this will greatly improve spectator appeal and help bring in not only parents, but allow us to build a paying fan base of people who might otherwise ignore educated discourse were it not fused with the bone shattering violence that seems so popular these days.

Should this approach prove successful, and we think it will, we're hoping to extend it to other unpopular subjects and activities that we think might benefit our students, such as Hip-Hop Calculus, Gang Sign Foreign Literature, and Professional Athlete Ideation Physics.

Sadly, because of the economic and cultural conditions in our neighborhoods many of our students see their options as limited and they lack the hope to truly aim high. It's our belief that by offering them new opportunities that combine familiar activities with beneficial content we can co-opt the violence and apathy that has marred our campus, and use it to educate students in spite of themselves. We'll be putting that theory to the test this Monday night with a fifteen round, bare knuckle exhibition that will see two of our best Lincoln-Douglas Boxing prospects try to deliver well thought out arguments before their opponent's blows impair their ability to form coherent sentences. We hope that you'll not only join us, but encourage your young ones to give thought to signing up for this exciting and change embracing new class.

Quantum Leap - The Never Seen Finale (w/ Ashlee Simpson)

2005-12-08T01:08:00.000-07:00

So listen, Sam, Ziggy says you've leaped into a girl named Ashlee Simpson. Yes, I know, the voice is incredibly annoying. Try not to talk. We're still working out the details, but we know that she and her family were part of an ugly little period in history where completely vapid individuals with no discernible talent were successfully marketed to a brainwashed public. We're not sure exactly what happens, but Ziggy says it doesn't end well. I have no idea why her name is spelled with two e's. Ziggy says her father was most likely a complete jackass

Sam, Sam, just calm down okay? We have a plan. You're doing a show called Saturday Night Live this weekend and, what? Oh, apparently a show that was popular in the late 20th century until every decent member of the cast left. It was canceled in 2006. Anyway, you're supposed to perform live in front of the country. So? So Ziggy says that if we sabotage the performance and reveal your complete lack of ability then the country might finally wise up to the Simpsons and let them fade into obscurity before there's any harm done, and with any luck, you should leap. Ziggy says something called Milli Vanilli was successfully stopped when people discovered that they lipsynced all their songs, so we pull a similar stunt on this Saturday Night Live and Bingo! Ziggy says there's a 74% chance that you're out of here. How should you react? I don't know, just do the most ridiculous thing you can think of. Dance a hoe-down maybe. Just make sure that when you walk off that stage everyone knows you're a complete and total fraud.

*****

Well, we're not sure, but, ah, it looks like it might have backfired. Ziggy says that now, not only do you not fade away, but that your next album outsells your first. How? I have no idea. We've got the most sophisticated computers of the future working on this and we still haven't cracked it. Sam, please, just stop. That voice is like a drill in my temple. Besides, Ziggy says that maybe by showing people you're not only untalented but an incredibly awful person as well we can get them to stop paying attention to you and hopefully we stop Ashley from doing whatever this awful thing she's supposed to do is. Well, I know it sounds like a stretch, but we're planning to have you attack an employee in a Canadian Mc'Donalds and let the whole thing be caught on tape. Of course you can. Sam, Ziggy says this may be your last chance to leap, so go all out, really try to come across as the kind of person people would line up to hit over the head with a heavy object. I don't want to freak you out, but Ziggy says that if this doesn't work, well, a lot of people are going to get hurt.

*****

I'll be straight with you, Sam, Ziggy says it looks bad. You haven't made a dent in this girl's popularity. If anything, she's getting stronger. Apparently she runs for President in 2012, and shortly thereafter, well, everyone in the United States dies. No, no, it's not a war. This gets a little complicated, but Ziggy says that George Washington is brought back to life in 2011 to run against her. When she's elected in a landslide he renounces democracy and turns the country's nuclear arms on itself. No one in America survives and the fallout kills millions more around the world. I know, it's awful, but Ziggy says she's 99% sure there's no way to stop it. The people inexplicably love this talentless fraud. The 1% chance? Let's not talk about that. No. I can't. Fine. Ziggy says that if Ashley were to jump off a building that there's a small chance we could save the world. A small chance, Sam, so don't go getting any ideas. We'll come up with something else. Absolutely not. That's why I didn't want to tell you, I knew you'd try to do this. I'm not going to let you. You hear me? I don't care if it means saving humanity, we've worked too hard for too long to see it end this way. I don't know how, but you don't have to do it. It's not your fault Ashley Simpson destroys the world, and it's not your job to stop her. Are you sure? Really? Well Sam... what can I say? I'll miss you. You're more than a brilliant scientist who utilized his own time travel machine before it was ready, you're a friend, and most of all, you're a genuine hero. I'm going to make sure the people of the future know exactly who saved them from this horrible Simpson fiend. Goodbye, Ashlee. And goodbye, Sam.

Please Come Out Of The Bathroom

2005-12-05T16:35:00.000-07:00

Please come out of the bathroom. If I made you think this was your fault, I apologize. This is my fault. Completely. I never should have let you pick the movie in the first place. I've known you long enough to know you'd pick something awful at that little place that has no parking. And I certainly know that you're completely incapable of getting ready for anything on time, so of course we were going to be late and miss the beginning and have to sit right in the front row and strain our necks to see a movie that I already knew was going to be bad before we left. That's on me. I should have been smarter, should have thought a little harder about the effects of leaving these decisions in your hands. But I didn't. I'm not perfect, and for that, I apologize.

Look, I don't want to turn this into a whole who-threw-a-scalding-pot-of-what-at-whom thing, because this is really not about that. And it's not about how I slave away at work all week while you watch soap operas and talk to your friends, because that doesn't bother me. I know I only get one night a week to really enjoy myself, and I should have known that I'd have to expend some effort to keep you from screwing it up. But I was lazy. You understand? I'm saying that I didn't force myself to ignore all the little annoying things that you do which can completely ruin an evening out, and guess what, it was ruined. That's my fault. I'm sorry.

And I should have known that as soon as I said something or threw something, that you'd come running to the bathroom like you always do. I should have just held my tongue because we both know that no matter how many times I point these things out, they never change. But, I'm slow. I'm thick headed. I guess I haven't given up on my hope that someday we'll able to walk out of this house without you embarrassing us. But I should, because it's obviously hopeless, and my pig headed refusal to accept that is really at the heart of the problem. So again, I'm sorry. I promise to accept you for just what you are, and to do a better job of being prepared for the inevitable problems and disappointments that come with it.

Honey? Well, listen, I don't know what else I can say. I'm not going to stand out here apologizing all night. I was wrong. I am sorry. If there's something more you need to hear you're going to have to use your imagination, okay? I'm going downstairs to clean up that mess and then I'm going to bed. I hope to see you there, but if you're not, that's your decision. You hear me? I've taken responsibility for my part in all this. I don't want to play the blame game, you understand, but, well, from here on out, whatever happens is on you.

Man Planning Wife's 30th Birthday At Chuck E Cheese

2005-12-02T07:37:00.000-07:00

A man in a coffee shop yesterday told his friends that he was planning to have his wife's 30th birthday at Chuck E Cheese. His friends initially laughed, but the man said he was absolutely serious. His friends told him they thought that it was probably a very poor idea, and that he should consider taking her out to dinner at a nice restaurant, or hosting some of her friends at a bar or their home.

The man said that they went out for nice dinners every anniversary and Valentine's day and on a litany of other occasions, ditto with having friends over. It was his opinion that being given permission to 'cut loose' and act foolishly for an evening was the perfect gift for his wife's thirtieth birthday. If their friends were too 'mature' to allow themselves to act ridiculous in the pursuit of a good time, then he said they didn't have to come.

One of his friends predicted that while his heart was in the right place, the evening would be a disaster for everyone, his wife included. He said that no one was above being ridiculous and having a good time.

But when you're thirteen you do that with a ball pit, he said, and when you're thirty you do it with a bottle of wine.

Dealing With Father Issues While Getting A Speeding Ticket

2005-11-30T00:34:00.000-07:00

Speeding? Is that really it? Or maybe the truth is, I wasn't going fast enough. Hmmm? There's always someone faster, isn't there officer? Someone you wished you'd pulled over. Someone who wouldn't be such an embarrassment? Someone who wouldn't be sitting here in his little hatchback on his way to his catering job, but driving a big truck on his way to the law firm or maybe back to the Marine barracks? Someone you could be proud of for once? But instead you got me. Well, I'm not responsible for that officer, you brought me to the side of the road, not the other way around, and at this point we both probably wish it had never happened, but I'm here, that's reality, and we have to deal with it.

And what comes next? You'll write me your little ticket and then you'll just disappear again and I won't see you for god knows how long until, once again, you just drop out of the sky to tell me about all the things I'm doing wrong and all the ways you know how I should fix them. Well, I have a news flash for you, officer, you're not so perfect yourself. Maybe I was speeding, but you didn't exactly look like you were out for a Sunday drive when you chased me down, so you might try getting off the high horse before you start talking about all the ways I've failed you.

And yes, I know I changed lanes without signaling. But did you see how many times I changed lanes and DID signal? How long I was driving UNDER the speed limit? Of course not, because you never see the good things I do, you just pay attention to the negative. And I'm sure when you get back to all your little friends, that's just the sort of stuff you'll tell them about me. You won't even mention that I was fifth in line for employee of the month last May, or that I'm applying to community college. You probably don't even know those things, do you officer? Of course not, because you never bother to ask, you just tell.

So fine, let's just get it over with. The truth is, I don't have the energy to hate you, officer. I've gotten to a pretty good place in my life by just forgetting that you exist. But you can't let it go at that, can you? It just burns you up to see me enjoying my life because I'm not doing it according to YOUR rules, YOUR hopes, YOUR dreams. And so you show up and make a spectacle out of things, just to remind me who's boss, just to try to bring me down. Well, if that's all you've got, then I feel sorry for you officer, I really do. Because I may be a speeder in a crappy car on my way to low paying job, but at least when I get there I'll be with people who care about me. And where will you be? Back in that little car. All alone. Waiting for someone else to fail so you don't have to think about the failure you've become. Mom was right about you, officer, you're are all the same.

Cynicism Suspended Indefinitely

2005-11-28T16:11:00.000-07:00

As you may be aware, our team has been dealing with some internal issues, mostly stemming from one member’s increasing thirst for power and control, and declining interest in listening to opinions and concerns of other members. For these reasons I’m here to announce that I’ve suspended Cynicism indefinitely.

This was not a decision taken lightly, nor do I wish to undervalue the presence that a healthy Cynicism can have on the rest of the team. But as a team, we have rules, and Cynicism has been caught on numerous occasions in areas where he didn’t belong, including Love’s locker, and Hope’s gym bag. Further, his feud with Trust was something I’ve been willing to ignore as it seemed relatively harmless and good natured. However, the attack last week when Cynicism ‘accidentally’ hit Trust at high speed, and then backed over him while coming to his ‘aid’ has changed my mind. Trust is doing well, by the way, and expected to be back within days, but these actions have been detrimental to team morale, and cannot go unpunished.

Most of us have trouble remembering back to the days before Cynicism joined the team, and so it may be hard to imagine life without him. Rest assured, it is possible, and in fact, given the way that he’d become so vocal and dogmatic of late, many of you may find it a relief. Most of his responsibilities will be handed over to Belief, and I’d like you all to join me in cheering him on.

I would however ask that the rest of you exercise caution. I’ve compiled a brief list of things that I’m more likely to find reasonable as a result of this change, and I’d really hope that no one out there would take undue advantage of the situation.

I’ll believe I have termites, that I’ve won an Ipod, that this is the absolute most that I’m going to get for my trade in.
I will believe that you’re going to call me right back, that we’ll get together soon, that it was one of the best movies of the year.
I will believe that dreams come true, that good things happen to good people, that someone’s watching out for me.
I will believe the extended warranty is really a good deal, that you only had two beers, that this doesn’t make me look fat.
That I’m really going to lose ten pounds, that you really like my music, that I’ll start tomorrow.
That I really need four new tires, that my radiator needs to be flushed for just 59.95, that I can be anything I want to be.
I will believe the studies about drinking being good for me, and the ones about it being bad, and the ones that say all the other studies are crap.
That it wasn’t your fault, that you were only joking, that these things happen to everyone.
That this will really get ink and grass stains right out, that this smell really attracts the opposite sex, that there’s no obligation whatsoever and this free football phone it mine to keep.
I will believe in bunnies with eggs, fairies with teeth, and fat men with lots of presents and no cholesterol or diabetes concerns.
That I have nothing to lose, that there’s always tomorrow, that you really just have a headache.
That you can hardly tell it’s overcooked, that no one is looking at my lazy eye, that the worst part is over.
That you’re proud of me, that the slide show wasn’t boring, that people were laughing on the inside.
I will beleive that you really really love me.

This is obviously not an exhaustive list people, but I think you get the idea. I’m not so naive as to believe that we won’t suffer as a result of this suspension. Financially, I think this move may really hurt us. There’s a good chance we’ll end up with tons of crap we don’t need or want. But money is not the only thing that matters. This was a game once. It was supposed to be fun. Lately, I think I speak for the team in saying that Cynicism’s presence had taken most of the fun out of it. I’m hoping this suspension will help us, all of us, remember what we’re here to do, and enjoy it.

Thanksgiving In The ER - A Timeline

2005-11-25T10:42:00.000-07:00

10:13am - Patient arrives complaining of headache. Says that today is his 46th birthday and that he has had dreams since he was five years old which have all indicated that he was going to die on his 46th birthday. Patient is afraid he's going to die today. Head CT, psych consult.

11:01am - Consult board for new patients, get hit in the head with an orange. Discover psych patient redistributing her lunch with the following commentary: "I don't LIKE bananas. I don't LIKE tuna." Dodge remaining food items.

12:47pm - Sew up art line for elderly female patient. Towards end of the procedure patient grabs hold of large section of hair on physician's head and begins to shake with the following commentary: "Today must be your day to hate WOMEN."

2:05pm - Patient arrives with steak knife in his chest, self inflicted. Patient also has freshly dyed, bright pink hair, traces of dye still on his skin. Patient complains that, "it hurts," to which someone asks just what he was expecting when he stuck a steak knife in his chest. Patient becomes deadly serious and delivers the following commentary: "I was expecting to be able to go into the 9th dimension and tell them to stop."

3:55pm - Psych pronounces 46 year old with headache and non stop death dreams to be of sound mind. Radiology still has not returned head CT.

4:05 - Eat small portion of turkey. Rubbery. Slightly undercooked.

4:10 - CT for 46 year old comes back. Giant glioblastoma.

4:30 - Deliver news to 46 year old patient, begin setting up neuro consults, patient interrupts, asks how long he has. Explain that it's not clear, more qualified specialists can tell him more. Patient repeatedly asks if he has less than a year, if in fact he's going to die at 46. Finally admit that the CT does not look good, that without effective treatment a year is probably optimistic. Patient strangely calm. Try to set consults and appointments, but patient says he's not interested and leaves with the following comments: "I've known this was going to happen my whole life. Nothing you can do about it now. I'd like to spend the rest of my last Thanksgiving with my family."

Letter To Calvin Klein Regarding Stovepipe Hats

2005-11-23T00:24:00.000-07:00

Dearest Calvin,

You may or may not have heard, but I've recently been cast in an off off off Broadway production (technically it's in Bend, Oregon) called Lincoln: The Man They Named A City In Nebraska After (the title is still being debated, a little on the nose for my taste). I play Lincoln. And in doing so I've become incredibly familiar with an item the world of fashion has forgotten for far too long. The stovepipe hat.

I don't need to tell you that fashion is pretty much a ridiculous carousel of recycling, ridicule, and theft. One minute bell bottoms are a Halloween costume, the next Ashton Kutcher's got them on at a Laker game. It certainly doesn't take a genius to see that your industry is just pillaging the past, more or less in order, to keep the production lines humming. Not that I'm complaining. I happen to save everything, so I've simply had to dig into my old wardrobe to keep 'up to date' (very much looking forward to the day I can put on the old parachute pants again).

But instead of yet another look at the 60's, 70's, or 80's, I'm proposing you dig a little deeper when seeking your 'inspiration' for the spring line: the 1860's, a decade of real sophistication and casual elegance (even those rebel uniforms were pretty snazzy). And nothing says 1860 like the stovepipe, which I'm confident your branding ability could turn into the must have item for next year. Get Charlieze Theron to wear one to the Oscars, Fifty Cent to slap one on in a video and the next thing you know, Cha-ching!

But I'm not in this for financial reward. I want you to keep every penny. I just want to wear the hat. I've never really had a good head for hats: baseball and cowboy styles have always fit me like lampshades. So you can imagine my surprise when I first donned my Lincoln costume and discovered that the stovepipe looked like a majestic extension of my body. Sadly, the few times I've worn it out I think that people have been too distracted by its oddity to really notice how damn good I look while wearing it. I went to a bar the other night with some of the guys and though a couple of girls did make comments about the hat, they were generally not positive and I did not return with any numbers. But I'm telling you, if this were the 1860's I'm confident I'd be beating them off with a stick.

That's where you can make a difference. With your approval and energy, the stovepipe can become ubiquitous again, and rather than focusing on the hat, people will finally focus on me, looking amazing in the hat. I'm an aging man Mr. Klein. I've found the key to unlocking my potential late in life, but not, with your help, too late. The stovepipe can be the beginning of a revolution for us both - helping you add millions to the millions you already have (maybe not such a revolution for you) and helping me meet that someone special and finally move out of my old room at mom's house. All I ask is that you find one and try it on. If the site of yourself with this fabric cylinder, this halo for mortal men, this small portion of chimney coming out of your head, doesn't convince you that this should be the cornerstone of your upcoming efforts, I dare say not only the fashion industry, but America herself, will have lost her way.

Blog Entry Ideas For Monday That Ultimately Went Nowhere

2005-11-21T12:09:00.000-07:00

1. What I Did Last Night Between The Hours Of 11PM And 7AM While Lying Horizontally In My Darkened Room

2. Reasons Jessica Simpson Would Make A Great Partner On The 100,000 Dollar Pyramid

3. Successful Pick Up Lines - My Experience

4. Scientology - A Logical Sounding Explanation

5. Places In Alabama I've Always Wanted To Visit

Teens Debate When They Were Most Drunk

2005-11-18T00:39:00.000-07:00

Three teens were enjoying cigarettes outside a bookstore cafe last night while vigorously debating when they had been the most drunk. One of the teens argued that it had been in Los Angeles, when he'd had to be carried home by his friends and had vomited on one of their shoulders. Another countered that in fact, it had been on one of their trips to Phoenix. The third agreed, remembering that was the time they'd gotten into the fight with the host's friend and sent him to the hospital, something he said the host found 'hilarious'.

The second teen said that wasn't the time he was referring to, though that had been a good one. He said he was speaking of the time they'd gone to the party in Scottsdale.

The first teen said he didn't remember any party in Scottsdale.

The second teen said that was precisely his point.

The first teen's cell phone rang. He answered and then yelled at the party on the other end, saying that he had 'already fucking told' them that they were waiting outside the bookstore. He then hung up and snubbed out his cigarette.

I can't wait, he said, till I get my goddamned license.

Thanksgiving Fired By Mall

2005-11-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving, I appreciate you coming in. You've no doubt seen Santa and the candy canes all over the place, so I won't sugarcoat it. You're fired. Canned. Over. And if you ask me it's about time. How long has it been since you really moved product? I'm not talking turkeys and grocery store BS, I'm talking about something I can sell at the Gap. Something that brings the folks in, that gets the wallets open. You think we can do that with cornucopias? Not these days pal. The truth is you're in the way and me and the boys, we've decided not to take it anymore. We're giving November to Christmas. Yes, the whole thing. Because he's an earner, you understand? He shows up, the registers ring. No more people sitting on their hands waiting for you to clear your crap out, we're turning the whole place over to Christmas the day after Halloween, and that's all there is to it.

Don't cry. Look, you take your lumps, but it doesn't mean you're through. How many years have I been telling you about your potential? It's Thanks Giving. If you'd just get off the whole Mayflower and 'thanks' thing and focus on the 'giving' you could have something. You figure out how to work an Xbox in with the cranberry sauce, you could be golden again. To be honest, you might even be able to steal October. Halloween is still moving the costumes and candy, but overall he's ripe for the picking. Hell, they all are. If it were up to me we'd roll Santa's fat ass out the day after Father's day, forget the rest of you lazy bastards. But that's a conversation for another day. Right now it's time to take your colored leaves, your googley eyed turkeys, and your cornucopias and hit the road. That act might still work in the grocery stores. But the mall, the mall is for closers.

Voice Mails Which Did Not Result In Callbacks

2005-11-14T00:15:00.000-07:00

Hey Dave, Tim here. I'm such an idiot. You know how I always play the dates of my mother and father's birthdays in the lotto? Well, damned if I didn't win. I know, it's like 280 million or something. Anyway, I left my jacket at your house on Thursday and I'm 99 percent sure that the ticket is in the left side pocket. I swear, if my head weren't attached... give me a call when you get in and I'll swing by to pick it up. The ticket. You can have the jacket. Talk to you soon.

Greg - Stan. Listen, when you asked if that bomb in the basement was armed and I said no, I hope that you understood I was saying no, it wasn't not armed, as in, it wasn't armed before, but it is now. In retrospect I probably should have just said yes, it is armed, but Katie's been getting my help with her grammar lessons this week, all on double negatives, and damned if it hasn't gotten my head all turned around. Long story short - yes, it's totally armed, do not, under any circumstances go down there. Sorry for the confusion.

Hi. You don't actually know me, but I saw you on running in the park the other day and I noticed that you dropped your water bottle. It fell right out of your hand as you went past that trashcan, but I was able to get in there and get it back. It's pretty nice, looks like an Aquifina, empty, but still, I figured you'd want it back. You seemed really sweet. You can tell a lot about a person when you follow them in a car for 56 blocks. Based on your movements, your silky black hair, your lithe frame, your glowing skin, I really felt like you were the kind of person I'd like to know. By the time you got back to your house I was so nervous I couldn't say anything so I looked up your number with your address, and... I guess I'm rambling... what I wanted to say was that I have your water bottle and I'd really like to give it back to you, and then if you're interested we might get coffee, and then... who knows. Wouldn't it be a funny story for a wedding, like giving a toast and talking about how we met because I dug your water bottle out of the trash. I don't want to sound weird. I hope this isn't weird. Anyway, the important thing is that I have your water bottle. Call me.

Look Clair, I've been thinking, and I feel like it's time for you to decide. I'm confident that you'll recognize, as I have over these last few weeks without you, that what we have is special. I understand your attraction to Steve, and I know that he's a famous male model from a wealthy family and that I'm still managing this Starbucks until my aluminum foil based sculpture gains the recognition it deserves, but it takes more than just endless fancy dinners and a few appearences in the society pages to win over the girl I know. It takes sincerity, honesty, and love (re: the ED, I'm going to look into some Viagra as soon as I get that raise, and until then we can always cuddle). I'm not wild about it, but we've been through a lot (remember when I cut your hair while you were sleeping and sold it to a wig shop so I could afford to bring you home to meet my folks?) and I think that even this infidenlity is something that we can overcome. But I can't continue to be the bigger man with you and Steve showing up in People every week. It's made it hard to explain to people that we're still together. Shit, I need to make a couple double mocha lattees, but I guess what I really wanted to say was I think I'm going to have to insist that you make a decision, once and for all. Him or me Clair? Him or me?

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52 Year Old Asks Son To Get Him High For Birthday

2005-11-11T01:28:00.000-07:00

Last night in a coffee shop a man told his son that he wanted to get high for his 53rd birthday. His son, who appeared to be in his early 20's, laughed, but the man said that he was serious, that the only present he wanted from his son was his assistance in getting high. He said that he didn't know the first thing about procuring the necessary smoking equipment, pipes, bongs, etc, let alone where to find marijuana, and that while he didn't want to imply that his son was some sort of druggie, he had his suspicions that not only did his son know where to find such things, but that he had probably experimented with them.
His son asked if the man was having a midlife crisis.
The man said that he simply woke up one morning and realized that he had no idea what it was like to be high, and that this had struck him as extremely odd. He said he didn't really regret abstaining all these years or how he'd raised his kids, that he felt he was right to point out the dangers of drugs and alcohol and that he felt his kids had become responsible adults because of it. All the same, while he didn't feel his death was imminent, he said that after being around for half a century that one comes to look at time a little differently, and that it had been eating at him for some time that he'd probably missed his opportunities to enjoy this sort of experimentation. He pointed out that he could hardly ask his coworkers or neighbors for help. And then it hadoccurred to him that his birthday might provide just the right opportunity, and his son the perfect companion, for such an experience. He said he was sorry if his assumptions offended his son, and if he couldn't or wouldn't help, he said he would understand.
His son said he was simply surprised, but that certainly, if his father was serious, he could probably make arrangements. He asked if there were any other off the wall, long buried fantasies that his father wanted to act on. Dropping acid? Learning guitar? Following a band around the country?
Let me get stoned, he said, and I'll give it some thought.

Referring To Yourself In The Second Person: An FAQ

2005-11-09T00:54:00.000-07:00

1. What is the second person?
The second person refers to the use of the pronoun 'you'.

2. Should I be referring to myself in the second person?
Absolutely. Traditional pronouns, I and we, have become tired and lame. Some have turned to the third person as an alternative, referring to themselves by their own name and the like, but this fad has run it's course and joined the first person as passe. The second person transcends the implied limitations of other forms of address allowing a degree of intimacy and urgency that would otherwise be impossible.

3. How do I do it?
Easy. When referring to yourself, simply replace the word "I' with the word 'you'. For example, if asked what you'd like for breakfast, instead of, "I'd like some pancakes", respond, "You'd like some pancakes."

4. Isn't that confusing?
Those who lack a certain level of cultural awareness and sophistication may become confused, which is all the more reason to declare your independence from these philistines as soon as possible.

5. So when you say 'your independence' are you referring to me or you?
Philistine.

6. I guess I'm just still not getting it. Or would that be, you guess you're still not getting it?
Imagine narrating a story so the audience is made to feel 'in the moment'. Ex. "You're walking down the street, you see someone, you feel them wishing they we're as cool and culturally aware as you." This way the audience is able to fully embrace the 'experience' of being the speaker and the speaker asserts that this experience is worthy of being experienced first hand (via the second person).

7. I just tried... Sorry, You just tried it on your wife and she told you to stop acting like a jackass.
Being on the grammatical bleeding edge and embracing emerging concepts ahead of the masses may have consequences for home and work relationships. Those worth knowing will adapt, and those who fail merely chain themselves to a lower societal echelon.

8. And you really don't think this makes you sound like an idiot?
Which you are you referring to? If you mean me, no, I sound incredibly sophisticated. If you mean you, then I can only recommend following the guidelines above as a means of elevating your speech.

9. But see, it's confusing. No one ever knows who you're really referring to.
You means you, and you is everyone.

10. Is there a place where I, I mean you, can practice until you're ready to try it in the real world?
There are weekly second person support meetings in most major cities to help deal with common issues that stem from embracing this evolution, i.e. beatings, firings, divorce. (You host the one in NYC if anyone wants to stop by)

You enjoyed answering these questions, and if there's anything you can do to be of further assistance, people should feel free to contact you.

You wish you all good luck.

Plans For Saturday?

2005-11-07T01:58:00.000-07:00

We'd love to have you guys over. Feels like it's been a while. We were thinking about firing up the grill, bottle of wine, maybe a little scategories or hearts? Should be fun.

It's funny, Mary thinks you probably won't come. She thinks you were 'weirded out' last time. You weren't weirded out were you? I mean, I showed you guys those photos because I thought we were bonding. Besides, you're our neighbors, so it's not like it was anything you weren't going to see eventually, right? (BTW, appreciate the suggestion, but Mary and I just feel like drapes or blinds don't go with our design scheme) I thought the evening went well. So you guys aren't hot tubbers, big deal. Where is it written that neighbors need to get naked and hop in the bubbles together the first time they hang out? Like I told Mary, there's plenty of time for that down the road. You guys preferred cards, we played cards. You preferred keeping score with pad and pen, we usually have losers remove an article of clothing. Po-tah-to, po-taa-to, am I right?

I will apologize once more for mine and Mary's brief spat. When she threw the glass of wine, she was aiming at me, and I can tell you from prior experience that when she's not three sheets to the wind she's usually spot on. Once, I was on the couch and she clocked me from the kitchen, had to be like fifty feet. The point is, you only got hit because we were sitting right next to each other, and that was only because we were having such a good time, right?

And, I hesitate to bring this up because I feel like it's been beaten into the ground, but when I was giving you some dry clothes and I suggested that it might be a hoot to try wearing one another's underwear, I really just meant it as a gesture of friendship, nothing more. Sort of like blood brothers. Only different.

Regardless, since the evening ended shortly after that and we haven't heard from you since, I guess that Mary's a little worried that it didn't go so well. I told her that she's imagining things, that you guys have probably been busy, what with your house going up for sale and all (you sure don't stay put very long do you?). But they don't call us back, she says. When we knock on the door they don't answer, even if we just saw them go inside, she says. When we mail them invitations I just find them later in their garbage, she says. But I told her, you're a couple on the go-go-go. That's why I figured it was probably easiest to email you at work. (Mary found a business card in your garbage, she's quite the little treasure hunter. You wouldn'tbelieve what she's found in the Wilson's trash. I've got a box of things, I'll show you Saturday) And if for some reason you don't get this, I'll try heading up to your office later in the week. Don't worry, I'll make sure you guys don't miss the fun.

Festivities commence around seven. We'll heat up the tub just in case.

Your Pals Next Door

p.s. really ought to open your blinds once in a while, it's got to be like a dungeon over there

Please Do Not Hang Up

2005-11-04T00:34:00.000-07:00

Please do not hang up.

Your call is important to us, otherwise, why would we be paying people in India three dollars an hour to answer it? Representatives are currently working with other customers who were unable to follow simple directions or consult our website which, while certified for reading comprehension levels down to the second grade, still proves 'confusing' for those with diminished capacity or a habit of drinking their breakfast. Rest assured that our foreign intermediaries will quickly hear and then dispatch with the trivial complaints ahead of yours through a carefully choreographed dance of heavily accented misunderstanding that reliably forces callers to question whether they should be wasting their time and ours on such non-issues when there are real problems facing the world (earthquakes, hurricanes, Tom Cruise is having a baby!). And then someone will be right with you.

While you wait we suggest you try the following remedies. Look at the directions again, bearing in mind that they've successfully been followed by monkeys, rats, and a tortoise named Bobo in our lab tests. If you're still having problems, try looking out the window. Isn't it a beautiful day? Do you really want to be inside talking about 'problems' when you could be out on a cholesterol and stress reducing walk? (In the event that it's raining or dark where you are, isn't now a good time to curl up with a book, or maybe a simple to follow set of directions?) If you're unable to match the wits of Bobo and can't convince yourself you have anything better to do, please remain on the line.

It's hard to say how much longer the wait will be, and when you think about, who can really say how much longer any of us has? It's entirely possible that you'll die of a massive coronary or stroke before our representative can reach you, and the lasting memory your friends and family will take away will be that you died while waiting for customer support. It's probably not the legacy you wanted but hey, you REALLY need an answer right? You REALLY can't follow those directions. So sit back, relax, and imagine them eulogizing your empty and untimely death.

Your call is very important to us.

Jack The Married Australian - Observations 10/29

2005-11-02T00:13:00.000-07:00

10:35 Group arrives at bar to find Jack The Married Australian hitting on Female Friend
10:36 Member of Group (also female but sadly not as attractive as Female Friend) pulls Female Friend aside to alert her to fact that she's seen Jack in another bar earlier where he talked extensively about being married. Female Friend is skeptical.
10:38 Group member (female) asks Jack what happened to his ring. Jack laughs, makes comment about it being a costume, claims to spot friends, leaves.
10:39 Jack The Australian is trashed as slimy by assembled group.
10:48 Jack The Australian's wallet is located under group's table. Contents: Family pictures confirming married status as well as children. Also: 400$
10:49 Vigorous debate. Briefly: Jack is a slimeball. The money should be pocketed by the group and used for night of drinks at another bar. The wallet (empty) should be left with bartender so Jack can eventually claim it. Conversely: Jack is a slimeball. Keeping his money makes the group members no better. The wallet should be returned ASAP. Moving (and buzzkilling) speech by group member (male - also: has crush on Female Friend) results in decision to pursue second option.
10:55 Two group members (males) locate Jack in neighboring bar and return wallet. Jack is overjoyed and endlessly thankful. Insists on buying them drinks.
10:58 Jack The Australian returns with group members, thanks all, apologizes for prior behavior, buys round in thanks.
11:20 Another round on Jack
11:30 Shots on Jack
11:40 Third round on Jack
11:58 Everyone is speaking in Australian accents
12:25 Jack's oratory on why marriages don't count on other continents is surprisingly convincing.
1:04 Fourth round on Jack
1:05 Everyone loves Jack The Australian. Group members comment to one another about how they're getting to drink the 400$ despite having done 'the right thing'.
1:06 Group member (male - crush on Female Friend) notices Jack the Australian has arm around Female Friend.
1:30 Fifth round on Jack. Group member (male - crush on Female Friend) abstains.
1:55 Jack The Australian kisses Female Friend at table.
2:07 Jack The Australian offers Female Friend a taxi home. Group member (male - crush on Female Friend) tells Female Friend he'll gladly give her a ride. Female Friend leaves with Jack.
2:08 Group member (male - crush on Female Friend) excoriates group for allowing Female Friend to leave with Jack The Married Australian. Fellow group member reminds all whose idea it was to locate Jack and return the wallet.
2:12 Group member (male - crush on Female Friend) exits bar alone.

Best News For Park City, Utah, EVER!

2005-10-31T11:29:00.000-07:00

Residents of Park City, Utah:

Incredible news! A once in a lifetime opportunity! I'm willing to be your neighbor!

As you may well know there are currently a number of fine American and international cities competing to play host to me and my entourage for the next few years, and I'm proud to announce that you're on the short list! And just between you, me, and the lamp post, I'm pulling for you.

Obviously at this point you're probably wondering what you can do to secure this incredible 'get' for yourself and your town. How can you, the average millionaire citizen of Park City, help your town compete with the tempting offers from places like Waco, TX, Pittsburgh, PA, and Little Rock, AR? Simple - buy my house!

That's right. Not only am I willing to live among you, I'm willing to let you, the community, be partial or total participants in owning my home. I've picked out a nice one, Frank Lloyd Wright inspired, 35 acres, 7.5 bedrooms (what exactly is a half bedroom?), 8 baths, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you about the views. It's on the market for about 8 million, and I'm willing to accept community participation to cover the present 7.8 million dollar shortfall.

Suggestions for raising this sum include but are not limited to: fundraising dinners (I'm willing to appear if someone wants to cover my airfare), sale of autographed memorabilia (my signature or yours, whichever you think is worth more), and the organization of some sort of pseudo-religious tax exempt entity in my honor (that's how they dragged L. Ron Hubbard out to LA). Bear in mind these are just suggestions and certainly are not intended to stifle your creativity.

I know that after the Olympics and Sundance you thought it was over for your little town, but here's the moment to transcend those minor 'happenings' and finally put your city on the map. So stop daydreaming about coming over to see me for a cup of sugar (actually the estate is gated and I'm sure there will be dogs, but leave your request with security and someone will be in touch) and make it happen. For you, your family, and your future.

Best of luck Park City.

Mr. Kyle

p.s. If you're a Tucson resident looking to hasten my departure contact Jill at the Run Him Out On A Rail campaign. Every dollar brings us one step closer to putting all this ugliness behind us.

Excerpt of Conversation That Resulted In Einstein's Reincarnation As Brad Pitt

2005-10-28T00:57:00.000-07:00

E: So I was close?
G: You were in the neighborhood.
E: I knew it. So you're sending me back to finish?
G: Everyone goes back.
E: This is fantastic.
G: But you're not going to finish.
E: Oh no, I'm close, you said so yourself. A couple years I'll have it all sewn up.
G: Right, well, I'm guessing you'll be less interested in all that next go around.
E: Less interested? Are you nuts! I mean that with all due respect your... you know, God.
G: Al, I'm not going to lie to you. You're not getting the big brain next trip.
E: Oh.
G: But trust me, you're not going to miss it. Don't misinterpret this, but you're going to be incredibly hot. And you remember Jane Mansfield, Marilyn Monroe?
E: Sure.
G: Nothing compared to what I've got planned. And they're all going to be after you.
E: Thanks all the same, but I'd really prefer to get back to work.
G: I know you would, and technically I can't stop you. Once you're there it's all up to you.
E: Well that settles it. I vow to finish my unification theory. With God as my witness, I... what's my name going to be?
G: Brad. Brad Pitt.
E: Brad? Really?
G: You'll make it work.
E: Very well then. With God as my witness, I Brad Pitt will solve the puzzle that lies at the heart of our universe, I will answer the questions that underlie our existence, I will know the mind of... well, of you.
G: I'll be eagerly awaiting your conclusions.
E: I'm serious. I'm going to do it.
G: I'm sure you will. Best of luck.
E: You'll see God, you'll see.
G: Okay. Okay. Just wash your hair this time.

Notice of Breech of Contract Suit Filed By Person You Were On Night Of August 19th

2005-10-26T00:57:00.000-07:00

Dear sir,

This is notice of a breech of contract lawsuit being filed against You by my client, The Person You Were On The Night of August 19th. As you may recall, after a lengthy internal discussion you and my client negotiated a set of acceptable goals and circumstances to be collectively pursued in the coming months, and, to insure their implementation, wrote down and signed the document containing the agreed to terms, what will from now on be referred to as 'the contract'.
The details need not detain us here, my client has contacted you numerous times in recent weeks regarding your failure to live up to the central clauses, i.e. the gym, the garden, the novel. He's been more than considerate in allowing you to shuffle and move deadlines. But your actions of the last week have dissolved all trust and made clear your complete lack of intention to meet the agreed to terms.
Putting aside the lawyer talk for a second, let me just say on a personal level that I'm not sure what gave you the idea that purchasing a 'minivan' rather than the agreed to 'red convertible' was remotely acceptable, but it's a mistake you will pay for dearly. As he expressed in no uncertain terms during your discussion, The Person You Were On The Night of August 19th was afraid of getting older and desperately seeking items and actions to assure his youth and vigor. Since you've attained this mammoth affront to vehicular taste my client has been subject to stares and comments that may have irrevocably damaged his psyche and youthful reserves. A coworker asked him if he drove that car to 'bingo' for christ's sake! You think a jury won't be sympathetic when they hear that?
So my client has given up hope that's you'll ever right this ship, and rightly so I might add. We've no other recourse but to seek damages, both compensatory and punitive, for your wanton disregard of the contracted terms. You may think you've moved on, but The Person You Were On The Night Of August 19th is not prepared to go quietly into past like so many of the other People You Were with whom you've made and broken agreements. You've crossed the wrong You this time.

See you in court,

Your Lawyer

p.s. you show up in that damn minivan and I'll shoot you myself

Agnostic Babysitter Faces Crying Eight Year Old

2005-10-24T04:35:00.000-07:00

Last night a self professed ‘adamant agnostic’ babysitter was confronted by an eight year who came out of his bedroom in tears after having realized that his mother was eventually going to die. It was entirely unclear what prompted this realization. The young boy simply kept repeating ‘don’t let my mommy die.’ The babysitter assured the boy that his mother was fine and that she would be home very shortly. Once the boy stopped crying he began to pepper the babysitter with questions about life, death, the afterlife, the bible, vampires, zombies, ensoulment, and the current status of his grandfather’s remains which had been interred for about two years. The babysitter mostly claimed not to know or explained that these were questions best posed to the boy’s mother.
The mention of the mother once again got the boy worried about her eventual death. When he asked what would become of her the babysitter felt a sort of duty to her beliefs to tell the boy that she suspected that nothing would become of her, that her remains would be eaten by bacteria and insects, and that once her organs stopped functioning she would cease to exist save for in the memories of those who loved her. The soul was a myth, as was Heaven. She felt this was the real test of her lack of faith.
Instead, she assured him that there was a Heaven and that his mother would wait for him there. The boy asked if the babysitter would also be there.
Sure, she told him, why not.

Attempts To Impress Phrenologist Girlfriend Land Man In Hospital

2005-10-19T01:54:00.000-07:00

A man in the ER for 'constant headaches' explained that he'd been taking a hammer to his own head in an effort to save his relationship with his phrenologist girlfriend. He said that she'd been talking about a trial separation and had referenced some of what she felt were the shortcomings of his personality, things she claimed to be able to sense by simply feeling the shape of his head. His Ideality area was apparently small while his Secretivness area was too large. She claimed to have noticed a very large Destructivness spot behind his ear, and most damning, she said the spot on the top left center of his head was almost devoid of Hope.
He said that over the last few weeks he'd been using a hammer to try to change the shape of his head, mashing in the troubling areas and swelling up the underdeveloped ones, in an effort to convince her that he'd really changed. He'd been able to mostly manage the pain though Advil and unexpected moments of unconsciousness, but when she'd actually moved out a day ago, he said that he'd really laid into himself and the pain had yet to subside.
The doctor said that it appeared that he did indeed have a significant lump and that a CT would be necessary to determine whether or not the skull had been fractured. He wondered what the man could have been thinking.
That's right in the Reasoning and Planning area, he said, I was hoping she'd feel I'd gotten smarter.

Note From The Dog You Sent To Live "On A Farm"

2005-10-17T01:25:00.000-07:00

It's me. I made it. I know, I'm as surprised as you. Honestly, the whole thing sounded a little too good to be true. Big open fields to run around in? Lots of other dogs to play with? And coming right on the heels of that unfortunate 'biting Aunt Gwen' incident, I'll admit to wondering if the whole thing wasn't some sort of code for 'take the dog to the pound and have him euthanized'.
Boy was I wrong! I don't want to disparage my former home, but this place rocks. And it's not just about the scenery and the license to 'run around'. It's really about the relationships. The dogs here, well, they're just incredible. One of the Lassies lives in my barn. Some people say she's a snob. I say, who else is going to teach us to write letters home and use words like disparage?
Anyway, we're having a sort of doggie Olympics this weekend (it's not nearly as formal as it sounds) and I just thought I'd throw it out there in case you wanted to try to make it. I'm in the stick chase and the sock tug, and, not to brag, but I think I've got a chance in the first one (I've been running a lot and I'm SOOOO thin now! Not that you got rid of me for being fat, but if that was it, problem solved!). I know you're really busy, and even before the Aunt Gwen thing you seemed to be wondering if you really wanted a dog, but it would be great if you made it out. I'd love to give you a nice big kiss (or we can just shake, are you in a relationship? you don't have a cat do you?).
So, you know, if you can make it, awesome. And if you happen to be impressed by my showing in either event, or my new slender physique, or my somewhat prodigious vocabulary and writing skills, I already checked with the big guy and he says you could still totally take me home. But no pressure. Either way. This place is great.

Your dog.

Man Fears Genius Stifled By Blog Format

2005-10-14T17:46:00.000-07:00

A man in a coffee shop yesterday told a friend that he feared his enormous talents were hamstrung by the format of his current blog in which he purported to summarize conversations that he may or may not have actually overheard. He expressed an interest in continuing to bring these sorts of moments to his infinitesimally small readership, while at the same time freeing up the format in order to more broadly define and share his vision, namely, a photoblog with no pictures. He suggested that he might put his site through some changes over the weekend and relaunch his digital utopia the following Monday. He then predicted it would probably end up being a disaster.
His friend then removed his headphones and asked if the man had said something.
No, he said, nothing important.

Man Torn Between Sex And Baldness

2005-10-12T23:12:00.000-07:00

A man in a coffee shop last night explained to his friend that he'd been having good results with the hair loss drug his doctor had prescribed for him six months ago. At a recent checkup the doctor said that he's not only noticed a drop off in hair loss, but some regrowth in previously thin areas. However, he said, that progress had come at a price: his sex drive had taken a serious dive. While he doubted that the new hair was actually visible to the untrained eye, he said that the knowledge he was no longer thinning had seemed to help his confidence and allowed him to approach women. He'd dated one girl for a few weeks, and was now in a relationship with another who he'd begun seeing four months prior. And in both cases he said that he rarely found himself excited and in a few cases he'd been unable to perform when called on. His doctor said that this was a known side effect of the drug, and one that effected some men more than others.
His friend immediately said that he'd rather be bald than not have sex.
But the man argued that being bald might impact his ability to have sex just as much as the drugs. Not because he'd be unwilling, but because he might find the women less so.
His head, he said, was lumpy.

Husband Thinking Of Divorcing Vegetarian

2005-10-10T21:48:00.000-07:00

A married man in a coffee shop told a friend last night that he was strongly considering divorcing his newly vegetarian wife. He said that at first he'd been in favor of it because he imagined that the dietary restrictions would help her lose some of the pounds she'd gained since their wedding. However, he said he hadn't considered how isolating their different eating habits would be. Each of them bought their own groceries because she now shopped in a special organic market, and each prepared their own dinners. Often they no longer ate together. Many of the resteraunts they'd gone to when dating were no longer acceptable to his wife because of their limited vegetarian options. And though she didn't often mention it, he said he felt that she was dissapointed when he ordered a hamburger or a steak.
His friend laughed and said surely the man wasn't serious. He asked if the man planned to put 'irreconcilable diets' on the divorce papers. Of all the reasons for marriages to end up in trouble he said that this sounded like one of the most trivial. What about sickness and health, death do us part, all those promises? Was there an out for 'stops eating meat'?
I made those promises to a carnivore, the husband said.

Student Haunted By End Of Vehicular Love Affair

2005-10-05T13:08:00.000-07:00

A college student in a coffeeshop told his friend that his relationship of more than a year had just ended because he'd become obsessed with a girl he'd seen only once and never actually spoken to. He explained that last summer, while driving home from college on a two lane road, he'd found himself alternately following and being followed by a beautiful girl in a blue Honda Civic. He said that it had become sort of like a game, that when one of them passed a car they would wait and make sure the other got around as well before speeding on. At one point, while traveling through a small town they'd been stopped at a railroad crossing, and he'd watched in his mirror as she inched ever closer to his window in her traffic lane, only to have the gates go up just as she'd pulled even, an outcome he described as 'perfect'. As they neared his hometown the road split in two directions, and just before reaching the split the little Honda had pulled over, but for whatever reason, he was unable to justify it now, he'd pressed on, afraid to actually stop and make contact. And he'd regretted and obsessed over it ever since. He'd scoured the campus for the car, searched something called 'facebook' for her photo, and spent countless hours sitting in the center of campus just hoping to see her. Meanwhile, his relationship with his girlfriend had suffered. She said he seemed distant and uninterested, and last week when she'd discovered a posting he'd put on Craigslist regarding the experience, she'd decided to break up with him.
The friend asked him how he could possible let a brief experience with a person he never even spoke to become such a big deal. He stated that he passed lots of pretty girl in cars and on foot every day without letting it get to him. Further, he said he could almost guarantee that if the girl turned up tomorrow, she would fall far short of the ridiculous expectations that the student had built up for her.
The student said that maybe he wasn't obsessed with the girl at all, but with the opportunity and the fact that he hadn't taken it. He agreed that because he could not find her, their would be relationship now seemed to posses seemingly limitless potential, which was perhaps what he'd wanted to avoid ruining by pulling over in the first place.
Who'd have thought, he said, you could miss someone you never met.

Woman Upset Husband Will Not Accept Oral Sex While Driving

2005-10-03T10:00:00.000-07:00

A woman speaking to a group of friends in a coffee shop last night said that it really bothered her that her husband had never allowed her to perform oral sex while he was driving. She said that she had offered on numerous occasions and that he always told her to stop, that driving was a serious thing and required his full concentration. She asked around her table to see if anyone else had heard similar arguments. They had not.
She said that just once she'd like her husband to quit worrying about everything and to be a little bit free. And if they hit an embankment and she died with her head in his lap, so be it. She said that was unlikely anyway. Her husband listened intently to the radio while driving and had never even had a ticket. She said this was practically the same.
If listened to the radio was just like receiving oral sex, one of the men in her group said, I'd spend a lot more time listening to the radio.

Girl To Good Looking To Be A Best Friend

2005-09-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

A young man in a coffee shop was encouraging his girlfriend to spend more time hanging out with her friends so that he might spend more time with his male friends. The girl said that she didn't really have many really good friends because most of them were jealous of her appearance. She said that while she was sometimes invited out in big groups, none of the girls felt like hanging out with her by themselves because it made them feel bad about their bodies. On occasions when the girls went to the beach or did something that might call for revealing clothing, she said she was never invited because of the way she looked in her swimwear in comparison to the other girls. And at dinners she said she'd received glares from 'friends' for eating a normal sized meal while those not blessed with her metabolism picked at salads.
The young man asked if she was honestly saying that she was 'too cute' to have best friends.
I'm not saying I couldn't have best friends, she said, they'd just have to good looking enough not to be intimidated. That's why you always see hot girls in pairs.

Man Pleased That Girlfriend's Career Failures Force Her To Stay In Shape

2005-09-26T16:50:00.000-07:00

A man in a coffee shop this morning was telling a friend that while many people had suggested to his girlfriend that it might be time to give up on her thus far unsuccessful attempt to be an actress, he said that he was more than happy to see her keep going because the demands of the job motivated her to keep herself in fantastic shape. He said that the pressure to keep pace with stars like Angelina Jolie and Cameron Diaz had sculpted and toned his girlfriend's body to near perfection, and as long as she had a desire to be part of the entertainment industry, he said he never had to worry about her letting herself go. Nor did he have to sound like a 'bad guy' for suggesting that she watch her diet or figure, because these things were all necessary for her to further her career. The fact that she had yet to land a part or make any money didn't bother him in the least. He said that he'd been the breadwinner in previous relationships and getting those girls to go on a diet had been like pulling teeth.
His friend asked if the girlfriend was still enjoying the acting or if she was giving serious thought to giving it up.
The man said that she'd been pretty depressed with her lack of success and had talked about wanting to move on.
His friend suggested that if she was unhappy, maybe that would be for the best.
Why, the man asked, then she'd just be unhappy and fat.

Man Attempting To Burn Son Out On Baseball

2005-09-23T01:45:00.000-07:00

A man was complaining to his friend in coffee shop yesterday about how much he hated baseball and how he was anxiously awaiting the day that his son wised up and joined him. He said that he was taking the boy to practices four nights a week and sitting through at least two games on the weekends. Beyond that, his son had talked him into buying partial season tickets for the local major league club and together they'd suffered through eleven games which he described as 'professional paint drying contests.'
His friend suggested that perhaps he should lessen his exposure if he hated it so much.
The man said that exposure was the key, as it was only with exposure that his son would grow to realize what an awful game it was. At some point he'd see that it was mostly standing around and failing to hit things. Then he'd watch the coach's son throw a tantrum for the hundredth time when he was removed from the pitcher's mound and suddenly he'd get it - it's a horrible game played by horrible people, and he'd never want anything to do with it again. And if allowing his son to wallow in the game almost non-stop could help him learn this lesson sooner, then all the suffering would be worth it.
His friend said he doubted very much that such an approach would be successful.
It worked for my dad, the man said.

Woman Feels Friends Divorce Has Improved Her Marriage

2005-09-21T00:29:00.000-07:00

A woman talking to a friend in a coffee shop last night said that she felt the ongoing divorce of a mutual acquaintance had drastically improved the state of her own marriage. She and her husband had been talking very little and arguing a great deal of late, but since news of the divorce had gotten out it was if they'd once again found something mutually interesting to discuss. Further, she felt that the emerging details of just how many issues the divorcing husband was having to deal with had led her husband to rediscover his appreciation of being married. They'd been out to dinner four times and had sex twice since the news broke. She said she was so pleased with the change that she was beginning to hold back the latest information regarding the divorce to dole it out more slowly.
Her friend asked why?
She said that it was similar to the way that people tended to drive more safely for a while after seeing a wreck, but after a time they'd simply return to normal.
If I want things to stay like this, she said, I have to keep spreading the wreck down the road.

Man Sees Potential In Not Helping Weak And Sick

2005-09-19T10:24:00.000-07:00

A man discussing the aftermath of the recent hurricane with friends wondered aloud what, as a society, we might be able to accomplish if instead of diverting funds to help our weakest individuals, we applied those resources to improving the lot of the fittest individuals. He argued that in the rest of the animal kingdom this was precisely how things worked, that the weak and sick were abandoned if not killed and eaten by those around them. Therefore, he felt that the weakest members of the gene pool were sorted out and the strongest members pressed on, all of which helped those species continue to improve. He said that in essence, our desire to help the weak instead of get rid of them was keep us from evolving. He asked his friends to imagine a world in which we did not coddle the poor and jobless, but got rid of them.
One of his friends pointed out that he sounded a little but like Hitler.
The man paused a moment and then agreed that he kind of did.
Of course, Jews aren't really on the agenda, he said, I'm talking about people without jobs or money.

Computer Tech Told To Pretend He's Not In Middle Of Blackout

2005-09-14T00:13:00.000-07:00

A technical support representative was having coffee with a coworker last night and explaining how he'd been forced to work through a blackout. He said that when the power went down everyone had initially celebrated, thinking that they might get a breather from answering calls or perhaps even sent home since none of the computers worked and without them they were unable to access any information about the customers or their computers. However, the blackout had not affected the phones and because the company he worked for was an outsourcer, they were paid by the manufacturer based on the number of calls they handled. Therefore, his manager had made them continue taking calls - in the dark. The manager had also stressed that they should not let on that they did not have power as this would make the customers suspicious, and instructed the support reps to continue acting as if they were looking up the customer's information despite not having any functioning computers.
His coworker asked how the manager had suggested that they get access to the information they needed to actually solve people's problems.
He told us to wing it, the rep said, and if we were wrong they'd call back.

Man With Screwdriver In Anus Feels Hospital Service Is Subpar

2005-09-12T21:48:00.000-07:00

A doctor in coffee shop yesterday morning was telling a colleague about a patient who'd been complaining endlessly about the quality of care he'd received since being admitted to the hospital. She said that he'd come in with 'abdominal pain' but had failed to mention anything about the cordless electric screwdriver he'd inserted in his rectum. When they finally discovered the problem through examination, he'd been rushed to surgery where it was discovered that he'd perforated his bowel, something that could easily have killed him. But rather than being remotely grateful as he recovered, she said he'd been complaining about the quality of the food, the fact that he couldn't get his favorite program on the TV, and the lack of attention he felt he'd been receiving from the nursing staff. She said she felt like slapping him and reminding him that he was only here because he'd stuck an appliance into his ass.
Her colleague said it was cases like this that made him question the way medicine was practiced today.
Just in evolutionary terms, he said, should we really be saving the ones with screwdrivers in their asses?