BICWWIG

Bicwwig.

Meet my new work motto. It applies to everything I do each minute that I do it.

The Best I Can With What I Got.

I manage a team of three bodies. I say bodies, because they breathe and are alive.

Otherwise? Bicwwig.

I gave one of the dudes an assignment to copy some files from one server to another. The files got copied all right. Right into the recycle bin. I fired a ninja throwing star into the wall next to his head.

Bicwwig.

I asked another to do a list of ten things, very specifically described in painstaking detail. Four got done, the rest ignored. I dropped a one ton weight on his head while he held up a comically undersized umbrella.

Bicwwig.

The third one built a house out of bricks. I huffed and puffed and sent him a thousand emails asking him what the status of his task was, but I couldn't blow down his wall of stupid. I finally lobbed a grenade of intelligence through his window only to find that he had a force field of indifference. He is impervious to intelligence, you see.

Bicwwig.

I do the best I can with what I've got. Give me lemons and I'll make lemonade that tastes strongly of failure and tears. Give me vodka and I'll make karaoke that tastes the same way.

Bicwwig.

The color of embers in a dying winter fire

I went to a birthday party with my kids this past weekend. It was at a place called “Bounce U” which is basically just a few huge rooms with giant inflatable slides and bouncy things. Oh, and screeching kids. It has that too. It also has snot and crying kids. And pizza. One of the workers there was a 20 year old girl with a “smartphone” and a giant head.

‘Was the head inflatable?’ he asked knowingly.

Alas, no.

‘How smart was the phone?’ he asked indifferently.

Not smart enough to know it was being operated by a human pumpkin.

Her head was orange. I mean basketball orange. Gorgeous Hawaiian sunset orange. Apparently the tanning phenomenon has spread to the point where fake tans don’t even actually have to be the color tan; or even in the brown family.

“I went to Aruba for a week. I got such an awesome Orange! I mean, I think I was the orange-est one on the whole beach!”

She looked annoyed to be in the same state as these frolicking youngsters, much less in the same room as a 20 foot tall rubber slide that continually spewed out rolling toddlers who were either terrified or laughing or both at the same time. I can only imagine the text messages she was forcibly sending into the atmosphere with her tangerine speed-thumbs:

“OMG. This kid just bounced on his head! LOL! I’m a pumpkin-headed buffoon!”

“I’m totally texting at work! Someone just tried to stick a carving knife into my head and cut a toothy grin into it! OMFG!”

“LOL. My boss is such a jerk. I’m so over this place. I just had to extract myself from a basketball hoop because someone mistakenly shot a three pointer with my face.”

And so forth.

She was also, strangely enough, dressed like an Indian princess. She had the required “Bounce U” t-shirt on, but otherwise she had on furry moccasin-like boots and in general looked like a Cherokee. I moved a safe distance away and yelled “Hey Pumpkin-hontas!” to see if she would react. She didn’t (unless you count moving your thumbs over a blackberry keypad and eye-rolling dramatically as reacting).

She was orange.

Anyway, my kids had a good time bouncing around. The name of the place suggested that it was a place of higher learning, but there were no diplomas or graduation ceremonies. Maybe we’ll get one in the mail. I would like our diploma hand delivered by “Tangerine Dream” so I can tell her what a horrible Halloween decoration she is. Then I’ll make her wait in the garden for rabbits to dig her up and eat her.

She was orange.

"Everything's Coming Up Babies!"

Mr. and Mrs. Freemantle get the good news over the phone that they have been chosen to appear on a new reality show called “Everything’s Coming Up Babies!” The show deals with the months leading up to the birth of a new baby (or babies). Part of the process involves a home interview with the happy couple, who at this time are 7 months along and expecting quadruplets. Mrs. Freemantle, Judy, is quite large and very uncomfortable. Mr. Freemantle, Ray, is beaming happily and excited about the prospect of becoming a father. The camera crew and an interviewer have just arrived at the Freemantle home to interview Ray for the show.

“Testing. Testing. One, two three. Testing. OK for you? Good. OK Ray, we are just going to ask you some basic questions about you and Judy. Answer however you see fit, ok? Real informal.” The interviewer finishes testing the microphone and hooks it up to Ray’s shirt collar.

“No problem,” says Ray as he settles into his favorite chair.

A voice from behind him says “Counting down. Ready in 3…2…1…”

“Thanks for taking some time to talk to us, Ray. How did you and Judy meet? What was your first date like?”

“We had a rocky start to our relationship. I admit I wasn’t the nicest guy to be around. Between the heroin and the drinking, I was a real ‘gloomy Gus’, if you will. One time, Judy came over to my apartment with some takeout food for dinner, and I got so enraged by the sight of her I punched her in the neck so hard her throat collapsed and her Adam’s apple exploded. Boy was I embarrassed! I was so high when she walked in the door I thought she was a Panda Bear coming to put me in jail for concealing a cartoon hammer. She wasn’t a Panda Bear though, she was Judy, and I had to make a call to 911 pretty quick! That was our first date and we always remember it to this day with a fond smile.”

“CUT!” The director’s voice booms out over a loudspeaker as the interviewer leans in to talk to Ray. “Ray, ah, you want to try to cool it with the drug and violence talk? This is a family show.”

“You wanted to know about our first date!” Ray protested.

“Yes, I know, but try to clean up your stories. Consider your audience, OK? Now, why don’t you tell us about the night you proposed to Judy,” the interviewer says as she leans a little closer to Ray squinting as though she is interviewing the Prime Minister of England on national TV.

“Wow, what an amazing evening that was. We finished our ‘Moons over My Hammy’ at our local Denny’s and she was like totally constipated. I started making fun of her backed up shitter and then she eventually gave in and started laughing about it too. That’s when she noticed a ring floating in her Diet Doctor Pepper. I had the waitress put it in there! She fished it out and started weeping all over the place. Needless to say, I was disgusted with her public display of weakness. After disciplining her at the table in front of the Denny’s patrons, I asked her to marry me. She initially said ‘No’ through a lot of tears and whining, but I suggested she say ‘Yes’. By ‘suggested’ I mean I silently stared at her clenching and unclenching my jaw until she said ‘Yes’, and the rest is romance history!”

“Um, ah,” the reporter nervously shuffles her notes. “So, Quadruplets! Tell me your reaction when you found out you were going to be having four babies at once!”

“Well, I was enthusiastic; maybe overly so! I was completely naked, of course, and I was just doing a little jig singing, ‘I’m Gonna Knock You Out’ over and over again until I had all of that nervous energy out of my system. Then when the prostitute left our pool house, I found Judy and let her know that I was finally OK with all of this, despite my initial reaction of vomiting all over her newly-planted bed of hydrangeas. I also kicked her kneecap off. Initially, mind you. Plus, we found the kneecap in the hydrangeas, which was fortunate.”

“CUT!”

An exasperated Ray throws his hands up in a helpless gesture as the interviewer confers with the director. The interviewer returns and says, “Ray, we are having a big problem with your choice of language. Please clean up your act for TV, ok?”

“I thought I was being clean,” Ray mutters to himself as he nods an agreement and the interview continues.

“Has your wife had many physical symptoms of pregnancy? How involved have you been?”

“Oh me oh my, those babies have certainly been active! Those little bas- Those little guys have really been moving around. The way they have been kicking in there, I think we have a whole soccer team in there! Hopefully they aren’t Argentinean, am I right? They are really flipping around like a bunch of little nutfuckers!”

“CUT!”

“Ray, please, you cannot curse on this show. This is a show being broadcast during the day on a family network!”

“Oh, right, right, sorry about that.”

“OK and ACTION!”

“When I found out we were pregnant, my stomach flipped a few hundred times! *laughs* I told my boss and he wasn’t too enthusiastic for some reason, starting in with ‘What about work?’ and ‘Who is going to cover for you?’ and whatnot. What a shitbrick!”

“CUT!”

The interviewer hurriedly packs up her things as the entire camera crew packs up and leaves within a five minute time period. Ray looks around confused and then heads into the kitchen where Judy is waiting expectantly.

“Well, how did it go?” Judy asks.

“I think it went OK, Jude. I really do.” Ray says. Just then he leans very close to Judy’s face, inspecting her eyebrows. He reaches up suddenly and violently pulls a handful of eyebrow hair from in between Judy’s eyebrows. “Told you to clean that shit up,” he says as Judy tears up and the sound of squealing tires shrieks from the driveway.

Outlaw Barbers

We don’t get along, barbers and I. I view walking into a barbershop the same way Clint Eastwood probably feels in every western he ever made when he’s walking down that prototypical dusty main street and tumbleweed bounces across his path. At the other end of the street is the villain (barber) holding his six shooters (scissors and comb).

Clint says: “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

Villain says: “Draw, pardner.”

Clint shoots Villain. The End.

Except in my case, I don’t shoot the villain. I sit in a hydraulic chair with a blousy sheet attached around my neck and meekly say “take a little off the top” to the villain. Who then proceeds to do whatever he/she damn well pleases. That’s why the barber is the villain, and I’m not Clint Eastwood. I’m not even Clint Howard.

I am neither of these people.
In my experience, barbers listen to what I request, nod sagely while clicking their scissors open and shut, and then proceed to do whatever they feel would be best for my porcupine-like head of hair. I once got the “Flock of Seagulls” haircut unknowingly after asking for a “trim”. By “Flock of Seagulls” haircut I mean my head looked like a flock of seagulls shit on it after fluttering around a Taco Bell dumpster.

Another fun time, I got a “flattop” after requesting a “trim”. The top was definitely flat, but the top was also approximately seven feet high. Donald Trump was trying to sell apartment space on it because of the amazing views.

Yet another smashing day in barber town, I walked in cautiously and immediately said,

"Please just trim the sides and the back and leave the top long.”

I sat down in the chair suspiciously looking from side to side. The front desk girl said,

“You will be having Greg cut your hair tonight.”

“OK,” I said, not knowing who Greg was and not really caring. So, out comes Greg from some back room. He declares with a laugh “Another victim!” and all of the other haircutting girls start laughing.

“Greg never does what you ask!” one girl said with a giggle and a smack of her gum.

Needless to say, I walked out of there with a 1974 talk show host head and tear streaks of shame drying on my cheeks.

I don’t like barbers.

The Doctor and the Werewolf

For my 100th post, I’m going to open a little window for you and let you see me as a sixth grader. Picture this. A boy walks around the corner. He is approximately 9 feet 3 inches tall. He wears glasses so thick that you could see into the future with them. His teeth are made out of metal (actually covered in braces that appear to be made from the same material they used when building statues in early Rome). His face looks like it was shot at from point blank range with a hornet cannon. His hair…is perfect; if perfection to you is having the hairdo of a split-top loaf of wheat bread.

This boy had some friends, not a lot, but some. He was definitely not allowed into the “popular crowd” group meetings. How would he fit through the door, between the hair and the height and the metal on his teeth? He belonged in a remake of “War of the Worlds” before being allowed to hobnob with the best and brightest in his sixth grade class. He was painfully awkward, blisteringly smart, and a giant dork.

Here I am on the way to school.
This is me you are looking at. Me at age 13. Ready to take on the world.

Halloween came along on a beautiful fall evening. I decided that year I was going to dress up as a doctor. Simple costume, just wear a white overcoat, stethoscope, carry a clipboard. No mask, no makeup, no problem. My friend Matt decided to be a werewolf. His costume consisted of a black jacket and some fake beard clippings stuck to his face with glue, plus a fake plastic set of vampire teeth (vampire, werewolf, tomato, to-mah-to…)

So off we went, the Doctor and the Werewolf wandering through the streets of my small town begging for candy and having a pretty good time. Then, my werewolf friend elbowed me as we approached a large mansion. I looked at him and nodded. I knew the house, and I knew who was inside. This was the house of the most popular girl in school, and inside the house the current “popular crowd” group meeting was being held. As I started walking past the large entry gate, my friend elbowed me again and said something I’ll never forget.

“Let’s go up there.”

I don’t know what we were thinking, but a few minutes after that proclamation, Doctor Beanpole and Wally the Werewolf were marching right up the walk and to the massive front door. Maybe we were buzzed on Miky Ways and Jawbreakers, but there we were. I knocked and waited for the inevitable barrage of shocked laughter. She answered the door herself, and indeed I could see half the population of our school milling around behind her in various costumes. She looked embarrassed, but not entirely without some pity. She quickly gave us some candy and half smiled. We took it and ran down to the street, exhilarated at the amazing level of bravery required to walk up to the lion’s den and take some treasure away with us.

And Then.

Werewolf crossed the busy street in front of the house. At this point, the other populars were alerted to our presence and many of them had come to the door and onto the front stoop of the house to laugh or throw a few insults our way. I hopped off the curb, started crossing the street…

…and my pillowcase full of candy split at the bottom dumping my entire collection into the middle of River Road.

Cars going both ways on the street had to stop as I stood there staring at the road. I’ll never forget the roar of laughter that erupted from the house full of the most popular kids in the school. My werewolf buddy ran out to help me start gathering the candy. Have you ever tried to quickly gather and store miniature pieces of candy? It’s like trying to pick up marbles and run with them. Not to mention I was now holding a flapping piece of fabric that used to be a fully stocked pillowcase.

I can only imagine what the drivers that stopped were seeing. “Yes, 911? There is a nine-foot tall doctor and a Werewolf frantically hopping up and down in the middle of River Road. Hello?”

It felt like an eternity, but we managed to get most of the candy onto the sidewalk. When I finally made it home, I threw the tattered pillowcase at my mother and hid in my room for the rest of the weekend. Good times, good times.

Later that night, I snuck out of my room and went on a rampage through my town, shooting people with my laser eyes and stomping them with my nine foot long legs. Werewolf went Wolverine on everyone’s asses, just hacking and slashing his way all the way to the Shop Rite. But that is a story for another time…

Women are from Mars, Men are from Uranus

When I was in sixth grade, I had to write a report on one of the nine planets in our Solar System. There were more than nine of us in the class, so some planets would obviously have to be repeated.

Except one planet.

Yes, that one.


And guess where I was on “planet picking day”?

Home sick.

So, lucky me, I had the honor of writing a long report on … Uranus. Get it? Uranus? Like “Your” “Anus”? I’ll tell you one thing about sixth graders, their sense of humor is not quite refined or well developed yet at that age. Needless to say, the day that I read my report aloud to the class was a day where "Myanus" was clenched tightly with stress. Here are some choice quotes from an in depth expose on our most misunderstood planet; gems I had to say aloud to a class of 16 sixth graders (one of which was a girl who I was head over heels in love with).

“Uranus is named after a Greek God.”
“Uranus is composed differently than the gas giants Jupiter and Neptune.”
“Uranus has 27 smaller moons circling it in orbit.”
“Uranus has a ring system similar to Saturn’s.”
“Uranus has existed for millions of years.”
“Uranus is icy cold and dark most of the time.”
“Uranus has its own weather system.”
“Uranus was at one time thought to be composed of moss and algae, not rock and ice, but that has since been proven false by satellites with deep probes and high resolution imagery.”

I could go on, but you can already see that this report did not go well. I got a sympathy “B” from my teacher because he knew that I drew the worst planet for my report out of the planet hat. Woe was me. I got through it, though, and I felt a tremendous sense of relief. I figured I would never have to read another report about Uranus out loud to anyone again.

I was right, the planets were history. I guess the administrators at my school felt that we had enough planet knowledge to attack the world with. Then came “World Culture” in seventh grade. Our class was assigned “South Africa” for a series of “Day in the Life” reports about what life was like for a seventh grader in South Africa plus general facts about South African cities and towns. We drew South African cities from a hat. I was there that day to actually pick my own city but figured I couldn’t do any wrong here.

Then I looked at my slip of paper.

Buttville

A Day in the Life: Ringo Starr

A rhythmic pounding is heard coming from the garage of an enormous mansion in the English countryside. It is the unmistakable sound of drums rolling along in a repetitive loop. With a loud crash from a cymbal, the drumming stops abruptly followed by low murmurs broken by occasional exclamations. Just then, the door to the garage bursts open and Ringo Starr explodes out of the enclosure.

“It’s all WRONG!” Ringo exclaims as two studio musicians follow him out into the driveway of his estate.

“I don’t get it, really. It sounded great to us!” one of the musicians says as Ringo pauses to light a cigarette.

“Hey! Beatles? Hello? Ever heard of them? I’ll take my own advice as to what sounds good, right?”

The studio musician shrugs and looks helplessly at his band mate as Ringo paces back and forth.

“Listen, it’s ‘I want to live all day, in the hay –badoom crash-- with a horsey and his mum in the barn, what do you say? Crash crash badoom crash!” The musicians look uncomfortable as Ringo works through his new song, waving his arms wildly as he simulates the drum parts. They have been working on Ringo’s comeback album for 3 years now and are hopelessly stuck.

“Ringo, I have to be honest, the lyrics sound a lot like Octopus’s Garden…”

“No, no, no! This is an entirely different song! ‘Horse’s Hay House’. We’ve been through this a hundred times!”

“I know, the title is different, and the lyrics are kind of different, but the melody and structure are basically the same. And isn’t a ‘Hay House’ really just a barn?”

“Hey! ‘Ticket to Ride’? ‘Yesterday’? ‘Let it Be’? Sound familiar?”

“Ringo, I know you were in the Beatles. You remind us every day.”

“Actually, John, Paul and George wrote most of the good songs,” the other studio musician mumbles under his breath.

“What was that?” Ringo turns on the studio musician who looks away.

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought! Hey, aren’t you the guy who played drums on ‘Helter Skelter’? Oh wait, no you aren’t. That was ME! SHUT IT!”

Ringo paces furiously and lights another cigarette while the two helpless studio musicians wait to see when rehearsal will begin again. He gestures wildly, appearing to play drum parts in mid-air. He pauses and glances at the two studio musicians who are milling around outside the garage studio and then pulls his cell phone out. He dials a number and briskly walks away from the studio out of earshot of the two musicians.

“Hey, it’s me. Me! Ringo! Yes, that Ringo. How many Ringos do you know?” he says to the person on the other end of the phone call. “Listen, I’m having a lot of trouble with ‘Horse’s Hay House’. I know I’m so close; I just need a little advice.”

“Ringo, I really am quite busy,” Paul McCartney says from his lounge chair as he sits poolside in Malibu. He is visibly annoyed as he holds a cell phone to his ear and tries to order a drink from the wandering waiters.

“Paul, please. It is an amazing song, it just needs a little of the McCartney touch, yeah?”

“Well, is this one anything like the other songs? What were they?”

“Well, there is ‘Monkey Garage’, ‘Sloth Tea Party’, ‘Dingo Daydream’, ‘Manatee Football Folly’, ‘Off-White Submarine’, you know, kind of a sequel really.”

McCartney shakes his head and finally gets a waiter’s attention. “Yeah, great man. Listen, I have to run. Catch up soon, right?” McCartney closes his cell phone and then turns it off after a second glance. “George used to take his calls, poor bastard. ‘Sloth Tea Party’? Good Lord in Heaven! God and Baby Jesus protect us!” McCartney says to no one in particular and then reaches over to jot down words and music to 175 new hit songs in his notepad.

Ringo closes his cell phone and wanders back over to the garage studio. “Well lads, I think I just got a wee bit of inspiration, so let’s give it another shot!” Ringo enters the studio as the two musicians he is currently working with half-heartedly enter behind him. Much crashing and discordant jangles come from every window of the studio as songs are tinkered with.

Across the street hidden in the shadows of the large weeping willow trees that line the street in front of the Starr Estate, an idling vehicle sits with cigarette smoke wafting out from behind a barely opened tinted window. The sounds of “rehearsal” coming from Ringo’s garage can be heard clearly from here. The burning butt of a finished cigarette is flicked out from the crack in the window, which quickly closes. The car slowly pulls away and drives through an intersection a mile away from the house. The car brakes quickly as an accident is nearly avoided. The passenger side window quickly rolls down, and the head of Max Weinberg pops out.

“Hey, we’re drivin’ here!” he yells at the bicyclist who swerved into the road.

Squinting at first, then gradually brightening as recognition paints his face, the cyclist says, “Hey, you’re Max Weinberg, Bruce Springsteen’s drummer!”

Weinberg tosses a hundred dollar bill at the man. “You didn’t see me here, got it? If I read this in the papers tomorrow, I’ll find you and gut you like a fish on a bike. Do we understand each other?”

Nodding quickly while scooping up the bill from the ground, the man quickly mounts his bike and pedals away. Weinberg smiles as his head disappears into his vehicle and the tinted window rises. The car pulls through the intersection on the way to a meeting with the E-Street band, while Paul McCartney gently weeps and Ringo Starr continues work on his new concept album: ‘Anteater! The Once and Future King’.

Unnecessarily Confrontational

A co-worker cheerily came up to me today and said "Whatcha havin for breakfast, Champ?"

I said, "Fuck You Charms. They're magically awful."

Yes, it was totally uncalled for. Especially since I was eating a bagel. I'm no champ, so don't treat me as such. I'm not even a contender today, maybe top 50. Maybe.

So I continued down the hallway and another co-worker innocently asked for the time of day. I said, "Half past yo momma. Oh wait, I'm sorry, I misread my watch. *squinting at my bare wrist* It is five past my balls." He ran away in tears. I may be hard to deal with, but I tell it like it is. The time in my world is five past my balls. Don't ask questions to which you do not want the answer.

The piece de resistance (translation: The piece of resistance) came when a third coworker met me at my desk and said "Great weather out there, isn't it?" To which I replied, "Sure, if you like insecticides." He then asked me what I meant, at which pont I screamed in his face, "ENGLISH, MOTHERFUCKER! DO YOU SPEAK IT?!?!" Hey, you got me, I am difficult to get along with.

He called HR on me. Bad move, man.

Bad move.

The worst job interview in the history of jobs. And interviews.

Tom Johnson walks confidently into the office of Bill Richardson, CEO of Diatzu Motors. Tom is looking to be hired as a high level executive in the business.

“Hi Tom, I’m Bill Richardson. I’ll be conducting your interview today.” Bill says, extending his hand to Tom.

“Thanks Bill. Can I call you Bill?”

“Uh yes, that is my name.”

“Can I call you Will? Like Willy Will? Like Willy Mo Pena? Billy Bear?”

“Absolutely not!”

Tom considers this for a full minute of silence and then says “Call me Bill.”

“You want me to call you Bill?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot the comma. I meant ‘Call me, Bill.’”

“Call you? On the telephone?”

“Yes, please.”

“Now?”

“Please.”

Bill shrugs and picks up the phone at his desk, dialing Mr. Johnson’s cell phone number. Tom’s phone rings and he quickly flips it open, turning his back to Bill and hunching over as if being secretive.

“Yes?” Tom whispers while furtively glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes what? It’s me!” Bill says with a frustrated tone.

“Me who? I have no time to talk, I’m having an interview with King Blah Blah of the Car People.”

“Tom, I don’t have time for these games. Can we start your interview now?”

Tom makes a loud fart noise into the phone and then flips it shut dramatically. He straightens up and turns to Bill as he puts his phone in his pocket.

“Sorry about that, had to take that call. So what, you want me to sell cars to people? Like ‘Buy this car, it drives on wheels.’ ‘You want a red car? Absolutely Mr. Havasham!’ ‘I can definitely give you a car with seats, Mrs. BluBleeBlee!’ ‘Right this way, Mr. bopbopbop, blah bloo blee GPS.’ No sweat. So do I have the job? In all honesty, a monkey could do this job. A retarded monkey.”

“This is extraordinarily silly. I have no time for this. Your interview is over.”

“Is it? Or is it just beginning?” Tom asks with a devilish glint in his eye.

“No, it is over.”

“Can I call you Bill?”

“I told you that is my NAME!”

“Ha! That comma again! I meant…”

Bill leaps from his seat and grabs Tom by the elbow, forcibly taking him to the door of his office and pushing him into the receptionist’s area. The door slams in Tom’s face.

“Well, I think that went well,” Tom says with his face pressed into Mr. Richardson’s office door. Two security guards appear on either side of Tom as he straightens his tie. “Looks like you’ll be working for me soon, gentlemen. Just call me Mr. Manager!”

Tom is escorted to street level by the security guards and left on the sidewalk. Tom looks around and whistles sharply. Just then, LuLu Tom’s retarded monkey pet comes running around the corner and climbs up onto his shoulder.

“LuLu, I think we got the job!” Tom says as he laughs loudly frightening some passers by. In response, LuLu takes a huge crap on his shoulder.

A Moment with my Children

It was a quiet Sunday morning. I was sitting at the breakfast table with my son and my daughter; all of us eating breakfast together. My children are two and a half years old and talking more and more every day. They were chit-chatting about what they were eating, the fact that it was sunny outside, they spotted a deer on the lawn and got excited and started yelling about animals. But then, things took a strange turn. My son turned to me and said

“The laughter of a child is life’s most precious gift.”

I paused with my spoonful of cheerios halfway to my mouth and looked over at him. Just then, my daughter looked at me and said:

“Would that I could catch a butterfly in my hand and learn its beauty. And thus be fulfilled for all eternity.”

I started looking for hidden cameras or cleverly concealed microphones but found none. I said to them both, “What did you just say?”

“I see a deer!” my son exclaimed followed by my daughter saying “I like cheerios!”

“No no no, before that. What did you say before?” I asked but was met with confused looks.

I finished my breakfast quickly and went to the sink to clean up while my kids finished their breakfast. Then, from behind me, I heard a note-perfect rendition of “America the Beautiful” in two part harmony. I ran over to the table just as it stopped. “What was that?”

“I pooped!”

“You were singing! Where did you learn that?”

“I going to school later!”

I frowned at them both and we ended up having a two minute stare down with my kids smiling and me frowning in confusion. Finally I cracked and started cleaning up the dishes. The kids jumped down from their chairs and ran into the other room to play. I finished cleaning and walked in to the other room. My son was sitting on the floor with various tools and a transistor radio opened with all of its parts scattered around the floor. He was in the process of re-wiring the main circuit board with a very precise set of pliers. My daughter was sitting in the recliner wearing a pair of reading glasses with an open copy of “Crime and Punishment” in her lap. She was on page 543. At this point, my mind broke.

“How old are you? How old are you really?!?”

“I two daddy!”

“How old are you?!?!?”

“I two daddy! I two daddy!” followed by laughter.

At this point I ran for the phone and called my wife at work. She was not at her desk, so I left a voicemail:

“Honey, the kids are older than 2. They have to be! They sang two part harmony and quoted stuff and now they are fixing the radio and reading Crime and Punishment with the tiniest set of reading glasses I’ve ever seen. I think they know I know! I need help! Where did the toolset come from? How did she hide the glasses?”

This voicemail was the final piece of evidence used against me when I was committed to a nuthouse. The kids visit me with their Mom and bring me elaborate hand-made Christmas ornaments and delicate wood carvings. My wife says they were bought at a store. I know better.

A Tragic Comedy (aka Comedic Tragedy)

The Pentagon, Washington D.C., 0430 hours

An agitated military official paces back and forth across a large room. The room has maps of all sizes on the walls and a large table in the center of the room covered with official documents and blueprints. The pacing official is a highly decorated general. He chomps on an unlit cigar as he walks back and forth with his hands clenched behind his back. At the table, a sergeant watches his movements carefully appearing to wait for some sort of response. The general abruptly stops pacing and walks to the table addressing the sergeant.

“Are you sure?” the general growls through teeth clamping down hard on a cigar.

“General, there are no options here. We are pinned down in the valley. Alpha Team is all but wiped out. Air superiority is non-existent. Bravo Company is too far away to do any immediate damage. We must withdraw! We have no choice.”

The general turns away for a moment looking at nothing in particular. He turns back to the sergeant with a barely suppressed sigh and a grim look of determination.

“Send in the Clowns.”

The sergeant’s eyes widen momentarily. “Sir?”

“Send in the god damned CLOWNS!”

The sergeant nods slightly. “Yes sir; right away sir.”

“And may God help us all,” the General mutters under his breath as the sergeant picks up a red phone and speaks in hushed tones.

Slobodov Valley, 30 miles south of Moscow, 0500 hours

Amidst explosions and screams of dying men, Sergeant Richardson tries to rally his troops.

“Men, this is our last stand! The Pentagon doesn’t have any more help to give. Bravo Company is too far away. It’s now or never!”

Over the din of war, plane engines are heard in the distance growing louder. Sergeant Richardson turns to the north holding binoculars to his eyes. “Oh my God, you did it. You crazy son of a bitch, you did it!” he says out loud to himself.

“What is it Sarge?” A young private asks Richardson. A few of the remaining soldiers turn hopeful eyes towards their sergeant as Richardson turns towards them.

“Men, we may just have a chance after all. We may just have a god damned chance after all!”

High in the sky over Slobodov Valley, a tight formation of 12 planes veers towards the battle in perfect unison. The planes are decorated in bright primary colors. This is Clown Squadron, an experimental group of soldiers that have yet to see battle. Per the General’s orders, they are embarking on ‘Operation Clown Car’. From out of each of the 12 planes, small figures are seen jumping from opened doors in their fuselages. What seems like never-ending streams of paratroopers descend into the valley. A cheer arises from Alpha Team’s base camp as word spreads of the reinforcements.

Sergeant Richardson loads his weapon hurriedly as his camp bustles with newfound energy. One of the soldiers notices the paratroopers landing and pauses. He stares out as members of Clown Squadron begin landing and wipes his eyes in disbelief. “Sarge? SARGE!” he waves Sergeant Richardson over to the opening of their tent pointing out to the battlefield. “Is that- Are they- Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”

“Yes, private, you are. The Clowns have arrived. The Clowns are here to save our asses.”

The scene on the battlefield that day was one unlike any soldier had ever seen before. Thousands of circus clowns were high-stepping all over the fields; their giant red clown shoes paddling over the dirt and blood of war. Through the cutting sound of gunfire and explosions, the sound of loud honking horns could be heard as the clowns entered the fray. Discarding their brightly colored parachutes, the clowns immediately went on the attack, throwing pies left and right. One set of clowns set up a slingshot, firing a fellow soldier high into the air and over the barbed-wire fences of the enemy. Hastily constructed cannons were erected and another clown soldier was seen climbing into one wearing a brightly colored helmet and flashing a thumbs-up at his clown brothers. He was fired directly into an advancing enemy tank unit while clowns and non-clowns alike all cheered and waved and danced.

One of the Russian soldiers broke ranks and ran at the clowns only to be met with a hail of pies in the face. He screamed and wiped at the white foamy material covering his entire body. Then he paused and tasted some of it. “Banana Cream!” he screamed in Russian as the enemy roared and advanced.

U.S. Air Force Base, Munich, Germany, 0600 hours

“This is BOZO-One requesting clearance to land.”

“That’s affirmative. BOZO-One you are cleared to land.”

“Roger that.”

The lead plane from Clown Squadron landed safely at its home base. The pilot was met on the tarmac by many high ranking officials. BeBo the clown pilot stepped off the plane and was met with a barrage of questions. He had a short statement prepared:

“You sent a group of 1000 clowns into a war against Russian tanks and machine guns. We were armed with Banana Cream Pies and human clown cannons; they had bullets and grenades. We had giant red clown shoes; they had boots engineered for the frozen mud of Siberia. What a circus. What a circus! War is Hell gentlemen. War is Hell.”

With this last statement, BeBo squeaked and honked his way into the infirmary with his giant oversized shoes slowly smacking on the pavement. The military officials all conferred and agreed that the General in the Pentagon who ordered this attack was a fucking idiot.

Alpha Team and the entire Clown Squadron were killed in less than 5 minutes that day. The Russians advanced through Banana Cream, balloons, brightly colored streamers and thousands of discarded red noses. They were not slowed for an instant, and brought Hell to the entire region. Russians who served in the Army during this time would recall “The Battle of Clown Valley” with hilarity and disbelief as they remember the time that the Americans tried to stop them with pastries, dancing costumed men and clown projectiles wearing little pointy hats and oversized clothing.

BeBo spent 3 months in the infirmary mourning the loss of his fellow squadron members and feebly honking his big red nose which also served as a horn. He was released from the infirmary and discharged honorably. He returned to the circus and to this day vomits uncontrollably whenever he smells bananas. When the dust settled after The Battle of Clown Valley, it was found that the General who ordered the attack had disappeared without a trace. “Acrobat Company B”, “Lion Tamer Brigade Bravo Division” and “Tightrope Walker Company A” were disbanded and the American Military in general became significantly less silly.

The Ringling Brothers could not be reached for comment.

A Moment with my Son

One day, I was sitting on the nursery floor with my two year old son. We were rolling a ball back and forth and generally having a great time. Then, he suddenly stopped and threw the ball down the hallway looking highly agitated. I looked down the hallway to see where the ball went. While I was distracted he leapt at me and sprayed a cold mist into my face from a spray can that I had not previously noticed causing me to black out.

When I came to, I was looking up into a bright light. The light was then blocked by the faces of my son and my daughter, who were looking down at me. I sat up as they started circling me with their hands crossed behind their backs and disapproving looks on their faces. My son spoke with a British accent which was curious as we are from New Jersey.

“Father, we shan’t be attending dinner with you and Mummy any more.” My daughter nodded in agreement.

“Um, OK,” I began, still trying to assess my surroundings and get my bearings.

“Furthermore, my sister and I shall be heading out for a bit. We wish to tour the countryside and cavort with the wildlife!”

“The wildlife?” I still felt groggy and tried to clear my head as quickly as possible. As my vision improved, I looked around and realized I was in a jail cell. The cell door was open and my daughter dangled the keys in her left hand held behind her back as she and my son slowly paced.

“Yes Father, the wildlife and the foliage! Oh what a journey it shall be! You shall not interfere. We will leave a note with the authorities that will allow them to find you and release you in 3 days time. By then, we shall be well on our way.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said to both of them, causing my daughter to frown even more and take a threatening step toward me. “What you think is irrelevant, Father,” she said as she resumed her pacing.

My son continued, “We shall frolic in the countryside and eat strawberries and pick daisies and dance and sing all day! We do need some information from you, however,” my son said as he stopped in front of me.

“Information?”

“Yes. Your vehicle. The silver one. The one that Mummy drives to her place of business.”

“What about it?”

“How does it work?” My son stepped closer with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “The pedals. I’ve seen them. What do they do? How does the car move forward? Does it have something to do with the pedals? You appear to do nothing but there must be some way for your vehicle to propel itself. Tell me! I must know!”

Realizing I now held a bargaining chip, I leaned back against the wall. “And what if I don’t tell you?”

“You will tell us, Father,” my son said as he glanced over at my daughter. “You must tell us.”

“This has gone on long enough!” I yelled as I stood up. “You are both two years old! I don’t know how you suddenly learned to talk so well, or why you both have British accents, but I have had enough! Wait until your Mother gets home, she will not be amused! No Nemo for you tonight! No Little Mermaid either!”

My son took in this rant with a sly grin as my daughter stifled a laugh. “Oh Father, don’t you know that we hold all the cards here? You will give us the information we require, and we shall begin our journey by nightfall. We shall roam the highways—“ Just then, my son stopped in mid-sentence and made an uncomfortable face. “Oh, dear. I have just defecated.”

“What is going ON here?!?” My confusion and frustration had reached their limits as my son and daughter had a concerned conversation about what to do.

Suddenly, my daughter produced an aerosol can and sprayed a cold mist into my face. My son shouted “NO! NOT YET! WHAT DO THE PEDALS DO? WHAT DO THE PEDALS DO DAMN YOU!?!?!” at me as I gradually lost consciousness.

I awoke on the floor of the nursery. It was dark with only the glow of the night light in the room. Thinking I must have fallen asleep and had a very strange dream, I got up and noticed that both my son and daughter were asleep in their cribs. I looked around for a spray can and found nothing. I looked in my son’s crib and noticed he was clutching a set of car keys. My wife’s keys. In my daughter’s crib, I found another set of keys that looked just like the jail cell keys from my dream.

I decided right then and there that my kids would never learn to drive. I also immediately called my cable company and cancelled the BBC channel and any other channel that featured British accents. It was all I could do to keep from screaming. I slowly crept out of the room and down the hallway. From my children’s room, I heard my son’s voice say “’Ello guvnor!” followed by tiny laughter. I wrote a quick note to my wife and fled the house without packing a thing. I am currently in a safe house on the US/Canadian border. Tell my wife I love her.

They are smarter than either of us ever realized.

Pirates of the Flea Market

The sun shines on rows and rows of tables spread out in aisles across a large dusty field. Big tractor trailers and Winnebagos lay anchored in random spots on the field, breaking the monotony of the aisles. It is early, and the tables are mostly empty, but quickly filling with all manner of merchandise. The flea market comes to life rapidly, and by mid morning the field is bustling with activity as shoppers look for bargains. We settle on two tables next to each other, one full to the brim with stacks and stacks of old vinyl records. The other table is mostly empty but starting to fill up with woven blankets and other handmade items.

“Hi neighbor,” the man with the records says to the woman next to him who is carefully laying out colorful blankets, scarves and the like. “Name’s Charlie, pleased to meet you.”

“Hello,” the woman says with a smile. “I’m Louise, and I’m pleased to meet you as well!”

“First time here, I can tell,” Charlie says.

“How can you tell?”

“Everyone is set up already, and you are still takin’ your sweet time! There’s valuable money to be had! Gotta be quick!” Charlie says with a chuckle, which Louise returns with a smile.

“Anything worth doing is worth taking your time over,” Louise returns as she continues laying out her goods.

“Beautiful stuff there, Louise, I have to say,” Charlie says as he looks over Louise’s handmade items.

“Thank you Charlie, that is kind of you to say. I hand-stitched everything here myself,” Louise says with a note of pride creeping into her voice.

As Charlie and Louise pass the time, admiring each other’s collections, a high-pitched whine could be heard far in the distance, carried by the wind to their tables. Charlie pauses in mid-sentence and looks down the long aisle they occupy, eyes widening and obviously upset. “No, not already! They’re early today!” he exclaims as he gets back behind his table and busily arranges stacks of records, appearing to hide some.

“Who’s early? What is that noise?” Louise asks as she peers down the long aisle at a cloud of dust towards the far end. The loud buzzing whine is getting louder and sounds like a small engine or a plane of some sort.

“It’s them,” Charlie hisses at her. “Pirates!”

As Charlie says this, the cloud of dust appears to part, and from out of the middle comes a parade of four golf carts garishly decorated and driven by what appears to be pirates. The carts each have a flag flying high over their roofs; black with a skull and crossbones symbol painted in the middle. The cart in the lead of the four has a man standing on a platform attached to the front. He stands with one foot up on a railing and a sword held high in the air. He has on a large black pirate hat, and his clothes are consistent with traditional pirate-wear. He brings his sword down and points it at Charlie. As he does this, the carts slow and stop in front of Charlie and Louise’s tables. The man on the platform descends to the ground, as one of the other men in the lead cart bellows, “All Hail Captain DUSTY!” The other pirates all cheer and Captain Dusty turns to them briefly, enjoying the adulation. He lets the cheering continue for a few seconds and then raises his hands to silence his crew. He slowly walks over to Charlie’s table and stands in front of him.

“Do ye be havin’ any Elvis Prrrrrresly Recorrrrrrrds?” captain Dusty says to Charlie as the rest of the pirates in his crew smile knowingly.

“You know I don’t, you took all of them last week,” Charlie says.

“Well, now, I know I didn’t take all of ye stash! Ye’d best be handin’ overrrr what ye got, lest ye be walkin’ the plank!” At this declaration, Captain Dusty’s crew all jeer and yell at Charlie while he cowers under the glare of the Captain.

“I, uh, I may have a few left in the car,” Charlie stammers as Captain Dusty glares at him.

“Aye, well, let’s see ‘em! I don’t have all day to be standin’ here bakin’ underrrr the hot sun! Arrrr!”

As Charlie turns to look through the trunk of his car, Louse stands dumbfounded. She watches this all play out not believing what she is seeing. Charlie returns from his car with two albums, both with Elvis Presley’s picture printed on them. The pirates all cheer when Charlie returns and Captain Dusty raises his hands again to quiet his men.

“See? I knew ye were holdin’ out on me, aye I did,” Captain Dusty says as he grabs the records from Charlie’s grasp. The Captain leans in close to Charlie saying, “I should make ye walk the plank anyway, as punishment fer hidin’ yer treasure from me!”

“P-p-please, not that,” Charlie stammers as Captain Dusty’s crew all begin chanting “Walk The Plank! Walk The Plank!”

“Ye can have one more chance to redeem yerself,” the Captain said as his crew quiets down. He looks over the stacks of vinyl records, perusing the choices. “Hand over all of yer Aerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrosmith recorrrrrrrds right quick, or I’ll take out yer eye and feed it to Polly!” Captain Dusty’s crew erupts with loud cheers and catcalls as Charlie flinches. “And while yer at it, throw in all of yer Doooooooobie Brotherrrrrrrrrrrrs recorrrrrrrds as well, and I may ferget yer insubordination!” Charlie dutifully gathers all the albums as per Captain Dusty’s request. Meanwhile his crew all celebrates as the Captain opens a pale brown jug and begins drinking sloppily from it.

Just then, a shot rings out and all sounds of revelry immediately stop. Captain Dusty drops his jug which shatters on the ground, leaking out its contents into the dirt. All eyes turn to the table next to Charlie where they gaze upon Louise, holding a revolver over her head which still has smoke pouring from the muzzle where the fired shot has just exited.

“That’s quite enough, ‘Captain Dusty’,” Louise says with a sneer. The silence hangs in the air mixed with the dust that rises from the fields. No one moves. Louise walks out from behind her table and surveys the pirates and their leader. “Take off those ridiculous outfits, and leave this man alone!” Louise shouts at Captain Dusty.

“That’s a fancy firearrrrm ye’ve got there, missy, but I be warnin’ ye – “ Captain Dusty starts but is cut off by Louise’s hand striking out and slapping his large black pirate had off of his head. The crowd, including the Captain’s crew, gasps at the sheer bravery of such an act. “Roger, that is quite enough of that stupid accent,” Louise says as ‘Captain Dusty’ grows visibly uncomfortable.

“Yes, I know it’s you Roger. And you Phillip,” Louise points at the driver of the first golf cart. “And you Timothy,” Louise points at members of the crew, calling each by their real names. “I taught you all in High School! I bet you never thought you would see me again! You should all be ashamed of yourselves, picking on this nice man. Half of you aren’t even dressed as pirates! Tim, you are just wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball jersey!” Tim hugs himself in an attempt to cover the pirate logo of his favorite baseball team.

“Um, uh, I’m sorry, ma’am,” Roger says, his pirate accent disappearing faster than his large black hat. “We were just, um, acting out a, well, a part of a movie and,” Roger stammers for a few more minutes and Louise waves him off.

“Enough of this. Get back on your carts and go back wherever you came from. And return every record you stole from Charlie by the end of the day today. If you don’t, I’ll come and find you!”

Roger gets back on his golf cart, and all of the carts do awkward K-turns and slowly buzz back up the aisle, disappearing in another cloud of dust. Louise hides her gun under a beautifully woven blanket on her table and then turns to a thankful Charlie.

“What is wrong with you? Did you really think they were pirates? At a flea market? What would pirates be doing at a flea market? One of them was wearing a white T-shirt that had ‘Pirate’ written on it in crayon!” Louise begins scolding Charlie who tries to shrink behind his table of records.

“I really thought they were pirates, and that I had to give them what they wanted, or I would walk the plank,” Charlie half-heartedly tries to explain while Louise looks on unsympathetically.

“Obviously, this flea market is populated by halfwits,” Louise says to herself as she begins clearing her table. Just then, a cry arises from the next aisle over, “All Hail Queen Louise!” The cry is met by a man from three tables over and it catches like wildfire. “Captain Dusty has been vanquished! All Hail the Queen!” Louise watches in fascination as people in all aisles begin dancing with exaggerated motions and hand gestures, while someone nearby blows into an enormous conch shell, producing a prolonged sound that is answered by someone unseen in the distance.

Louise finishes packing up her things while the celebration rages on around her. Down an aisle three away from hers, a large group of people run up and down beating large drums and blowing conch shells while someone in a hang glider flies overhead dropping flower petals on everyone. Firecrackers snap and pop from some distance away and small children dance in circles holding hands and chanting the name of their savior. A jaunty parade appears in the aisle next to hers, with a full band and a bandleader high-stepping and waving a silver baton while the band he leads plays a lively march. “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” can be heard echoing throughout the flea market as Louise gets into her car.

Louise slowly pulls out the exit of the flea market, pausing to look in her rearview mirror at the chaos that had erupted behind her. “I swear, that is the last time I ever go to a flea market in Woodstock,” she says to herself as she pulls onto the highway. She passes four golf carts that had driven into a ditch by the side of the road, watching as the ‘pirates’ she had vanquished stand arguing amongst themselves as she slowly drives by. She throws an apple core out the window at them, and Roger (formerly ‘Captain Dusty’) shakes his fist as she drives off into the distance.

The hippies at the Woodstock Flea Market talked of Queen Louise for years to come. They erected a statue in her image that consisted of sticks and marijuana leaves, which didn’t really end up resembling a person, just a hastily constructed pile of weed and sticks. The day Queen Louise vanquished Captain Dusty’s pirate band would be celebrated each year as “Dusty Day”, which ended up just being another excuse to get high and sing songs all night (much like “Rain Day”, “Loaded Potato Skin Day”, “Air Day” and “Awesome Week”).

As the “Dusty Day Hang Gliders” crisscross in the air, dropping rose petals on the revelers, everyone knows they are safe until the next ridiculously costumed threat rears its ugly head. Maybe then, Queen Louise would once again return to save them. Until then, flea market life would go on as usual with marching bands, rose petals, conch shells, piles of sticks, massive quantities of marijuana, copious LSD tabs and hang gliders, just as it should be.

The Greatest Love Story Ever Told

I would like to tell you a story. This story is about a boy and a girl, as many stories are. The boy’s name was Nothing and the girl’s name was Something. Nothing loved Something with all of his heart. They were inseparable. Nothing’s friends were a little dubious, however. Conversations between the boy and his friends were always very similar:

“I love Something,” the boy would say.
“What?” the friend would answer.
“I love Something.”
“What?”
“I love Something!”
“I heard you, what do you love?”
“Are you messing with me?”
“No, you said you love Something, and I want to know what!”
“Something!”
“You aren’t going to tell me? Why is it such a huge secret?”
“I just did tell you!”
“Fuck you and your secret love,” the friend would usually say and then storm off.

For Something, her conversations were equally frustrating:

“I love Nothing,” the girl would say.
“Why?” her friend would answer.
“It’s hard to say…”
“Are you sad?”
“No, quite the opposite!”
“Well, why do you love Nothing?”
“I just do!”
“That seems very sad. Everybody loves Something.”
“Thank you!”
“Thank you for what? I don’t understand you.”
“Well, Nothing does.”
“Again, that seems very isolationist.”
“As long as I have Nothing, I’ll be happy.”
Something’s friend shakes her head in bewilderment. “Cheer up, OK?”

One day, Nothing gave Something a red rose. Something’s heart filled with even more love for Nothing and she vowed to one day marry Nothing. Eventually Nothing did marry Something. They had two children: Everything and Mystery. And a dog named Supposedly. They lived for many years as a huge, strangely-named, happy family until one day Something’s father showed up demanding to know why he wasn’t invited to the wedding. His name was…Steve. Yes, Steve.

“Why wasn’t I invited to the wedding?” asked Steve.
“Nothing wanted you there,” Something began.
“Nothing?”
“Yes.”
“You mean ‘No one’ wanted me there?”
“No, Nothing wanted you there. Something did not.”
“You did not?”
“Yes.”
“If Nothing and Something had Something and Nothing then would Everything become Nothing?”
“Of course.”
“Mystery?”
“Sometimes.”
“Supposedly?”
“Why Not?”
“Nothing.”

Then, Grandmother Probably came a-knocking on their front door with some kind of story to yap about:

“Is someone at the door?” said Nothing.
“Probably,” said Something.
“Well, did you check the door?”
“Yes.”
“Is someone there?”
“Yes, Probably.”
“Didn’t you check for sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to answer it?”
“Probably will come in eventually.”
“What? Why don’t you just open the door yourself?”
“Oh, Probably let herself in.”
“There is a woman at the door?”
“Probably.”
“Fuck you and your secret love,” Nothing said and stormed off.

This family had many ridiculous conversations in the years to follow, most of them unprintable. No one could understand these conversations and eventually everyone they knew disowned them or alienated them until they considered changing their names like Steve had. They all met in a secluded cabin and started to think about what their new names should be. That was, until Great-Grandfather Always came along with his whuppin’ stick and 100 miles of bad attitude. He was a raging alcoholic and beat them all within an inch of their lives. Probably.

The End

You have just read The Greatest Love Story Ever Told. When you stop crying (if you stop crying) please do your part and pass this story on to everyone you know. Like the Beatles said, “All You Need Is Love.” They also said “I’d like to be under the sea in an Octopus’s Garden in the shade,” so maybe their advice isn’t the most sound advice you could follow. Anyway, it is your duty as a citizen of Planet Earth to send this story to everyone who needs some hope in their life. If they get no comfort from this story, then they have dark twisted souls that no one can heal. I do what I can but I can’t go around trying to heal everyone’s burnt shell of a soul. Get a real soul, losers.

This story is the closest thing to Heaven that you will ever see on Earth. Remember it always as it shall remember you. I Love You.

Signed: Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior

Rainbow Association

Blue came moping into the meeting an hour late and carrying nothing but a book of Walt Whitman’s poetry. He sat at the table and put his head in his hands waiting for the inevitable rebuke. Red immediately stood and screamed in his direction, “BLUE! You are an hour late! This is an important meeting! WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?” Blue kept his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut against Red’s tirade. He finally raised his eyes to meet Red’s and whispered an apologetic “Sorry.” Yellow leapt under the table the instant Red began screaming, while Green leaned towards Blue to see what book he had brought with him. Pink’s chair was the only empty chair, but no one was surprised. Pink liked to make a “Grand Entrance”. Violet was fuming in the corner, refusing to sit at the table. Orange was embarrassed. Indigo stood silently against the wall and blended in with the background; unnoticed by the other members. Brown was sitting in his chair at the table, with peanut shells all around him and used fast food wrappers on the floor by his feet. He was dozing and snoring quite loudly with his head thrown back and his mouth wide open. White and Black were arguing as usual about some obscure topic, neither one willing to listen to the other’s side. Plaid suddenly burst into the meeting room from the kitchen playing the bagpipes very loudly while everyone else covered their ears. Paisley rolled out from under the table looking extremely tired; he was obviously stoned again. Red fumed for a few more seconds, and then loudly banged his gavel on the table. The room gradually got silent.

“I now call this meeting of the Rainbow Association to order!” Red authoritatively stated amongst snickers from Paisley and Brown, who had been awoken by the sudden noise of the gavel.

“Some rainbow,” Violet muttered as he dragged himself up to his spot at the table.

“What was that Violet? Do you have a matter for the Association to discuss?” Red authoritatively asked as Violet muttered under his breath and grew silent.

Red took roll call noting Pink and Indigo’s absence. After roll call was finished, Indigo revealed himself suddenly, frightening the other members. He slowly walked over and nonchalantly sat down at the table. Just then, Paisley leapt to his feet and shouted “Dat’s a spicy-a MEAT-A BALL!” Brown collapsed in hysterics as Black and White immediately took opposite stances about the pertinence of the existence of a Rainbow Association. Blue wept openly, utterly depressed about the chaos that the meeting had already dissolved into. Violet violently whipped a pencil at Blue’s head. Green stole Blue’s Walt Whitman book. Plaid put his bagpipes down and started river-dancing around the table quite vigorously. Yellow whimpered under the table. Indigo disappeared into thin air. Red banged his gavel over and over again gradually getting the meeting back in order.

“First order of business: Mandatory Drug Testing.” Red slowly stated each word while staring pointedly at Paisley. Paisley’s half-closed eyes widened at this. “Dude,” he whispered.

“I WILL NOT SUBMIT!” Violet furiously declared to everyone and no one at all as he slammed his clenched fists on the table. At this, Plaid stopped river-dancing and sat at his spot in the table, stroking his beard and wondering when the meeting would be over. Indigo suddenly reappeared right next to Blue, causing Blue to begin writing an extremely depressing poem about the transient nature of light and color. Orange turned to Violet and said “Calm down Purple Puss!” At this, Violet punched Orange in the face and all hell broke loose. Black and White immediately started debating abortion issues, with each taking completely opposing sides as usual. Blue screamed in anguish and tried to kill himself with the edge of his chair (he didn’t succeed). Green hid the book he stole from Blue and then looked at Plaid’s bagpipes wondering if he could fit them under his shirt undetected. Yellow was still under the table, presumably passed out from the sheer stress of the meeting. Orange and Violet wrestled on the floor while Paisley and Brown laughed hysterically. Paisley shouted “Look man, Halloween!” as he pointed at Orange and Violet, causing more fits of wild laughter from Brown, followed by a loud fart. Indigo covered himself with a dark cloak and melted into the floor.

Red watched the meeting dissolve yet again and wondered why he put himself through this. He smashed his gavel on the table so hard it broke in two, yelling “STOP! STOP THIS INSTANT! MR. BIV IS HERE!”

With that declaration, all activity in the room stopped instantaneously. Violet stood up, letting go of Orange’s hair. “He’s here? Right now?” he asked timidly. Yellow poked his head out from under the table, fearfully looking at Red. Blue gathered himself together while Green put Plaid’s bagpipes back against the wall and quickly took his seat. Indigo materialized out of thin air and sat down attentively.

Red, satisfied that he finally got the association’s attention smiled grimly and said, “Yes. That was my surprise for you all. Mr. Biv has graced us with his presence today, and he has an extremely important announcement.” The association members all slowly took their seats and waited attentively. You could cut the silence with a knife. The tension in the air intensified with each second.

At that moment, a door opened and in walked Mr. Roy Ganapolous Biv. The man himself was here. No one could breathe as he slowly walked across the room and took a spot at the head of the table standing next to Red. He was a breathtaking figure, decked out in a suit that changed colors every second depending on the angle of the light. He was smoking a huge cigar and staring at each association member in turn, making eye contact for an uncomfortable amount of time. He was clearly unhappy.

“Where,” he began, “is Pink?” Red shifted uncomfortably and answered, “Um, uh, Pink is absent, Sir.” No one at the table had ever heard Red speak in such hushed tones, much less call anyone ‘Sir’. Not in their lifetimes.

“I see,” said Mr. Biv, putting his cigar out and rubbing his temples for a few seconds. No one at the table had exhaled a breath since he walked in.

“Does anyone know why I am here today? Anyone? Blue, do you know why I am here?” Mr. Biv directed his question to Blue who nearly shrunk out of existence from the sheer weight of his stare.

“No, sir, Mr. Biv, sir,” Blue squeaked in response to the question posed to him.

“What about you, Yellow? Do you have a guess as to why I came to this meeting today?” Yellow immediately fainted.

“Violet, Paisley, help Yellow, will you?” Mr. Biv asked for things quietly, and those things immediately happened. Violet and Paisley immediately ran over to try to revive Yellow.

“I am here,” Mr. Biv began, “to tell you all that I am making you all a part of the new rainbow!” There was an even deeper silence (if that was possible) followed by shocked whispers and unbelieving faces. Red was beaming as Green tentatively raised his hand. “There is going to be a new rainbow, sir?”

“Yes, Green,” Mr. Biv answered good-naturedly. “This new rainbow will not consist just of the standard colors. You will all be a part. Paisley, White, Brown, Plaid, Black…even Pink. I want this to represent a display of my good nature. All are welcome in the rainbow!”

“But, sir?” Brown raised his hand tentatively and Mr. Biv nodded towards him, still smiling. “What about ‘The Anagram’? The Anagram has existed since the beginning of time! What will the school children do?”

“Sh-sh-sh,” Mr. Biv waved away Brown’s question. “There will be time for Anagrams later. We’ll figure something out. I want to make a fresh start. Despite all of your questionable behavior, I want to show that everyone can have a second chance; a new lease on life, as it were. Don’t disappoint me.”

And with that, Mr. Biv turned and left the room, leaving the Rainbow Association members to excitedly celebrate and talk about this most unexpected turn of events. The associate colors were suddenly promoted! There were no more ranks, everyone was equal! Not everyone was excited, as Violet was noticeably disturbed by this news. He could be overheard grumbling something about Pink and “lack of attendance,” but for the most part, there was much rejoicing and celebrating as the news spread that the rainbow was expanding to include everyone.

A few days later, during a misty rain high on a mountaintop in Hawaii, two hikers looked into the sky and noticed a giant rainbow arching through the mist from a cloud to the ground. The rainbow had the standard Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet, but something was different. The hikers squinted at the rainbow; noticing new colors.

“Is that Plaid?” one hiker said to the other.

“Sure is. I think I see Paisley!” the other hiker replied.

“Pink?!?” they both said simultaneously.

The hikers looked at each other and shook their heads in disgust. “Friggin’ Obama,” they said, and continued their hike.

Mr. Weather

Oliver was walking home from school one day, when out from the bushes jumped a strange little man. He wore a large purple top hat with symbols printed all over in silver stitching. His large purple overcoat resembled a velvet rain jacket. He wore bright purple galoshes and carried a silver cane in the shape of a long lightening bolt.

“Hello! I’m Mr. Weather!” He squeaked in an abnormally high pitched voice. The pitch of his voice was not entirely surprising as he was no taller than 5 feet at the most.

“Uh,” Oliver responded, suddenly nervous at being accosted by a garishly dressed man with a squeaky voice and a silver cane.

“Please, call me Mr. Weather!” the little man squeaked again, and did a little two step followed by a hop and a small bow at the waist.

“OK, Mr. Weather,” Oliver started looking around for other kids walking home in case he needed witnesses.

“You don’t believe in me, do you?” Mr. Weather asked with a sly grin.

“Believe in you? I’ve never heard of you, to be honest.”

“WHAT? You have never heard of Mr. Weather? Impossi-rain!”

“Impossi-what?” Oliver asked in disbelief.

“Incredib-lightning!” Mr. Weather said and then chuckled in disbelief while shaking his head.

“Are you just saying words and then trying to put weather words at the end of them?” Oliver asked.

“Me? Not at all! Torna-don’t even think such ridiculou-stormy…weather…coming…” Mr. Weather trailed off slightly embarrassed.

Oliver stood with his arms folded, suddenly annoyed by this tiny man who was preventing him from getting home on time. “OK then, why do they call you Mr. Weather? Can you make it rain or something?” Oliver glanced at Mr. Weather’s hat and noticed all of the symbols sewn into the hat were representations of upcoming weather forecasts. He recognized the double cloud of “overcast” and the traditional single cloud with a lightening bold coming out of the bottom that usually represented “thunderstorms”.

“Rain? Mere child’s play, my boy!” Mr. Weather perked up and rubbed his purple-gloved hands together. “Watch THIS!”

Mr. Weather did an elaborate dance followed by some complicated hand maneuvers. When he was finished he stood, out of breath, with his silver cane raised towards the sky. “BEHOLD!” he bellowed.

Oliver looked up and noticed a clear blue sky with the sun riding lower as it was now 4:30. A few wispy clouds strayed across the sun. “Behold what?” he asked.
“PARTLY CLOUDY!” Mr. Weather triumphantly declared, lowering his cane and bowing.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Oliver declared and picked up his book bag, brushing past Mr. Weather and continuing towards home.

“Wait! Stop! Let me conjure up a Tornado to whisk you safely to your home!” Mr. Weather immediately began spinning in place using his cane as a balancing point while Oliver sighed and continued walking. After a few minutes of spinning, Mr. Weather’s purple top hat flew off and he fell to the ground dizzy and nauseous. He sat alone on the sidewalk for a few minutes gathering his thoughts. He slowly got up, put his hat back on, and wobbled his way to the local bar.

After a few hours in the bar, Mr. Weather stumbled outside and immediately began urinating on the wall by the front door of the bar. “Makin’ it rain now, aren’t I? Make it RAIN!” he mumbled to himself as he finished relieving himself on his purple galoshes. Suddenly, he noticed the glare of red and blue lights reflected from the windows of the bar in front of him. He straightened up, weaving from side to side slightly. From behind him, he heard a familiar voice: “Wally, how many times do we have to do this?” Officer O’Leary said with an exasperated sigh.

“Tim, good of you to *hic* join me,” Mr. Weather slurred. “First round is on you!” he laughed to himself as he turned around to face his accuser. Officer Tim O’Leary stood with his arms folded across his chest and a stern look on his face. Passers by were amused watching the tiny man decked in purple being scolded by the much larger police officer.

“Wally, this is the third time this month! I’m getting sick of this little back and forth with you. Can’t you get your act together?”

“Mr. Weather. Please call me Mr. Weather!” Mr. Weather insisted as he bent to pick up his oversized purple top hat.

“Whatever you want Wally, I mean Mr. Weather. Looks like we have another public drunkenness charge to add to your long colorful history,” Officer O’Leary said as he walked over to escort Wally into his squad car. He gently guided Wally into the back seat of his cruiser, and got in to drive away while turning off the flashers.
“So, what is it this time, Wally?” Officer O’Leary began. “Wife leave you? Child Support payments late? Too many relatives bugging you around the holidays?”

“You don’t even want to know, Tim my boy,” Mr. Weather said in a tired, sad voice while looking at the ground in the back seat.

“Try me. You know I’m a good listener. Lord knows I’ve listened to enough of your stories to fill an encyclopedia.”

“Mr. Mathematics is a dick,” Mr. Weather stated with certain finality.

Tim was caught off guard by this declaration. “Mr. Mathematics you said?”

“That is what I said, Tim. Mr. Mathematics is a complete dick and won’t leave me alone.”

“Um, I see. Well, what exactly is he doing that is so bothersome?”

“Where do I start?” Mr. Weather barked out an exasperated laugh. “He is constantly solving equations out loud at all the meetings. Square root this, factorial that. No one can stand him! Mr. Physics took a swing at him the other night at Karaoke. Mr. Space keyed his car! Mr. Balls thinks he should be kicked out of the committee!”

“Mr. BALLS?” Officer Tim asked incredulously.

“Yes, physical education, sports, that kind of thing,” Mr. Weather said distractedly as he turned his hat over and over nervously in his lap. “Personality quirks I can deal with. Character flaws? Fine. He personally goes out of his way to insult me! He’ll say things like ‘Hey Mr. Weather, looks like rain today!’ and then he’ll spit at me and smack my hat off!”

“Sounds like an unpleasant fellow,” Officer Tim sympathized from the front seat of his police car.

“You don’t even know the half of it!” Mr. Weather shouted with an unsteady voice as his face flushed. The other day he said ‘Oh, look out, here comes a tornado!’ and then kicked me as hard as he could in the nuts! He’s the one making me crazy like this! I can’t take any more of his nonsense!”

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Officer Tim broke the ice. “Wally, did any of this really happen?”

“Call me Mr. Weather…” Mr. Weather said as he avoided the question.

Officer O’Leary pulled the car to the side of the road and turned in his seat to face Mr. Weather. “Look, I know you are having a rough time of things. I don’t know any of these guys you are talking about, but the fact remains that you have to be an upstanding citizen. No public drunkenness. No public nudity. No assaulting citizens. No bending over and 'summoning hurricanes' in crowded restaurants. Remember that one? You are better than that.” He paused to let his little pep talk sink in. “Get out of here,” Officer O’Leary said to Mr. Weather. “You caught me on a good day. Next time, it won’t be a good day, got it?”

Mr. Weather squeaked out a ‘Thank You’ and then got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk as Officer O’Leary pulled away. He turned and slowly began walking down the sidewalk, by now thoroughly sober and still fuming thinking about his problems with Mr. Mathematics. The hem of his purple overcoat dragged through the dirt as he walked and he reached up to straighten his oversized purple top hat. As he walked, a car slowly drove past him, and a teenaged boy leaned his head out the window shouting, “Hey Barney, didn’t know you got so short! You look like a purple penis!” The car slowly pulled away as Mr. Weather listened to loud barking laughter from the open window.

Mr. Weather stopped and watched the car drive up to a stoplight. Frowning intensely, he rose both hands up towards the sky and brought them down dramatically while he looked at the car. Just then, a 10 second burst of hail peppered the car. Large golf-ball sized chunks of ice bounced in all directions, ricocheting onto the street after striking the windshield, the roof, the hood, the tires and the windows of the car. Just as suddenly, the hail stopped and the car pulled slowly through the intersection with the boy’s head once again popping out from the opened window, looking back at Mr. Weather. He smiled and raised his middle finger at the boy as the car drove out of sight.

Walking quicker now, Mr. Weather pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his purple overcoat. He dialed a number and held the phone to his ear.

“Balls? Weather here. I’m back! Yeah, it’s all back. Get Physics and Space and meet at my house. See if Mr. Aerodynamics is around. We’re going to finally get a little payback on Math. I think it’s long overdue. I think we’ll be adding a giant hurricane to his division of…subtract…forget it, just get everyone ready…”

As Mr. Weather walked with a hop in his step, happily chatting with Mr. Balls, the sun broke through the clouds and shined down on the street, melting the golf ball sized hail that had fallen without warning minutes before. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Conversation at a Diner

Two men sit at a table by the window of a local diner. They are unaware of the stares they are getting from the other diner patrons. They look serious and appear to be sizing each other up.

Man 1: *slowly sipping a cup of coffee* Do you realize what my name is?
Man 2: *leaning forward in a challenging manner* Do you realize what mine is?
Man 1: I will bet you mine is more unusual.
Man 2: I’ll take that action.
Man 1: Boozle.
Man 2: Boozle?
Man 1: Exactly. Boozle Worthington. *offering his hand*
Man 2: Hmmm. *raising an eyebrow* Well played, Boozle. *shaking Boozle’s hand* What are you some sort of butler? Do you buttle?
Man 1: Hardly.
Man 2: Sounds like a Butler’s name. Like someone who enjoys an occasional buttle. May I call you “Boo”?
Man 1: If you do, I shall be forced to murder you.
Man 2: Well let me just say this: Floofy. Floofy Dubois.
Man 1: Dubois you say? Of the Beverly Hills Dubois’?
Man 2: No, of the Paris Dubois’.
Man 1: I should have known. No American citizen would name their child Floofy.
Man 2: As if a human being from any part of this Earth would name their son Boozle? My dear man, you disgust me.
Man 1: Because of my name?
Man 2: No, because of your nudity.
Man 1: Let’s just put all of our cards in the basket here, Floofy. You *sip of coffee* are nude as well.
Man 2: Touche, Boo.
Man 1: Boozle.
Man 2: As you wish…
Man 1: I wish for a great many things; such as the removal of your testicles from the windowsill.
Man 2: I only wanted to get a better view of the street. *sitting back down* I’m waiting for someone, you see.
Man 1: My dear Floofy, there is no need to take your package and mail it special delivery for the rest of the patrons of this fine eatery. *gesturing broadly to the rest of the room*
Man 2: *raising an eyebrow* Special it is, though, wouldn’t you agree Boo-Boo?
Man 1: It’s Boozle, and no, I wouldn’t.
Man 2: To each his own.
Man 1: You really put the ‘Ass’ in ‘Horse’s Ass’.
Man 2: Well you really put the ‘Bite Me’ in ‘Shut your mouth’.
Man 1: And I don’t even want to discuss the way you are stirring your coffee.
Man 2: *chuckles* Oh Boozy, you are such a ‘Nervous Nellie’.
Man 1: *looking up at the sky through the window* Looks like rain…
Man 2: Nice analogy.
Man 1: Well, you are making no sense, so it doesn’t surprise me that you find yourself completely unaware of our situation.
Man 2: Our situation, you say?
Man 1: I must admit it is serendipitous that we find ourselves here at this diner, at the same table, nude.
Man 2: Is it? Or is it an act of fate?
Man 1: You say tomato…
Man 2: We are being quite formal with each other, aren’t we Boozle?
Man 1: The situation requires it, Flute.
Man 2: *slamming his fist on the table suddenly, causing a woman at another table to let out a brief scream* It’s FLOOFY!
Man 1: *grinning* Yes, of course it is. *continuing to sip his coffee*
Man 2: *regaining composure* So, who wins the bet?
Man 1: Bet?
Man 2: Yes, the ‘most unusual name’ bet we made.
Man 1: Ah, yes. I think they are equally marvelous; and equally terrifying. Let’s call it a draw.
Man 2: A draw it is.
Man 1: You are quite hot-headed, aren’t you Floofy Dubois?
Man 2: That isn’t my name.
Man 1: *frowning in confusion* But, you said…
Man 2: That was before.
Man 1: Before what?
Man 2: Before the nudity.
Man 1: We’ve been nude the whole time here!
Man 2: Yes, well, my name is not Floofy. It is Joe. Joe Jones.
Man 1: Confession: My name is not Boozle Worthington. I’m Pete. Pete Johnson.
Man 2: *laughing and shaking his head* Why must we always invent different personalities like this?
Man 1: *grinning* Probably because we are nude.
Man 2: *raising his glass for a toast* And isn’t nude a wonderful way to be?
Man 1: *clinking his glass against the raised glass of Pete* Indeed Floof…I mean, Pete!

*A semi-automatic pistol falls loudly on the ground from Joe’s lap as Pete and Joe start laughing loudly with their heads thrown back, oblivious to the agitation of the other customers of this diner as they wonder when this hostage standoff will be resolved and they can be returned back to their normal, non-nude lives.*

A Day in the Life: John Cougar Mellencamp

John walked out of his bedroom and sat at the kitchen table, picking at a fruit salad. His children and wife all ate their breakfast silently, waiting for him to speak. Finally, his wife spoke up, “Well?” she asked expectantly.

Clearing his throat, John said, “Today, I am John Cougar. That’s it,” he said defiantly, and his family collectively sighed loudly. “What, what’s the problem?” John asked as his wife rolled her eyes.

“Every day it’s something new with you. Why can’t you just pick a name and stick with it? I was fine with John Mellencamp,” John’s wife pleaded with him as his children picked at their breakfast.

“Daddy, why can’t you just use your real name,” John’s daughter spoke up.

John’s face instantly flushed and he slammed the table with a closed fist. “Never! I will never use my real name!”

“It’s a fine name, John, I don’t see why you get so angry,” his wife began.

“Are you kidding? ‘Hello Cleveland! Are you ready to rock? Put your hands together for IRA HERSKOWITZ!’ I would be laughed off the stage before I even got on! No one named Ira Herskowitz has ever rocked Cleveland, or any other city in the world.”

“Well, who cares? I think it’s a fine name.”

“That’s it! THAT’S IT! I am now ‘Cougar’. That’s all, just Cougar,” John raged, fuming at the table while his family grew uncomfortable.

The silence stretched for minutes when his kids finally finished their breakfast and left the table without commenting. John lit a cigarette and puffed away while his wife got up and began doing the dishes. The silence continued; finally broken by his wife. “John, at least let the kids be spared your name changing. It isn’t good for them.”

“Isn’t good for them?” John asked. “Isn’t GOOD for them?” He stood up from the table, letting his chair hit the floor and stormed outside heading for the barn. His wife followed him out, straining to catch up with him. “John, wait, slow down.”

He turned and faced her, still visibly angry. “I’ll call myself whatever I please, and you and the kids had damn well better accept it!”

“OK, John, I mean Cougar, OK,” John’s wife said placating her husband with her tone. “But I do want to talk to you about something else. It’s the house.”

“What’s wrong with the house?”

“I can’t stand the color! It sticks out like a sore thumb!”

They both turned to look at their farmhouse. It was painted a neon pink color on every surface. Even the rocking chairs on the porch were painted the same shade and almost blended in with the siding behind them. The windows were also painted solid pink, making them impossible to see through.

“The windows are solid pink, you can’t even see outside! It looks like someone threw up Pepto Bismol all over it! The shade is just...just awful!” she broke down into tears as John stared straight ahead at the house, grinding his teeth; his jaw muscles clearly clenching and unclenching.

John spoke softly to his wife, “The color of that house paid for Jack’s braces. The color of that house bought us that car over there! The color of that house got Diane that operation she needed when she was six! The color of that house will put our kids through college one day! THAT HOUSE IS FOR YOU AND ME!” John grew progressively louder as he gestured towards their pink house. His wife continued sobbing, realizing she was in a losing battle. John stated simply, “The pink stays. And call me Cougar,” and continued into the barn to start the daily farm chores.

At the end of another long day, John and his wife stood side by side as the sun set on their little pink house. John chewed on a long stalk of hay, thoughtfully staring up into the sky. John’s wife waited patiently, fearing what his next words would be. Finally, he spoke:

“Wolfblood. John Wolfblood Wildcat Mellenballs. Write it down.”

John’s wife hung her head in defeat as he grabbed his pink paint brush and began painting the new porch swing that was installed that afternoon.

Press Conference

A crowded room of press members, photographers and interested parties all sit or stand waiting for the press conference to begin. They all stare towards the front of the room where a stage has been set up. The stage holds an empty podium with a large microphone sticking from the top of it. Behind the podium on the stage is a wildly decorated pink and purple background. There are no chairs on the stage. Just then, from the left side of the room, the loud bang of a slammed door is heard, followed by the quick footsteps of someone running. A man leaps onto the stage and runs to the podium; stopping behind it out of breath. He is wearing a black velvet running suit, and his bushy hairdo appears to be uncombed. His glasses are askew and he is sweating profusely. He takes at least 5 minutes to catch his breath, all the while glaring out at the crowd of people who by now have stopped their murmured conversations and are now looking towards him waiting for him to say something. He closes his eyes, gathers his thoughts, and leans towards the microphone.

You sons of bitches.

*Stunned silence followed by the sound of one reporter coughing nervously and a brief squeal of feedback from the microphone causing everyone in the room to briefly cover their ears*

You thought you knew me? You thought you knew my family? I will smack your faces. I will smash my head on top of your cars! I will open up hellfire and let it rain down on your farting heads! Only I know the story. Only I know what happened! Holy Mary Mother of God! You balloon-headed puppet painters! *A reporter stands to ask what a ‘puppet painter’ is and is told to sit down by the ranting gentleman* When I open the morning paper and see my own face staring back at me, I want to eat the entire paper out of pure ANGER! You will know this anger when I take each of you into a bear hug and bite your faces off! Each of you! Even now as I stand before you enraged, I have shat my own pants due to uncontrollable fury! I wish this on all of you: Uncontrollable bowels and needles in your eyes! I know how to slap the taste out of people’s mouths, and I will do this to every one of you! You, in the corner! *pointing at a photographer who has just finished taking a picture of the man at the podium* Take a picture of this! *the man steps from behind the podium, drops his pants, and turns around while bending over, showing his backside to the photographer. The crowd gasps in astonishment and revulsion*

*The man pulls his pants back up and moves behind the podium to continue* You think I do not know you, but I do know you! You cannot ignore my story! Write this down: ‘I hate you and I hate your ass faces!’ You are like crap in my sneakers! The government is a stain on my buttocks! What you, and they, have done to me will haunt you for the rest of your lives! I…I…

*The man abruptly stops speaking and wrestles with the podium, trying to rip the microphone from its bracket. A reporter in the front row briefly stands up in an effort to stop the man and then sits down again in confusion. This continues for 45 seconds of muffled sounds and feedback from the jostled microphone. With one final smack, he halts his assault on the podium and continues with the microphone still firmly lodged in place*

I am not even finished fighting. I will get what I deserve, and you will all thank me for doing so. Injustice in America should not be TOLERATED! Stinking balls! Fifteen thousand horses pulling my hair will not keep me from pushing forward into the homes of your mothers and crapping on their doorsteps! You will…I…

*The man again briefly wrestles with the microphone and again fails to dislodge it from its housing. He then turns to the draped background fabric and attempts a karate-style side-kick at nothing in particular. The fabric balloons inward and ripples cascade outward from the location where the man’s foot silently struck. He takes a wild roundhouse swing at the fabric missing completely. The momentum of his swing causes him to spin on one foot and lose his balance; falling down on his back with his legs sticking straight up in the air. A hushed gasp is heard from the crowd of reporters who are still stunned by this turn of events. The man picks himself back up and begins speaking again.*

Know this, my antagonistic ball blasters: You have not seen the last of me. I will hide in your garbage and assault your families! I will chase you through crowded shopping malls and tackle you into fountains! I will slap your buttocks with large paddles! I will open your mail and piss on your bills! I will climb your trees and throw dead squirrel balls into your gutters! I will paint the windows of your houses with feces from zoo monkeys! I will shoot arrows through your kneecaps as you walk your children to school! I will rent an ice cream truck and fill its bins with my own excrement and serve it to your families! I will stand outside your places of business and chase you down the street after you are done working for the day, throwing small darts at your Achilles’ Tendons! I will write threatening letters to the governors of your states and sign your names! I will drop kick large watermelons into your swimming pools and then urinate on the remains of the previously mentioned watermelons! I will…

*As the man continues to assault the media from his podium, Reporter 1 leans over to whisper to Reporter 2 sitting next to him*

Reporter 1: *whispering* Why does this guy look familiar?
Reporter 2: *whispering in response* He’s the nut job that applied for stimulus package money for him and his family. He’s a millionaire, but he felt like he deserved ‘a little extra for the trouble’.
Reporter 1: Trouble? What trouble?
Reporter 2: Who knows; the trouble of being certifiably insane maybe? He was supposed to have a press conference today in Building B.
Reporter 1: Why is he here? This is Building A.
Reporter 2: He probably got lost, but I’m not saying a word. This is way more interesting than another stupid Miley Cyrus press conference.

*As Reporter 2 gestures to his right, Reporter 1 looks over and sees a frightened Miley Cyrus huddled off in the wings speaking in hushed tones on a cell phone while the raving lunatic at the podium kicks it with his bare foot (after throwing his shoes at a photographer) and begins to urinate on the pink and purple ‘Miley Cyrus 2009!’ fabric background behind him.*