OUR ONLY HOPE IS REALITY TELEVISION

Mother?  John Junior?  Myrtle?  Jennifer?  Cousin Nathan?  I just heard from that fella at th' bank.  The news...it ain't good.  He gave us three months to make up everythin' we missed out on payin' for th' past six.  I tried to tell him, I tried sayin' "if we couldn't make them payments on time in th' first place, how the hell we gonna do it in three months?" He didn't say nothin' to that.  Oh children, he just stared at me.  I think they mean to take th' farm from under us and leave us all on th' street.

So it's come to this.  Our only hope is we get one of us on some kinda reality programmin'.

I never claimed to be an educated man...shut up, Cousin Nathan.  Now's not the time to be a-jokin'.  You can save it for them cameras, if we's lucky.  But listen, all.  If there's one thing I know?  There's two basic truths about the basic cable TV.  They's got boatloads of money, and they love filmin' them some quirky country people.  And if we're gonna save this farm, we need to be as quirky as possible.

Mother, you an' I already have us a headstart what with your drinkin' problem and my pill addiction and my drinkin' problem.  How many of them intervention programs are there now?  Two or three?  Well one of them suckers is gonna eat us up with a spoon.  Especially when they see the secret bottle setup I got in my wooden leg, here.   I'm...sorry this is how you were to find out about this, children.

But the wooden leg!  That's the key!  John Junior, this wooden leg right here?  You made this, an' a fine piece of work it be.  But it's yet another thing we could try'n sell to one of the TV people.  That's gotta be worth a half hour to one of the networks.  Ain't there a home and garden channel?  Or some kind of DIY show where you teach people how to make new stuff for th' kitchen or th'...an outhouse or some such?  Maybe if you was to focus on whittlin' fancy soup bowls and cutting boards instead of replacement limbs and teeth we'd have somethin' good goin' on there, John Junior.  And to think of how I and your mother used to taunt you over you and your whittlin'.  Well I'm sorry son, that were the liquor talkin'.  For these past twelve years.  

Now, Myrtle and Jennifer?  You two don't have no viable talents, but you're at least a little bit easy on the eyes.  So we're gonna have to take a whole 'nother tactic on you two.  I'm sorry to say it, but th' grease that lubricates th' very gears of reality TV is...drunken harlots.  So you two sit right down and have a drink with your momma and me.  Have a couple.  And let's get to tearin' the legs off of them blue jeans.  Afterwards, we can take a video on the camcorder of you two tryin' to drive a tractor on the highway or somethin'.  I'm sorry girls.  It does turn my stomach to have to do somethin' like this but if one of you had a craft like your older brother and his pansy whittlin' we wouldn't have to slut you up like we is.  

Now for you Cousin Nathan, I don't know where to begin with you.  You're a goldmine.  You got the hut where you tan your roadkill, the Animal Planet will want some of that.  You have the shack where you barbecue the roadkill, that's goof for one o' them cookin' channels.  And your whole house at th' end of the property, well you can't even sleep in there no more can ya?  On account of all th' trash you done collected?  Sorry, Nathan but it is trash.  What you say you collect is literally garbage.  You have more black garbage bags in there than you do furniture.  But you know, I used to judge you for that and I do apologize.  Now that I realize how many of them hoardin' TV shows is out there; your obsessive compulsive behavior is like unto a goldmine to this family.  And you got a serious drinkin' problem too, that's somethin' special!  We can have a super intervention or some such!  Yeah, that's gotta be somethin' the TV will want to air.

Family, we need to come together in this time of crisis.  But I am convinced that the only way we's gonna save th' farm, is if we can sell ourselves to some sorta basic cable reality TV programmin'.  And I think we can do it.  We all have somethin' special, somethin' that people want to watch and learn from.  Or at the very least watch, and gawk at.  If we can succeed in whoring ourselves out to the TV and selling our way of live as disposable entertainment, then we will preserve our very way of life itself.  It's our only chance, I jus' know it.

MY BIG GULP RUNNETH OVER

I was mad.  Mad, I tell you!  Nay, I am weak.  Those fountainheads so perfectly arranged before me; I could not resist a splash from each and every flavor of beverage mixed into one, single Double Big Gulp.  My thirst is quenched, yet I am dehydrated and feel sticky.

And it was not a sound idea to dress my bowl of Frosted Flakes with a Starbucks DoubleShot.

Lo, my KFC Double Down did not need a bowl of gravy for dipping, yet I did order it on the side; for I am loathsome.

I regret that I was fool enow to purchase a sack of Cool Ranch Doritos, for my order from Taco Bell was already of the Locos Tacos variety.  Woe, that I did not think outside of the box!

Yet when it came to dessert, I held fast!  I stood strong!  I resisted the delicious sponge cake and the creamy filling of the Hostess varieties.  No Twinkies nor Snoballs nor delicately crusted fruit pie will waylay me.  After having supped so richly this day, I exerted every erg of willpower to resist the siren’s call of the pastry stand.  For I am no animal.  I am a man!

...but in truth, my strength is a mask for my true weakness.  For I know lurking in the back of my freezer, I own a pair of Sara Lee poundcakes and one cheesecake.  And furthermore I know that I will likely make unto myself a sandwich of these confections, however grotesque and decadent that may be.  

O, lament!   

THINGS DESERVING OF 'MEH'

The word 'meh' is often thrown about haphazardly.  Researchers have determined there are nine items of discussion which absolutely deserve an immediate 'meh.'    

THINGS DESERVING OF MEH

This Tuesday's 24 hour 'Empty Nest' marathon

Would you like a free sample of organic, gluten-free granola?  It was made with brown rice syrup and quinoa.

Coca-Cola has developed a new flavor: Ice

Netflix has emailed to ask about the picture quality of 'Troll 2'

Major League Soccer newest expansion team in Columbus, Ohio

Any upcoming 00's rock supershow

Columbus, Ohio

Your wife's second cousin whom I have never met is pregnant with her third child

The Starbucks on the corner is closed for renovations, thus you must go to the Starbucks across the street, the Starbucks in the Target, or the Starbucks on the other corner

Medical-Grade Pornography

You need to think this sort of thing through.  Who're using this porn?  Are they enjoying it on a personal level, or are they just saying "hell, this'll do" and then half-heartedly rubbing one out to it?  You have no idea?  And this reproductive clinic, I'm sure you're very well regarded in the city.  The best of the lot, right?  Right.  But I, I can help you become the best of the best of the best.  Allow me to explain.  Well let me tell you sister, it's a good thing that you came to me.  I'm a professional pornographer.


Where do you get your porn?  You don't remember?  I'm not surprised.  I looked in your collection rooms, and I didn't see a single magazine from after 1992.  And in the world of porn, that's pretty darned old.  Did one of the doctors buy it, or did you just give the janitor twenty bucks and ask him to hit the top shelf at the 7-11?  That explains this old issue of Maxim.


Listen, this is important.  Men today have access to every kind of perversion available on the internet.  A copy of Playboy from 1989 and an old Sears catalog isn't going to cut it.  And when you're pulling your samples - ha ha, little joke - I assume you want the biggest, best samples possible right?  Well, if you want to get the biggest and best samples, then you need to improve what you keep locked in the spank bank.  


I mean, sure.  "Hell, this'll do" is an attitude that will work for most men.  Hell, when I was a young man I managed to rub one out to a brassiere ad in the back of Parade magazine.  But if you want to really satisfy your customers, you need to examine who your audience is and cater to the individual.


See, your Playboy or a Penthouse is okay but only barely.  You really want to go with a High Society or Swank.  Classy titles like these will make the guy feel like a big shot.  And a lot of men have specific likes, which is why magazines like Juggs and Buttman even exist.  You're going to want at least one of those, too.  But this is just the basics, here.


And this is just if you want to stick with the 7-11 budget.  If you were willing to triple that money, I could do a full analysis of your clientele and obtain materials specific to their individual kinks.


I could get you some really specific titles.  I mean, take a look at this one.  No, go ahead.  We can consider this one on the house.  That is a magazine devoted to 'barely legal' amputee Asian girls with big butts.  I know what you're saying, it's all over your face.  Who likes this sort of filth?  Well, you'd be surprised.  Lots of guys go for this fetish.  Like me.  Especially me.


And if your clinic can afford it, you will probably want to go digital.  No, not Blu-Ray.  A mini-DVD player is surprisingly affordable nowadays, and DVD's are as well.  It's one of the benefits of being a dying medium, I could get you hundreds of gently used pornographic DVDs for a fraction of the price you'd pay online or in stores.  I won't even bring up tablet-based pornography.  That's a level of science that I don't think anybody in the States is ready for.  The Japanese now, they're on top of it.


Listen ma'am, I hope I'm not coming on too strong.  Maybe you're right, I could have called ahead and asked for an appointment.  But I was just thinking that you and your fine clinic here would be able to benefit from an injection - ha, joke again!- an injection of medical-grade pornography.  


Please, take my card.

THE BEST RUMSPRINGA EVER

Oh boy, oh boy!  I cannot wait.  I’m going to be turning sixteen in less than twenty-four hours, and then me and Martin and Ichabod are going on the best Rumspringa ever!

For those of you who do not know our ways, Rumspringa is the traditional time for young Amish to get out there and experience the world.  And I for one, can’t wait to get out there and sow some wild oats!  I can’t wait!

We’re taking a page from Martin’s cousin Abram, but not the whole book, mind.  Abram is one of the rare ones who embarked on his Rumspringa and then chose to not rejoin the community.  Normally Abram is completely shunned by the community, but myself and my friends reasoned that in order to have the best possible time we should take the advice of one who had gone before us.  And who better than Abram the heretic?

First of all, we’re going to get something called ‘Zima.’  I know it’s liquor and is forbidden...but not for Rumspringa!  Abram said it was the most exotic and delicious flavor that he has ever tasted.  I have never tasted anything in the flavor of ‘citrus’ before, so I am most excited!

Second of all, we will acquire clothing like the English wear.  There is a store of thrift in the township nearby, and I saw a number of things in the window that I feel will be most exciting to wear!  There are pants there that come in every color of the rainbow!  I know by the names that they are from some far-off, exotic land.  What better thing to wear for my Rumspringa?  Perhaps I will try and pretend that I am an exotic prince from the land of...”Zubaz.”

Third, we have plans to go to the state fair this summer.  Usually we would go with our kinsfolk to deliver our butter and preserves, but we were never allowed to stay and participate in the frivolities.  I hear they deep fry butter at these sort of events, and I intend to try it.  

And I will dance!  Never before would I even consider it, but there will be live, modern music at the fair and we all made a promise to ourselves: just this once, we shall dance.  We risk condemning our mortal souls to the Devil, but this is our time to experiment.  Our time!  I do not know what the music of ‘Ratt’ will sound like, but I am ready to dance to it.

I am hoping that my new finery will impress the girls of the township as well.  Miriam and Ruth both will be of age at the same time as myself and Martin and Ichabod, and I hope that the five of us will have a chance to experience the world together.  And I hope that they also go to the store of thrift as we will.  They had a number of what are called ‘scrunchies.’ And I would dearly love to see what Ruth’s hair will look like out of her wimple.  

It will surely be a struggle for us, I am sure.  I know that there are a great many temptations out there.  The bright lights and clothes, the music.  I fear the rhythms of ‘Ratt’ will tempt me greatly.  

But we are all willing to test the limits of our faith.  And after all, for all of the temptations in that modern world...if they are made by man, then at their roots are they not a piece of the Lord God?  I mean no heresy, I am simply questioning.  That is what this time is meant to be for, is it not?  Well, our faith is strong and I know that in the end I will choose to return to our beloved community.  What else could I do?  I could never imagine a life outside of the farmsteads.  

I don’t know how Abram does it, honestly.  But we’re off to see him in the morn, when he will help us acquire our Zima and also something he calls ‘crystal meth.’  I don’t know what ‘meth’ means, but I do surely find the icicles along the barn gutters to be lovely so I’m sure that this ‘crystal meth’ is yet another example of the Good Lord’s bounty.

Me, You, and an Episode of Hoarders

Well, hello.  I can see you have followed my trail of love.  I personally plucked the petals from three dozen of the reddest roses to make that, milady.  And I am more than pleased that you followed that romantic trail of mine all the way from the garage up into the boudoir to where I; your love machine is waiting for you.  Oh yes, darling Janice.  The kids are away, the dog is in the basement, the lights are low and now it’s just you, me, and this episode of Hoarders.

Care for a glass of white?  You are most welcome, beloved.  Please, slide that fine body of yours over my way across our Tempur-Pedic and relax yourself.  Let my experienced fingers play over that tense and unhappy brow of yours to erase the tension of a bad, long day.  And sit back, nestled into my arms as we watch an hour’s worth of intense personal struggle and hopefully some healing.

Oh my.  That’s right, the kids are gone and away.  I know that’s how you like it.  Yes, the state has taken them away until Sheena can find a way to make their home a safe and livable space again.  Yeah, I know you like it like that.  You like it when bureaucracies in rural North Carolina care enough and have the resources to intervene on the the well-being of minors.  You love it like that.

Oh my!  Oh my, you are a dirty girl.  Damn, woman.  Why on earth would she need to keep every single plastic bread bag you’ve purchased since 1995?  Can you believe it?  I mean, wow.  She must be growing mold cultures from every single loaf of bread she bought for nearly twenty years in that kitchen.  

...why yes, Janice.  That’s not the only thing growing right now.  Ah ha. Ha.

I don't even want to talk about her downstairs bathroom...on a related note, can I interest you in a chocolate? Belgian.  You are very welcome, beloved.  Just sit back and enjoy your sweets, and let me take control of your body with my magic fingers.  Much as professional organizer Geraldine Thomas is trying to take control of an explosive situation between Sheena and her sister Felecia.  But she’s got to do it without my magic fingers.

Oh my, Janice!  Janice!  Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?  Or perhaps...it’s both of us?  And things also seem to be getting pretty hot between Sheena and professional organizer Geraldine Thomas.  Geraldine sure does seem to be annoyed at how noncommittal Sheena is acting towards the prospect of clearing out her collection of VHS cassettes.  There is some definite tension there, oh yes.

Conflict between seasoned professionals and people with complex compulsive hoarding tendencies gets me so hot.  Know what I mean, baby?

Mmm?  Oh yes, we’re perfectly safe.  We’re not going to be disturbed, I sent the kids to a movie a half an hour ago.  We’ll have at least a full hour to enjoy an hour of the most compelling real life drama on TV.  And each other.  

My Dog Food Will Change The World

Sir,

First of all, I take great offense at your flat denial of my application for a $10,000 small business loan.  One would expect that your bank would have taken an appropriate and reasonable amount of time to review and assess my business plan.  Perhaps a month, a week at the least.  

And yet my application was denied in under twenty-four hours. 

This does not seem either appropriate or reasonable to me.  This in fact leads me to believe that somebody in your organization simply rubber stamped a rejection, and did not take the time to properly consider my plan to prepare and market pre-chewed food for dogs.

My business plan is exemplary.  I detailed line by line my plans:  the location, cleaning and remodeling said location into a place suitable to chew food for dogs, procurement of raw goods such as grains and meats -all organic, mind you!- and hiring a staff of four to eight employees to assist in pre-chewing the dog food.  I even included the paperwork for the theoretical employees heath plans, medical and dental.  

Especially the dental.

Furthermore, I take exception to your professionalism.  Yes, your professionalism.  One would assume that a reasoned, well-thought out rejection letter would be a bit more verbose than what I received.  Perhaps you could have taken time to write at least a paragraph.  Instead I got two sentences.  Two!  

Allow me to reread these two sentences to you: ‘Are you nuts?  Nobody’s going to pay you to chew food for dogs.’ 

This is not what I would consider ‘brevity.’  In fact, I consider it lazy.  Yes, lazy!  Compared to the countless hours that I put into my proposal; as well as the countless hours I put into producing samples of my wares I do consider your flippant denial of my loan to be rooted in laziness.  I myself spent hours and hours masticating pound upon pound of raw meats, grains, and vegetables to create my Canine-free Canine Chow (trademark pending) samples for your perusal, to prove my devotion to my product as well as to attest to the quality of my wares.  

The beef, the chicken, the beef and chicken, the salmon.  The salmon, so rich in Omega-3’s! And the organic vegetables, the whole grains, the fresh blueberries so plump with flavor and antioxidants! The raw egg yolks, which proved to be quite difficult to chew. So much work and care went into this project and to be so cruelly dismissed...well sir, I am more than offended. I am outraged.

And to add injury to insult: the samples I had provided you were simply returned to me, unopened.  I am aware that some close-minded individuals find this proposal to be unsettling.  ‘Disgusting’ is a word that has been carelessly thrown around by several other banks, I am sorry to say.  "Unseemly." "Terrible." "Please get out of my office." I will credit you sir, for at least sparing me those heartless words.

I beg you sir, please think of the many, many elderly dogs out there that are unable to chew their own food.  Do you consider yourself an animal lover?  Pre-chewing their food is simply the most economical way to prepare food for elderly dogs with weakened teeth and jaws.  And while the human mouth does not have as many enzymes as that of a dog, it still contains enough to help in breaking down food in order to make it easier for dogs to get the proteins and vitamins that they so need!

Also, jaw-powered food processing is as close to green energy as the animal food industry will ever hope to become.  Tell that to the people at Eukenuba!

I beg of you sir, please reconsider my proposal.  This is a chance for your bank to get in on the ground floor of an exciting new industry. Join me at the forefront of history! Please don’t let my hours and hours of chewing raw meats (organic raw meats) be in vain.  

Zombie Road Test: Driving During the Zombie Apocalypse

Keep it right at or just under the speed limit.  Just because other drivers are driving faster than you, don’t think of it as a peer pressure thing.  That also goes for when other drivers are driving on the wrong side of the road, or on lawns.

First thing: keep your hands at ten and two.  You always want to keep your hands at ten and two.  Both concentration’s sake, and also so if you need to react swiftly your hands are in the correct position.  And we want to keep the windows up because the streets are teeming with the bloodthirsty living dead.  Remember: concentration is key.

Okay, do you know what you did wrong there?  No, in this case the last thing we need to do is come to a complete stop at a crosswalk.  Remember: bloodthirsty living dead.  If the road is clear, you should drive right along.

You can probably speed up a little.

Now, who has the right of way in this situation?  That’s right, fire engines, police cars, and ambulances have the right of way.  Moreso if the ambulance is on fire and careening wildly across the yellow line, like that one.  That was very well done.

Hey, pay attention!  You are the driver, you need to keep your eyes on the road and on your rear view mirrors and how fast you are driving!  I will worry about the radio stations.  It’s all the emergency broadcast system anyways.

Okay, you need to remember that in all cases the pedestrians have the right of way.  Especially if they are housewives covered in blood, fleeing a horde of undead children.

Whoa!  Hold on!  You always, always need to come to a complete stop at an intersection!  You could have hurt that man...oh, it’s one of them again.  Why, God why?  Why is this happening?!  Is it judgment day?!  Okay, I think we can let it slide this time.  

In all situations you want to keep a full car’s length between your vehicle and anybody parked in front of you.  Especially that convertible in front of us with the living dead all over it.  Those poor fools.  Those poor, damned fools.  Why would you put the top down on a day like today?  Why?!

Hands at ten and two!

DEATH BY TRUCKNUTZ

Well, well.  Kudos to you Special Agent Lopez.  It’s been quite the journey for both of us, and here we are.  Finally face to face.  May I call you Jillian?  After all, you obviously know so much about me.  It’s almost as if we were old friends, no?

But yes, yes.  You think you know everything, don’t you?  Oh, but you’ve barely scratched the surface.  Oh my, yes.  Jillian, how many victims of mine have you accounted for?  Really?  Is that all?  Well I’m afraid that I regret to inform you that I have some secrets yet to share.  Mmm, oh yes.

Perhaps I shall start at the beginning.  The first time happened in Ridgeland, Georgia.  It was a late night when it happened.  The road was wet from a passing squall, and I was quite tired as I drove my Prius along I-95.  The calming tones of National Public Radio soothing me; I was simply minding my own business when all of a sudden a truck cut me off, red brake lights flashing like the devil’s eyes.  The shock of the near collision sending me careening off into the breakdown lane.  I shall never forget the experience.  It was a massive, red pickup.  Some kind of F-150 or what have you, some classic colossal penis substitute.

Jillian, I was quite upset by this set of events.  A goodly portion of my emotion was certainly fear; some discomfort from my soiled briefs, but a majority was my blinding rage.  After taking a moment to collect myself and replace my drawers, I pulled back onto the highway for a short time, and then pulled off in search of a rest stop.

And imagine my luck: at the very first rest stop I came across, there was that same big, red pickup truck.  It was parked out behind a dilapidated truck stop, by a dumpster.  I parked next to the truck immediately.  I was going to give this man a piece of my mind!  

The parking lot was deserted, it was quite late after all.  But when I got out of the car and walked over to him, he walked by me brusquely; hitting my shoulder with his own.  And he said under his breath: “Sorry about yore drivin’, faggot.”

Can you believe it?  *I* was not the one who made the error!  And why did he assume I was a homosexual?  Because I drove a hybrid?  Because I care, strongly about gas mileage and sustainability?  I was enraged.  Not only did this, this...primitive almost kill me on the interstate not ten minutes before, but now he laughs at me and insults me?  I’d never felt such, I guess “road rage” before in my life.  

It was then that my eyes fell upon them, hanging from his trailer hitch.  They were bugglegum pink and they swayed slightly in the breeze, like a ripe peach.  Or peaches, as the case may be.  

I don’t know what came over me, Jillian.  But I bent down, plucked his Trucknutz from beneath his bumper, and proceeded to beat him to death with them.

I went into a fugue state, I think.  Everything went red and then white and then reality started to focus again and...there I was, crouched over his broken, bloodied face with a novelty scrotum clutched in my fist.  And while you may think me mad, Jillian: as soon as I realized what I had done...I accepted it.  I rejoiced.  And I knew then what I must do.

To date, I have beaten men, women, and not a few children -teenagers, I mean to say- to death with every colored Trucknut in the rainbow.  Green ones, red ones, blue ones, chrome ones, Trucknutz in gold leaf, camouflage, so many of the horrifying ‘flesh’ colored ones.  They do not look like flesh, Jillian.  at least...not my own.

Why was I never caught?  Why, I would simply replace the bloodied bollocks to the trailer hub where I had gotten them and simply...leave.  Hiding in plain sight?  Not really.  It’s just that most police feel the same thing, that most all people feel when they see a set of plastic testicles attached to a pickup truck.  Revulsion.  Put yourself in the shoes of your typical, rural policeman.  It’s three in the morning, you’ve been ripped from your warm bed in your double-wide trailer from your three children (only the last of them born in wedlock),  investigating a grisly murder in the pouring rain in the middle of the night in some godforsaken truckstop...”Oh well boy howdy, guess I’ll shine my flashlight around and look for some clues....say, what are those?  BALLS?  Gross.  I’m gonna look over there now.”

Oh, does that sound stupid?  But then again Jillian, how long had your special task force been searching for me?  If you could go back in time, I’m sure you could find a great many unsolved murders and tie them around my neck if you were to check for fingerprints wrapped around the Truck ‘Vas Deferenz’ of those little plastic novelties.

But I grow weary of this.  I know now, the mistake that I had made.  There I was, driving the highways so late at night in an effort to fight my little class war all on my own...a losing battle, to be sure.  And after so many nights attempting to cleanse the highways of these morons, I am certainly doomed to a life behind bars.  And behind these bars, I shall likely find more men of the same caliber who felt that hanging artificial testicles from their vehicles to be so very clever.  

I have no one to blame but myself, and only you to congratulate Special Agent Jillian Lopez.  Yes, congratulations.  Kudos to you.  I’m sure you will receive the highest accolades from the FBI, no?  perhaps even the President himself will congratulate you for your work.  You may rest your weary head tonight, content in knowing that you have made the roads safe once again for people to drive about with plastic testicles.  

But I also know this, Jillian.  Every time you see a pair swinging from a trailer hitch, or crudly fixed with wire to the bumper of a Hyundai- you will think of me.

And now, I invoke my right to counsel.

MY ALLERGIES ARE KILLING ME

Excuse me, sir?  Sir.  Would you and your date mind keeping it down a tad?  No, you’re not being too loud.  It’s just that I’m allergic to sarcasm.

There is no need for laughter.  I’m not trying to be some kind of touchy-feely, New Age whiner.  I’m not making some pedantic statement on human nature, a feeble attempt to comment on how I abhor our cruel, post-modern society and refuse to engage in it.  No, your sarcasm is literally making me break out in hives.  If you keep it up, my breathing will become labored, and then I will go into anaphylactic shock and perhaps expire.

Sir, I will have you know this is a legitimate allergy.  I have had it confirmed as real by both an herbalist and by two out of three homeopaths.  This is my life, a constant struggle.  I’ve lived with this my entire life, and let me tell you.  It has not been a picnic.

There, right there.  “So you’re allergic to sarcasm?”  Do you see the red bumps that are breaking out on my forearms?  That was not helpful.  The very tone of your voice, that inflection on the word ‘sarcasm’ was enough to start the process.  And now, the hives.  

It first happened when I was  in middle school.  We were coming back in from gym class, and I slipped on the wet tiles in the locker room.  I didn’t fall, but I remember Paul McHenry shouted out “Oh, smooth move Ex-Lax!” and I fell to the ground with my throat closed up and my eyes swelling shut.  

And then again in high school, school picture day.  “Hey, I really like the new look.  That’s super cool.  Maybe next time you should try and do them so that they touch in the back.”  How was I to know that the lines shaved in my temples were off-center?  And how about a little bit of empathy, huh?  It’s not my fault that my mom couldn’t find the ruler.  I nearly died that day.  Thankfully, I had started carrying an epipen when I was fourteen.

At least on most occasions, I know when it’s sarcasm so I can put a pencil between my teeth to help with the seizures.  But college was tougher.  A much smarter class of people, half of the time they were being sarcastic and I didn’t even realize it.  I had a professor who took me to task on a term paper I had written.  “Why yes, I suppose that Plato’s Cave could have illustrated man’s sense of imagination while addressing the very nature of education as well.”  Writ in a pen as red as my inflamed cheeks and sinuses.

I didn’t know he was being sarcastic until I was editing my essay in the library later that evening.  I ended up projective vomiting for two days and ended up in hospital.  

We settled out of court with the university.

Sir, I’m trying to explain it to you.  I will stay in my apartment for days at a time, trying to avoid people so I won’t even have to risk encountering any sarcastic comments.  I try and restrict most all of my social transactions through the internet, because they say that sarcasm doesn’t translate through the internet as well.

But you know what?  It surely does.  They lie.  A single comments page on Youtube might kill me one of these days.  I’d trade this for the worst peanut allergy any day of the week.  They have to label foods to warn you about peanut allergies.  I wish they could label websites.  

Worst of all are the paramedics.  I guess they call it gallows humor, but I call it singularly unhelpful.  Their attitudes might help them deal with the pressures of their job, but you would think that if they came to my home on a monthly or weekly basis that they would understand not to say things like “Oh, what happened?  Were the Geek Squad mean to you again?”  Or “Good to see you again!”  Yes, I know that tone.  Perhaps if they could develop the slightest modicum of empathy for my ailment they wouldn’t have to drag that crash cart to my third floor walk up.

Thank you, it really does feel like I’m the only person in the world with problems.  It really is hard to live like this.  Thank you for understanding.  

...wait, what?

THE BEST BARBECUE/LOVEMAKING TIPS ON THE INTERNET

The fires of your passion will burn bright, so be sure to step back at least three feet when you light the charcoal.  

As far as tenderizing goes, be sure to tenderly but thoroughly massage from top to bottom with your fingertips.  This will break down and soften the muscle fibers and lead to a more tender piece of ass.

Make sure that you listen.  Be caring, loving, attentive.  That salmon fillet will dry out in a second if you’re not paying close attention.

Know how long to let things marinate.  You don’t want it sitting in that mixture of jasmine and rose water for too long.  Nobody likes pruney, wrinkled skin.

Keep it lubricated!  Use a dampened paper towel to liberally brush vegetable oil evenly across your grill/lover.

Try not to flip it too often.

And remember: once the internal temperature has reached 130 degrees or you have been wildly pounding against your lovers loins- be sure to let it rest to preserve the natural juices.

THE CLASSIC ENTREPENEUR SPEAKS

In late nineteen ninety and four, I was in a small crafts shoppe buying five pounds of paraffin.  Never mind for what.  That’s not what this story is about, friend.  You mind your own.  

On a whim, I picked up a small, floppy brown rat from a bin at the counter.  Not a real rat.  Use your head.  No kind of reputable crafts shoppe would leave a container teeming with rodents right by the cash register.  Man, you kids today.  It was a rat made of felt and filled with beans.  

I was thinking of perhaps giving it to my neighbor's granddaughter or grandson (whatever the little screaming ragamuffin is) in the hopes of getting back on their Christmas card list, which was itself the first step back into that sweet, sweet fruitcake circle.  There's nothing dirty there, get your mind out of the gutter.  I'm just a big fan of candied cherries and suet.  

I bought that little stuffed rat for the low, low price of two dollars and twenty cents.  And then not eight months later into 1995, I turned that little rat around for triple the price.  Yes, six dollars and sixty-six cents.  And that was when I knew that I was on to something big.  Something huge.

Now I'd been fooled before.  I have a closet packed with regret down the hall both as an investor and as a man.  I've got a couple dozen commemorative coins in a shoebox back there.  I'll always hate the 1984 Olympics, just so’s you know.  Charles and Diana fucked me over pretty good, those ‘forever in love’ tea sets are just collecting dust now.  DUST.  And I was eating off of the George H.W. Bush collector’s plates for nearly a year until the lead poisoning hit me.  Thanks for nothing, Parade Magazine.

But this Beanie Baby thing?  Friend; that was cake.  I rode that Beanie Baby thing all the way to the bank, and I rode it hard and I put it away wet.  Believe you that, my friend.  I was making money hand over fist, dollars and cents like you wouldn't believe.  That was upside-down pineapple cake, my friends.  I made a small fortune out of those cute little cloth pieces of shit.  My secret- I had an in with the source.  Mrs. Gertie Tinker.  Small business owner.  Senior citizen.  War widow.  Crazy as a shithouse rat.  I went to war with her husband back in the big one, all I had to tell her was "Well Gertie, we need felt for the war effort." and all I'd get in return was a healthy "Fuck the Krauts!" and I was up to my elbows in dogs, cats, birds, ponies, bears, the cuter reptiles, all of it.  

My old job in insurance?  I quit it.  I had a corner market on the lonely housewife market and it is a sweet, sweet place to be I tell you.   I'd be clearing at least six, seven, eight extra dollars every single time.  In the peak times, we're talking double digit sales.  Double.  Digits.  Friend.   My profits are in the high three digit range.  No, it’s not a fad!  Shut your yap.  do you know what you’re doing?  Do you know what you are doing right now?  You are literally arguing with success.

God, you damn kids.

So here I am, sitting pretty in nineteen ninety and ninety six when I find this peculiar little thing inside of my USA Today.  It had fallen off the rack by the cash register and gotten into the folds of my paper, this little green and white plastic jobby, hanging off of a keychain.  Well, that little green jobby was what is known as a 'Tamagotchi' and tell you what friend, in it I see the beginnings of my second fortune.

See, over in Japan they got all sorts of little electronical devices to pass the time with.  Mostly those damn video games, but this...this seems some kind of different.  Instead of some Italian jumping on vegetables this one is a lot less complicated. A little froggy that you have treat like a real pet.  You gotta feed it or play with it and take it on little electronic walks for electric shits.  If you didn’t do half that stuff every fifteen minutes it dies.

Can you believe that?  

Proven fact, friend.  I know the collectible market.  I’m a proven success, I have like a fifth sense working for me.  You know what kind of price margin there is on a digital frog in a plastic keychain?  One that poops?  Kids love poop.  Women love little animals.  I was right about the Beanie Babies, I’ll be raking in the loot off of those little bastards well into the next century.  You can’t argue with success, much as you might want to try.  

When I quit my job in insurance, they said “You’re crazy!  How are you gonna live?”  And you know what I told them?  “I am going to live large.”  And I kept that promise.  I’ve got a condo in Tucson that’ll be fully paid for by the Beanie Babies alone by about 2002.  When you throw in the Tamagotchi money I’m gonna be raking in, I’m pretty sure that I can afford that extra-long carport.

Yes, my friend.  Life is good.  I’m proud of what I’ve done here, I think I’m a classic american success story.  I don’t wanna pat myself on the back too much, though.  You asked me, I told you.  That’s all.  On my tombstone, let it be written: “a felt rat, filled with beans.”  I think that says it all.