Bream Gives Me Hiccups

by Jesse Eisenberg

  PRISONER 2: That does sound nice. But I think I prefer to serve out my time here and live a relaxing life in Pompeii. Maybe teach Latin to at-risk youth. You know, give back a little.

  PRISONER 1: Well, it was nice knowing you, brother.

  PRISONER 2: See ya on the outside.

  WIFE: Can you please sit still?

  HUSBAND: I am.

  WIFE: No, you keep sneaking little looks into your telescope.

  HUSBAND: I’m just checking to make sure the kids are in bed.

  WIFE: No, I see you peering over the valley. You’re checking on the game.

  HUSBAND: Well, the bear mauling finals started tonight.

  WIFE: And you can check the score as soon as we get home. Please just pay attention.

  HUSBAND: I’m trying, but this is literally my worst nightmare, being stuck watching a three-hour performance of guys prancing around in satyr suits.

  WIFE: Your worst nightmare is being stuck with me?

  HUSBAND: No! I love being with you. I was referring to the satyrs. But is this whole thing gonna be in Oscan? I can’t understand a word they’re saying.

  WIFE: Claudius takes his wife to hymn cantations every week.

  HUSBAND: So maybe you should go with them.

  WIFE: And be a third wheel like on an oxen-pulled cart? No thank you!

  HUSBAND: I feel like this thing is never going to end.

  WIFE: Just be glad we’re not at Flaccus’s pantomime. It’ll all be over in three hours.

  METEOROLOGIST 1: Have you noticed anything strange recently?

  METEOROLOGIST 2: Strange?

  METEOROLOGIST 1: Yeah, I don’t know. Just feels like the weather’s been eerily calm.

  METEOROLOGIST 2: Well, what’s the forecast for the weekend? Have you checked your leaf?

  METEOROLOGIST 1: Yeah, it’s still blowing toward Capri.

  METEOROLOGIST 2: So we’re fine. You’re probably feeling pressure from Titus to invent some crazy story just to boost ratings.

  METEOROLOGIST 1: No, come on. I wouldn’t do that.

  METEOROLOGIST 2: I’m not saying you’re doing it intentionally. But remember last year, when you said frogs would fall from sky? You always do this during sweeps.

  METEOROLOGIST 1: Do I?

  METEOROLOGIST 2: Yes! We’re fine! Look! The sun is shining. We’re in Pompeii, the safest hamlet this side of Herculaneum!

  METEOROLOGIST 1: Maybe you’re right.

  METEOROLOGIST 2: Of course I’m right.

  METEOROLOGIST 1: I sometimes have this fantasy of running into the amphitheater and telling everyone to evacuate Pompeii, that there’s some crazy flood of ashen pumice about to shoot out of the sky, paralyzing us all!

  METEOROLOGIST 2: You’d probably get an 8 or 9 share in the ratings.

  METEOROLOGIST 1: At least an 8 or 9!

  METEOROLOGIST 2: But would it be the right thing to do?

  METEOROLOGIST 1: I guess not.

  METEOROLOGIST 2: Good. Now let’s kick back, grab some fermented goat tonic, and watch the sun set behind placid Mount Vesuvius.

  ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL’S FIRST FIVE PHONE CALLS

  March 10, 1876

  ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL: Watson, come here! I want to see you!

  March 11, 1876

  ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL: Hey, Watson, guess who? Yeah, it’s me, it’s Aleck. How’d you know? But I was doing a funny voice! Did you get any sleep last night? Me neither! I was so pumped about the whole phone thing working. I know! I totally wanted to call you too, but I figured you probably went to sleep. Did you tell anybody yet? No, me neither. I was thinking of telling Mabel though. I bet she would think it was interesting. All right, cool. If you’re up later, though, call me. I don’t care what time it is. Cool. So . . . are you gonna hang up? No, you hang up first. No, you! Okay, we’ll do it at the same time. Ready? On three. One. Two. Three. Are you still there? Yeah, me too. Okay, I’m really hanging up this time. One. Two. Three. Hello?

  March 12, 1876

  ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL: Hey, Watson, how’s it going? Nothing. Just sitting here. You? That’s cool. Hey, I had a kind of weird idea. Tell me if it sounds too creepy. You know how you have a phone and I have a phone? Don’t you think it would be cool if more people had one? I don’t know, like Mabel for instance. I just think she would like it. What? No, I don’t like her, I just think she would like the phone. I’m not obsessed with her. I just think it would be a cool experiment, to see if it could work at her house. So I was thinking we could make it a surprise, you know? Like you could hide the phone in her house and then I could call her and she’ll hear it ringing and not know what it is and then pick up and I’ll be on the other end and I’ll say something really casual like, “Hey, Mabel, it’s me Aleck calling from my house down the block,” and she’ll be so impressed—not that I’m trying to impress her—and then we’ll know it worked. So I was thinking if you could go to her house and sneak the phone in, that would be great. Like you could just casually knock on her door and pretend you’re delivering flowers or something. Or doing a survey on plague in the neighborhood—just something totally casual. But don’t mention me at all! Cool, thanks, Watson. You’re the best! She’s gonna be so impressed. What? No, I mean with the invention. She’s gonna be impressed with the invention. Cool, speak later.

  March 15, 1876

  ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL: Hey, it’s me. Nothing. What? No, I just ate dinner. I’m not slurring my words. I’m not. Well, I think you’re drunk! I’m totally fine. I may have had a sip of wine, so what? Shut up! I’m not in the mood for this, okay? Have you heard anything from Mabel? I’ve been calling her all day, she doesn’t pick up! Yes, of course I dialed the right number—2! Don’t patronize me! You probably didn’t connect the reeds to the armature properly. I’m not saying you did it on purpose, but it does seem a little odd that she hasn’t picked up. That’s all I’m saying. I’m not accusing you of anything, but I have seen the way you look at her. Oh, I’m just inventing things, am I?! The Great Inventor! Inventing things, right?! Like when you told her you liked her frock? Did I invent that? Or when you walked curbside with her all the way to Strawbridges?! Maybe I should get a patent on that vision! Ah! Now I feel enraged! I feel like hanging up my phone before we finish speaking to each other. I mean it! I’m going to do it. I’m going to hang up my phone even though we’re not done!

  March 21, 1876

  ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL: Hey, Watson, it’s Aleck. How’s it going? I’m okay. So . . . Yeah, I guess I just wanted to say sorry for my phone call last week. I should never have called you drunk. That was stupid. And I guess I wasn’t really mad at you. I guess I was just . . . mad at the situation, you know? And I took it out on you, which was totally juvenile. Yeah, so anyway . . . How are you? That’s good, that’s good. Yeah, no otherwise, I’m pretty good too. I thought I had an idea for a new invention but I think someone already did it. It was like a spoon with ridges. Whatever. It’s kind of stupid anyway. No, I haven’t heard from Mabel. I don’t even really like her that much. She’s kind of self-involved, you know? Like she turns every conversation into something about herself. I think I was just in love with the idea of her, you know? Anyway, I am actually a little lonely. I do sound depressed, don’t I? Watson, do you think you could come over here? I want to see you.

  MARXIST-SOCIALIST JOKES

  Why did the Marxist-Socialist cross the road?

  To get to the Marxist-Socialist sit-in on the other side of the road.

  How many Marxist-Socialists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

  Two. One to screw in the lightbulb, one to lament Milton Friedman’s laissez-faire economic policies.

  A Marxist-Socialist walks into a bar and asks the bartender if he’s unionized.

  Knock knock.

  Who’s there?

  A Marxist-Socialist.

  A Marxist-Socialist who?

  A Marxist-Socialist who wants to give you a pamphlet about class struggle.

  What did o
ne Marxist-Socialist say to another?

  Like you, I also advocate a proletarian revolution culminating in collective ownership.

  What do you get when you cross a Marxist with a Socialist?

  Two people who generally feel that the value of a commodity is equal to its socially necessary labor time.

  What’s the difference between a Marxist-Socialist and a Keynesian economist?

  Several things, including but not limited to the following: The Marxist-Socialist believes that workers should own the means of production, whereas a Keynesian supports the private ownership of the means of production. The Marxist-Socialist believes that centralized government would ultimately wither away after a revolution, whereas the Keynesian advocates greater government action to ensure full societal employment. Finally, a Marxist-Socialist would not be invited to a party that a Keynesian was giving at work because the Keynesian knows that the Marxist-Socialist would throw a stink about the way the cubicles in the Keynesian’s office were arranged.

  How do you get a one-armed Marxist-Socialist out of a tree?

  Ask two teamsters to drive three AFL-CIO riggers each carrying an IAFF-approved ladder to the tree and help the one-armed Marxist-Socialist down.

  The Marxist-Socialist’s mother is so fat that when the Marxist-Socialist’s mother laments stagflation, she actually stagflates.

  A Priest, a Rabbi, and a Marxist-Socialist are in an airplane that is going to crash and there are only two parachutes. The Priest says, “I have always followed the word of Jesus, so I should have one of the parachutes.” The Rabbi says, “I paid for the plane rental, so I should also have one of the parachutes.” The Marxist-Socialist says, “I would normally advocate allocating these out according to one’s means, but I’m afraid of dying and would like one of the chutes, please.”

  IV.

  MY ROOMMATE STOLE MY RAMEN

  LETTERS FROM A FRUSTRATED FRESHMAN

  September 16

  Dear Miss Rita,

  I bet you thought you’d never hear from me again, right? Well, here I am! I know we haven’t spoken since my junior year of high school1 but I am so distraught and you’re the only person I could turn to. Oh, I should probably also tell you that I’m taking a creative writing class and we’re learning how to use footnotes,2 and I was writing so much to you that I thought it would be better if I used footnotes to make some of my points.

  Okay, so back to what I was saying. I’ve been in college for two weeks now and it’s been the worst time in my life. I am so unbelievably depressed! Even more than junior year, if you can believe that!

  And I know writing to you is a totally random thing to do and you’re probably thinking, “Who the hell is this?” but if I don’t tell someone about what’s going on, I think my head will explode.3

  So, I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t get into any of my top schools and most of my safeties so I’m going to a school in The Middle of Fucking Nowhere, Missouri,4 because my parents thought it would be “good for me” to leave home and “experience a different part of the country.”5

  And I hate this fucking town with a passion. It’s literally like the United States government made a regular town and then took a shit on it. It’s hard to describe, but St. Louis looks like shit, like actual feces, like there is a thin layer of excrement spread over everything in this town and that its heyday was like forty years ago, during the Depression era,6 and I miss New York so much right now!

  And the weirdest part about this whole thing is that I seem like the only one who actually minds this place. Every other student—and I mean every other student—seems totally fine. Like they’re doing well in their classes and going out and smiling and making friends and I’m just like, “How does anyone not see what a miserable fucking situation we’re all in?!”

  But the absolute worst part of my experience so far is that I requested a single room,7 but there were only a few singles and I got stuck with a bitch of a roommate named Rebecca Slotnick.8

  The Slutnick is technically a “nice” person. Like she always says the “right” things,9 I guess, but it feels totally fake. It feels like she’s only being nice so that, if we got into a fight, she could be like, “But I asked you if my music was bothering you.” And then I would have no choice but to be like, “Yeah, I guess you did.”

  And, not that it’s my business, but honestly, she should take up an eating disorder if she doesn’t already have one because she is a fucking chubster and a half.

  Okay, so this brings me to my current complaint:

  I did a massive shopping at Costco on move-in day with my parents cause I’m not allowed to have a car freshman year so we bought everything I would need for a few weeks.10

  And we bought an eighteen-pack of ramen noodles,11 which I know are supposed to be bad for you, but I actually like them and they’re the perfect “I have nothing else to eat!” kind of food.

  And The Slutnick and I have different class schedules, so one day I was at class till like 8:30 at night and when I came back home, Slutnick’s not there and I put a mug of water in the microwave to boil it for ramen. And then I take a bowl out and notice that there are only three chicken ramens left, when I distinctly remember there being four.

  At first I thought there’d been a break-in or something. So I inspected the rest of the room, but nothing else seemed different. And then I realized that The Slutnick doesn’t have class till late on Tuesdays so she’s probably been in the room all day, just eating her dumb face off, and she probably got tempted by my chicken ramen and decided she needed to force that down her hole as well.

  When I realized The Slutnick stole my ramen, I immediately lost my appetite. And something inside me kind of broke apart. Like when a woman finds out that her dentist husband has been cheating with his hygienist.

  And I started to have those panic attack feelings that you described. Where my breathing is really quick but I also feel like I’m choking. And my head feels dizzy and my toes feel empty like when I’m standing on the ledge of a tall building, looking down.

  So I just sat on the bed and I actually started crying.12 And I buried my head in the pillow and snot was just pouring out of my nose13 and I started to really hate everything in the world and it felt like my life was actually over, like I was stuck in an impossible situation and that my life was going to end. My heart was beating so fast but I felt like I was dying.

  And I guess I finally fell asleep, because the next thing I remember is Slutnick coming in the room and saying, “Hi, hope I didn’t wake you up.”14

  And I kind of ignored her for a while and pretended to read. And then, at some point, I said, “Night,” really quickly, to kind of show her that I was mad, and turned my lamp off and went to sleep.

  BUT . . .

  The next fucking day, Miss Rita . . .

  . . . The Slutnick mentions the Ramen! And she did it in her classic phony way. She said, “I hope you don’t mind, I was totally starved15 yesterday and I had one of your Ramens.”

  I wanted to scream in her dumb frizzy face!

  First of all, no one should ever say, “I hope you don’t mind.” If you’re saying “I hope you don’t mind” then that usually means that the person you’re saying it to DEFINITELY FUCKING MINDS.

  Second of all, she didn’t have “one” of my ramens. She had a chicken ramen. 16 That’s like taking a hundred-dollar bill out of my wallet and saying, “I hope you don’t mind, I took one of your bills.”

  And Third Of All, EAT SOME OF YOUR OWN FUCKING FOOD, BITCH! The Slutnick could’ve gone to Costco with her fat fucks of a family and she has tons of food on her side of the room.17 So what would possess her fat fucking ass to waddle over to MY side of the room and rummage her pig fucking nose through my shit!?!? Stay on your own side of the fucking PEN, PIGGY!!! Oink oink! Oink all you want on YOUR SIDE you fat slutty bitch!!!

  And then I told the fucking Resident Assistant on my floor18 that The Slutnick took one of my Ramens and do you know what she sa
id? She said: “I know college is a big transition for you, being an only child,19 but you’re going to have to learn how to share.” So I was like, “Fuck you, Janice,” and now we don’t talk. Power-hungry twat.

  Okay, I’m sorry for all of my cursing and bad language, but I remember how you used to tell me to keep a diary to get out my feelings instead of yelling at my mom. And that worked for a bit but then I got lazy so I started yelling at her again. And I guess this letter is like a diary, except that it’s not private because I really needed to tell someone who would actually understand me.20

  And I know that, on the surface, this seems like not a big deal or just about soup or whatever. But it’s not just about soup, you know? Because if it was just soup, I’d probably be like, “Whatever, I’ll get another soup.” But I’m not. I’m enraged. In a real way. And it’s part of a bigger problem, which is that I feel like my life is utter shit right now and I don’t see a way out of it and I feel like it’s only getting worse and that thought—the thought that’s it’s getting worse—is even more terrifying than if I was in some kind of war zone or something where at least I would know that the war would eventually end.

  Okay, I don’t want to be like a total downer21 in this whole letter. So I want to finish by telling you that you had a really good impact on my life, Miss Rita. I don’t know if you remember but you once said something to me that meant a lot and you probably don’t remember because you probably did things like that all the time for lots of girls, but for me it was the only nice thing in a year full of misery.

  It was this:

  One day, in the Junior Year From Hell, I was at your office and basically just crying to you.22 And you put your hand on the top of my head in a kind of weird way23 and you said, “You deserve to be happy.”

  And my mind kind of like exploded a bit. Because I realized that you were right! And that I did deserve to be happy, but not like in a selfish way (like I should have more happiness than someone else), but just in a way that’s like “I’m a human being and it’s okay for me to be a happy one.”