Now in Paperback!

by Mullen, Jim

  “You’re saying he’s not human?”

  “We don’t let non-humans play in the house,” said Sue. “Or skate,” pushing New Hampshire out the back door. “Can he sleep outside?”

  “It’s not a disease, it’s evolution. He’s evolved past us the same way we evolved past the Neanderthals. That’s why people have a hard time understanding him.” Hanna carefully explained to us that Indigo Children don’t like to follow rules, they have trouble waiting in line, they are very demanding and insist that they be served first because they know they are special. “He’s on a totally different plane than we are. To him, you and I are little more than cats and dogs that can talk, that’s how advanced he is.”

  “We had a word for children like that when I was growing up,” Sue said. “But it wasn’t ‘Indigo.’ It was . . .”

  “I know, I know, but New Hampshire is beyond ‘gifted.’ Indigo Children are very intelligent. They also tend to be hyperactive and aggressive.”

  “Why do they call them Indigo Children instead of . . . ?” Sue asked.

  Hanna interrupted again.

  “They’re Indigo Children because you can see their auras. They can see the future.”

  “You mean he can predict what he’s going to break even before he breaks it? That is amazing.”

  “New Hampshire has evolved past material things. They mean nothing to him. All we can do is watch and admire him.”

  “I wish you had mentioned this Indigo Child thing before. Our house isn’t really advanced being-proofed. We don’t have any furniture that won’t break when he jumps up and down on it, or the kind of pottery that doesn’t break when he runs through the house at a hundred miles an hour like his hair is on fire. Or can he fix the things he breaks with his superpowers?”

  “No, not yet, but that may come,” said Hanna. “Right now we just have to learn to live with it.”

  “Are there any other Indigo Children in his school, other kids like him?” Sue asked.

  “Oh, yes,” said Hanna. “Practically all of them.”

  American Idol— 1962 Edition

  RYAN SEACREST: First up is a singer and guitar player from Hibbing, Minnesota, who calls himself Bob Dylan. We wanted all the contestants to sing Bobby Vee songs tonight, but here’s a guy who goes his own way and would rather play something he wrote himself. Very risky. What are you going to do for us tonight, Bobby?

  BOB DYLAN: Don’t call me Bobby. I’m a grown man. I’m going to do a song called “Desolation Row.”

  RYAN SEACREST: Wow! What a downer. All right, Bob, give it your best shot.

  Bob sings.

  RYAN SEACREST: So Judges, what did you think? Randy?

  RANDY JACKSON: Yo, dog, what’s up? I have to tell you man, that didn’t do it for me. You were a little pitchy all through the thing. And folk music? That’s a fad, man. How long’s that going to last?

  PAULA ABDUL: That was the best thing I’ve ever heard. You’re going all the way to the top.

  SIMON COWELL: I have to be honest with you, Bob. Who told you you could sing? And that song. What a poor choice. Couldn’t you pick a Four Freshmen song or a Lettermen song or at least a Jimmy Dean song?

  RYAN SEACREST: So there you have it from the judges, Bob, what did you think about your performance?

  BOB DYLAN: You got a lot of nerve, to say you are my friend.

  RYAN SEACREST: Thank you, Bob. If you want to vote for Bob Dylan, the number to call is PLaza one one one.

  Next up is a singer from Port Arthur, Texas named Janis Joplin. Janis said she’d sing a Bobby Vee song when pigs fly. She’ll be performing the Gershwin classic “Summertime” from Porgy and Bess.

  Joplin sings.

  RYAN SEACREST: Well, that was—different. Judges, what have you got to say?

  RANDY JACKSON: Yo, what’s up dog?

  JANIS: Who are you calling a dog? You call me that one more time and I’ll come over there and smack you. Don’t think I won’t.

  RANDY: I don’t know what to say. Do you have a cold? Tuberculosis? You should see a doctor about that. Let me tell you, that’s not the way Shelley Fabares would have done that song.

  PAULA ABDUL: That was the best thing I’ve ever heard. You’re going all the way to the top.

  SIMON COWELL: I don’t know what to say. That is the worst performance I’ve ever heard. By a human. It sounded like two cats fighting in a burlap bag. The only reason you won’t be voted off tonight is because that Bob Dylan guy was worse.

  RYAN SEACREST: Oh, that was bitter. What did you think of your performance tonight, Janis?

  JANIS: What are you guys looking for? A singer or Playmate of the Month?

  RYAN SEACREST: Janis Joplin, ladies and gentlemen! The audience at home can vote for her by dialing PLaza two two two.

  Now a young singer from London, England, Mick Jagger. He, too, has refused to sing a Bobby Vee song and will be performing “Route 66.”

  Mick sings.

  RYAN SEACREST: Quite the little dancer, aren’t you. OK, judges, let’s see what you thought about Mick’s performance. Randy?

  RANDY JACKSON: What’s up, dog? First of all, you’re not American. I don’t know how you got through the door in the first place. Second, what is all that stuff with the hands and the hips? Are you singing or trying to charm snakes?

  PAULA ABDUL: That was the best thing I’ve ever heard. You’re going all the way to the top.

  SIMON COWELL: Mick, Mick, Mick. I’m not trying to be rude here, but let me just tell you there is no way you’re ever going to make it in this business. First, that accent, and second, look at you. Long hair on men? That went out in 1776. Are you wearing lipstick? I’m sorry, but you’re just not American Idol potential.

  RYAN SEACREST: There you have it from the judges. If you’d like to vote for Mick Jagger dial PLaza three three three. After the break we’ll come back with three more contestants: Bobby Goldsboro, Bobby Rydell and a Singing Nun. Stay tuned!

  The Only Possible Explanation

  Do not throw this letter away. Todd B. of Chillecothe, Ohio got this letter a year and a half ago and he threw it away. He thought THE CHAIN was a joke. He lost all the money in his retirement account and his house is in foreclosure. Believe in the power of THE CHAIN. Don’t break THE CHAIN.

  The executives of Goldman Sachs, AIG, and a bunch of other banks got this letter in late 2008 and each one sent it to twenty congressmen. They made billions. And they were rich to begin with! THE CHAIN is strong! Believe in the power of THE CHAIN.

  Robin C. of Culpepper, Virginia got this letter and thought it was a scam from his ex-sister-in-law so he threw it away. He did not send it to twenty of his friends. He lost his job and his benefits. His boss sent this letter to all the board members that he appointed. He got a six-million-dollar bonus even though the company he ran lost money and their stock is in the toilet! He believed in the Power of THE CHAIN! Don’t break THE CHAIN; the Power of THE CHAIN is strong!

  Melvin T. of Manatee, Florida got this letter, but since he had invested wisely in a balanced portfolio of stocks recommended by the experts on the financial news channels, he burned the letter in his poolside barbeque while his friends watched and laughed. Melvin was wiped out. His wife left him and his children had to leave college because he couldn’t pay their tuition. All the financial TV experts sent the letter to twenty of their friends in the media. They all got big raises. Don’t break THE CHAIN, the Power of THE CHAIN is strong!

  Lois L. works for a big insurance company in their “Denying Claims” call center. Her company makes a lot of money, but she doesn’t. None of her co-workers makes a lot of money, either. She’s very tired at the end of the day from explaining to people what a pre-existing condition means. She and her husband are raising three kids. Lois and her husband discussed joining THE CHAIN, but they fell asleep from overwork and the next day they had a teacher’s conference with little Billy’s teacher. They forgot about the power of THE CHAIN. The company did not have enough money
to give Lois the raise she asked for. Her co-pay has gone up fifty percent; her deductible is now $2,500 a year.

  The CEO that runs the insurance company Lois works for had one of his secretaries mail the letter to 20 lobbyists. He paid himself over forty million dollars last year. The company pays for his corporate jet and his golf and ski club memberships. The Power of THE CHAIN is strong. Don’t break THE CHAIN.

  THE CHAIN is getting sick of all you poor people ignoring the chain. Get with the program, would you? THE CHAIN helps those that help themselves. All the Chrysler and GM executives got THE CHAIN and sent it to twenty of their friends. They know the power of THE CHAIN. That’s how they all got their jobs in the first place. Trust THE CHAIN. THE CHAIN is strong. Believe in the power of THE CHAIN!

  Let Me Hear Your Body Talk

  Spoiler Alert! If you haven’t had a colonoscopy yet, don’t read any further, I don’t want you to miss all the fun. First of all, everyone at the hospital is happy to see you, because forty percent of the people scheduled for colonoscopies don’t show up. The doctor was amazingly cheerful as he told me he’d never perforated anyone’s colon yet, but there was a one-in-five-thousand chance he would.

  “How many colonoscopies have you done?”

  “4,999. Now if you could just sign this form that says I told you about the one-in-five-thousand chance, we can give you something that will relax you and I’ll go to work.”

  The guy sticking electrode clips to my chest couldn’t have been happier. The nurse who put a toasted hot flannel blanket over me also seemed oddly happy. Me, all I could think about was, please finish this so I can run out of here and get something to eat. I’d been on special diets for a week—don’t eat this, don’t eat that, two days before only liquids, one day before only clear liquids. Drink this awful stuff and take these pills the night before. When I got to the clinic, the form asked me if I had taken all the Miralax and the Dulcolax that had been prescribed. I checked “yes.” The next question was, “What were the results?”

  It’s impossible to put down the results on the one-inch-long blank space that was on the form. There wasn’t enough room to say, “I got no sleep at all due to the fact that I had to run to the bathroom once an hour on the hour for twelve hours. Several times I got there with just seconds to spare. I am seven pounds lighter than I was yesterday and my stomach is queasy. I haven’t had any fruit or vegetables in five days and I may never eat chicken consommé again.” What were the results? I wrote, “About what you’d expect.”

  Compared to that last night, the colonoscopy was a picnic. It only took about fifteen minutes, it was painless and it turns out that I have the colon of a sixteen-year-old—a big, fat, out-of-shape sixteen-year-old. The doctor handed me a summary of the procedure with color pictures of my colon included.

  “Do you want me to e-mail them to your friends and family?”

  “Gee, thanks, but I’ll just post them on my Facebook page when I get home.”

  There was one little thing they forgot to mention about the procedure.

  “The doctor pumps air in your colon as they do the colonoscopy to open it up. That air will cause discomfort until you let it out,” Nurse Happy told me.

  “What do you mean, let it out?”

  “Don’t hold it in, let it out.”

  I’m lying in bed in some kind of recovery room with about twenty other people within whispering distance. “You mean . . .”

  “Yeah,” she tells me. “We can’t let you go until you let it out.”

  Call me repressed, but there are certain things I cannot do in public—dance, drink, floss, spit, talk on a cell phone—up to and including letting it out. Because of the drugs, after about ten minutes I told her I had let it out. Because of the drugs, they insisted that Sue drive me home. Because of the drugs, I insisted that we stop at a family-style restaurant on the way so I could eat some real food for the first time in a week. I ordered everything and wolfed it down. What happened next was, well, about what you’d expect. That was the most painful part of the whole procedure: being banned from Applebee’s for life.

  Not Even My Best Friends Know

  Like millions of people around the world, I struggle with a severe learning disability. It often causes me to say things that I regret, it wreaks emotional and financial damage on my friends and family, and it has cost my employers tens of thousands of dollars over the years.

  It’s not one of those trendy conditions that everybody and their brother has, like ADD or ADHD or even AADD. It’s not something all the movie stars brag about having, like dyslexia. It’s an embarrassing and rarely-mentioned disorder that I have long kept secret, afraid my friends, my neighbors, and my co-workers would discover it and make me an object of scorn and ridicule. But now is the time to come out of the closet—I suffer from . . . Stupidity.

  No one brags about the heartbreak of Stupidity. There’s no pill you can take for it, there’s no support group, no summer camp especially for us. You just have to learn to live with it. Parents that have no problem telling the world their child has ADD or ADHD wouldn’t be caught dead standing up at a PTA meeting and saying, “My kid’s just plain stupid. Got any special programs for that?”

  Even in this modern day and age, Stupidity still carries a stigma with it—some people even believe that stupid people aren’t quite as good as “normal” people—even though we’ve had stupid presidents, stupid socialites, stupid generals, stupid movie stars, stupid bankers and stupid CEOs. Stupidity knows no borders. Many people suffer from Stupidity and don’t even know it. My friend Sal thinks the Presidents’ faces on Mount Rushmore were carved by the wind. Yet he holds a good-paying job and has a family. His wife and many of his children are non-stupid.

  Stupidity has never become a fashionable disorder. None of the morning show hosts have ever done a weeklong series on it; none of them have admitted to having raised C-minus children.

  Little is known about stupidity even though scientists say that statistically, as much as half of the entire population of the planet is below average. An exaggeration, no doubt. Stupidity is an equal-opportunity disability, striking both men and women, the young and old, teachers and students, princes and paupers, politicians and voters, athletes and, well, a whole lot of athletes.

  Stupidity can strike without warning. Who hasn’t married someone and then smacked his or her forehead ten minutes later and said, “What was I thinking?” What CEO hasn’t paid him or herself a hundred million dollars and then fired a thousand people in a cost-cutting measure?

  An especially tragic form of the disease is Adult Onset Stupidity (AOS). One day you’re perfectly normal and healthy, the next day you’re watching TV shows about bass fishing.

  For years, I hid my Stupidity from my friends, my family and my co-workers. Only my wife knew about it, which is amazing, because I never told her I had it; she figured it out all by herself. It used to bother me, but now, when I come home from the grocery store and she yells, “You idiot, I said ‘tuna fish,’ not ‘Tidy Flush!’” I don’t take it personally. Instead of hiding my stupidity from her, I can relax at home and be as stupid as I like. She won’t let me cook or clean or do the laundry because I always “do it wrong.” While she does the dishes, I watch TV. Sometimes I think, “Who’s stupid, now?” But I don’t say it out loud. I’m not that stupid.

  Over the years, I’ve gotten good at finding ways to hide my Stupidity from others. When I misspelled the company’s name on this year’s Christmas cards, I blamed the stupid printers. When I bought the lead paint for the company’s Day Care Center because it was on sale, I blamed the stupid paint store. When I forget to mail things out—important things like bills and contracts—I blame the Post Office. My bosses always blame other people, so I figure it’s the smart thing to do. I don’t want them to think I’m stupid.

  That Crazy Little Thing Called “That Thing”

  “Sore throat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Coughing?”

>   “Yes.”

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Feel tired and cranky?”

  “Yes, dammit!”

  Stan, in his long white jacket, nods knowingly. He already has seen many, many cases like mine this morning. If only he were a doctor and not my butcher I would feel better. “It’s the same thing Bob has,” he pronounces. With no urine sample, no chest X-ray, no stethoscope, Stan the butcher has done what Ben Casey couldn’t. Would Stan be offended if I got a second opinion from the guy down at H & R Block who does my taxes?

  “It’s your life,” says Stan. “If you want to throw it away on some quack, be my guest. He’ll tell you the same thing, it’ll just cost you more.”

  “For once Stan is right,” says Charlie the tax preparer. “You’ve got the same thing Bob has. We’re seeing a lot of that this year. But I can’t believe you went to Stan before you came to me. Stan’s an idiot. He tried to do his own taxes one year. He took deductions even Willie Nelson wouldn’t try to get away with. When are you guys ever going to learn?”

  “So that’s the diagnosis? I have that thing that’s going around? How long does it last?”

  “We don’t know. Bob’s still got it. It’s been almost a month.”

  “He’s still got it? But he was at our house for dinner just last Sunday. Don’t you think Bob should stay away from people until he’s feeling better? Do you really think it’s smart for him to go out while he’s still sick?” Was Typhoid Bob going around town spreading this on purpose? Didn’t this thing hit me Monday or Tuesday, right after we saw him?

  Julie, the high school French teacher, also thought I might have that thing that’s going around.

  “Drink plenty of fluids and watch The Young and the Restless,” she told me.

  “Why should I watch The Young and the Restless?”

  “You don’t have to, but it always makes me feel better. No matter how bad things are going in my life, I can always be sure that it’s going worse for the people on that show.”