Saturday was pretty much a repeat of Friday. Only instead of T.G.I.F., the Bee, and Benny G’s, it was Houlihan’s, the Cheesecake Factory, and Chili’s. And instead of hostesses, honeys, and a divorcée, it was a kindergarten teacher, a nun, and some dude named Larry. Plus a round of minigolf with the kid I mentor. And that was just the morning. The afternoon and evening were even SICKER.
Lunch was at the Olive Garden, where I got my breadstick dipped in a juicy dish of olive oil. I followed that up with a double order of tiramisu (in this case, not a euphemism for sex), topped off with a cordial consisting of one part brandy, one part peppermint schnapps, and three parts black chick riding my cock. Then it was on to Planet Hollywood at the Cherry Hill Mall for my weekly Saturday night blowout. The Planet spun a little groovier that night, let me tell you. If you’ve never done it on top of Herbie the Love Bug, you don’t know what it means to live. (Unfortunately, I found out later in the week that I contracted my own “love bug” that night. Nothing a strong course of antibiotics won’t fix.) I may not be as famous as some of the celebs who usually visit Planet Hollywood, but I definitely made my mark. All over Harry Potter’s cape.
Sunday was a blur. IHOP, Chuck E. Cheese’s, Dave and Buster’s, the library, the Hard Rock Cafe, Perkins, my mom’s house, Sea World, the Ground Round, Larry’s house, Wrigley Field, your mom’s house, the Space Needle, every brew pub in the world, outer space, Houlihan’s again, and of course, what weekend would be complete without a stop at Hooters?
Hooters: party Mecca. A lot of people think Hooters’ best days are behind it. Not me. The brew is still cold, the wings are still hot, and the conversation is still sparkling. There is a misconception that Hooters Girls are vacuous sex objects. Not at all. Most of them are ambitious college students simply paying their way through school, and if you get to know them as I have, you will discover they are as extraordinary and varied as all the world’s butterflies. So yes, I go to Hooters for the conversation. And the Jell-O shots. And the fucking.
The weekend ended at exactly 8:59 A.M. Monday, at my desk, in my cubicle, with a spreadsheet in front of me. Believe me, I did a lot of spreading on a lot of sheets that weekend. And a lot of thinking. Thinking about how incredible it is to live in a country where you can live free and party to win. The weekdays might be tedious—after all, I can only save so many refugees doing my job at the UN—but the weekends? T’wasome.
A Suicide Note
BY the time you read this, I will be dead. Please don’t blame yourself. It isn’t your fault. The fault lies entirely with me. I am a failure as a husband, father, amateur astronomer, and crossword puzzle enthusiast. My haircut is out-of-date, my taste in music is terrible, and I recently discovered that those khaki pants I always thought were pretty cool are, in fact, not cool at all.
Further, I have always felt bad about all that nipple hair I have. It’s not normal, and no matter how many times I pluck it, it always returns. Obviously, nipple hair is no reason to kill yourself, but when you think about it, nor is it much of a reason to live.
My career, too, has been a lifelong disappointment. As a young man, I dreamed of doing great things with my life. Never did I imagine I would spend twenty-three years as a quality-control manager for disposable pens. Do you have any idea how dispiriting it is to show up for work every day checking the quality of a product that was specifically designed to be thrown away?
In fact, I am writing this note with one of those very pens. There’s a certain irony there, no? Writing a suicide note with a disposable pen? There is also a certain irony in the fact that the ink keeps getting clogged.
Also, I have a confession to make. Even though you forgave me for the affair I had with Katerina all those years ago, I feel the need to confess to you now that there was never any affair. The love notes that you found in that old shoebox were written by me. The lipstick you discovered on my undershorts was applied by me. And all those nights I said was working late? I was working late. The truth is, I don’t even know anybody named Katerina, except for that girl who used to groom the dog, and we both know she considered me a bad tipper.
I guess I just wanted you to think of me as the kind of man capable of having a passionate international relationship with a much younger Swiss lingerie model. Looking back on the incident now, and taking into consideration your mocking laughter and taunts, I wonder if perhaps you suspected the entire affair was fiction all along.
Of course, I worry about Gary Jr. and how this will affect him. At first, I assumed it would be a terrible blow, but now I’m questioning this assumption, as I think back to all the times he said to me, “I wish you were dead.” Many children say hurtful things like this, and I used to think he was just going through a teenage phase, but he’s almost thirty years old now, and he still says it all the time.
I have always felt terribly about the incident we had with the telescope when Gary was a boy, and even though everybody agrees his eye patch looks very becoming, I still believe he harbors a certain amount of anger toward me. Please tell him (again) that I never thought he’d actually point it at the sun when I told him to; I just (foolishly) assumed he would know that was a bad idea. My sense of humor was always on the dry side—obviously, a little too dry for a seven-year-old boy.
As an aside, and despite what the tests showed, I still think Gary Jr. is a little stupid. Please don’t tell him I said so, but I just wanted to be on record. I mean, it was obvious to everybody else that I was joking when I said he should point the telescope at the sun and stare. Everybody else found the remark very funny.
Regardless of whose fault it was, it was a tragedy. As was the time Pickles died. Yes, it was my fault that the dog got stabbed, but it was not my fault that the dog puked on the carpet. Had the dog not puked on the carpet, I feel pretty confident I would not have stabbed the dog. Let’s agree to split the blame for this one between Pickles and myself fifty-fifty. Deal?
Another regret: our whale-watching honeymoon to Maine. I have always regretted that I said the whales reminded me of you. It was my dry sense of humor doing the talking, and I now realize it was a mean-spirited thing to say, even if it was more or less true. The unceasing follow-up jokes about your weight certainly didn’t improve your mood, and perhaps if I hadn’t made them, you wouldn’t have barricaded yourself in the hotel bathroom that night and for most of the following week. Our relationship certainly seemed to take a turn for the worse after that incident, and I am sorry.
Sending you all those brochures for fat camp was probably not as funny as it was intended to be either.
Anyway, I have tried my best not to leave a mess. I spread a sheet (not one of the good ones) on the floor, and I put on an extra pair of underwear in case there is any postmortem unpleasantness related to my bladder, which as you know certainly gave me plenty of unpleasantness during life.
My will is in my top drawer, next to the pinch pot Gary Jr. made me for Father’s Day that time. I saved it all these years even though it clearly portrayed me with devil’s horns. I kidded myself into thinking he was being ironic, but now I’m not so sure.
Looking to the future, I hope one day you will remarry somebody terrific and forget all about me. Perhaps you will come to think of our time together the same way people think about one of my pens: somewhat useful while in their possession, instantly forgotten afterward.
Stan the Oracle
YOU may ask one question.
It may concern the past, present, or future. Perhaps you wish to know of love lost or gained. Maybe you seek professional guidance. Some have sought my knowledge to attain enormous wealth. Still others have desired only to help their fellow man. My job is not to judge, only to provide the information you seek.
There is nothing I do not know.
Almost all who seek my knowledge invest many years in simply finding me. Most never reach me at all. They either forfeit the search or die in the quest. Very few ever reach my door.
And now you have come, as I knew
you would. Although, to be honest, I actually expected you a little later, which is why I am still in my bathrobe. I apologize. Normally I’m up at seven, but the battery on my alarm clock is out. I asked my wife, Sheila, to replace it, but she was so wrapped up in that stupid TV show she watches that she forgot. Long story short, I overslept, which screwed up my whole day, and on top of everything, you’re a little early, and now I’m sitting here in my bathrobe like a schnook.
Consider your question with great care. You may only ask one. No follow-ups. This isn’t like a White House press conference. You may not, for example, ask, “Is there a God, and if there is, does He like speedboats?” That’s two questions. (But for the record, God thinks speedboats are great.)
Knowledge such as I possess is an amazing gift and a terrible burden. On one hand, the mysteries of the cosmos are laid bare before me. On the other hand, I have been robbed of life’s greatest pleasure—discovery. For example, remember how everybody was so freaked out by that amazing plot twist in The Sixth Sense? Not me. I saw it coming.
Forget having a social life. Friendships are impossible, and romance is just pointless. Sheila is my third wife, and I can tell you right now that we’re not going to make it.
In March, the cable is going to go on the fritz. I will offer to fix the cable, and we will quarrel because she will say she’d rather have an expert look at it. I will say I am an expert—I’m an expert in everything. She will roll her eyes and mutter under her breath in a mocking tone, “I’m an expert at everything.” Then she will think about our lovemaking, and say, “That’s a laugh.”
The man who comes to fix the cable will be named Mitch. Married. One child. He and Sheila will begin a tempestuous affair consummated one evening while I’m at bingo night. Within a week, Sheila will leave me. Her parting words will be, “Bet you didn’t see THIS coming, Smart Guy,” and I will not bother replying.
Mitch will leave his family, and he and Sheila will move in together. Things will start to go south almost immediately. One night, they will get into a fight about his habit of picking the dead skin off his feet and eating it. Things will get heated, and he will shoot her. Then he’ll turn the gun on himself.
Of course, I could tell her all of this and prevent the whole thing, but I’ll probably just keep my mouth shut because I can be kind of a prick like that.
I can see you’re getting impatient. You have traveled a great distance and wish to ask me your question. Forgive me for being such a chatty Cathy this morning. I honestly don’t know what’s gotten into me today. I mean, I obviously literally know everything that’s gotten into me; I’m just using a figure of speech.
The thing is that I rarely ever get a chance to talk to anybody, you know? To just sit and talk like normal people. It’s a common problem among those in my profession. Yes, there are others like me. We are a small group, scattered across the globe. Once in a while we all get together for shits and giggles, but the truth is, it’s worse being with those assholes than being alone. Talk about divas. Everybody thinks they’re sooooo important. Plus, everything with them is such a production: I mean, try picking a restaurant with that group. Forget it. Also, when everybody already knows everything, what is there to talk about? Anytime anybody says anything, the inevitable response is, “I know.”
I will say this, though—the dental plan is excellent.
A lot of us end up getting into booze or drugs or whatever. I tried sniffing glue for a while, but it gave me the spins. It’s one of the weird ironies in my business—once you know everything, you spend most of your time trying to forget. It’s impossible, of course, but you try. Sleeping helps. So does food. Those little Entenmann’s donut holes? I could eat a whole box and not even notice. My thighs, on the other hand, definitely notice. I would ask if you think I look fat, but I already know the answer.
Lately, I’ve actually been thinking about getting a second job. Something to get my mind off this job, you know? Like delivering pizzas or something. I could do that. Think about it: I would never get lost, I would never forget the Crazy Bread. I think I would be really good at it. Maybe I’ll do that. The only thing is, I’ll have to be careful when I apply. I don’t want them to think I’m overqualified.
Anyway, back to your question. And yes, I already know what you’re going to ask, but I still need you to ask it anyway. It’s kind of a formality.
Before you do ask, though, you’ve been very patient with me, so I’d like to give you a tip, gratis. You know that hairdresser you go to? Dawn? Trust me—and it doesn’t take somebody who knows everything to tell you this—she’s not doing you any favors. As I said, that one was on the house.
I know you’re thinking about asking, “What is the meaning of life?” Don’t waste your breath. Everybody wants to know the meaning of life, and honestly, I’m sick of telling people, so a few years ago I wrote down the answer on a piece of paper and printed up a whole mess of them at the copy shop. Feel free to take one on your way out.
And yes, that is a tip jar.
So, what do you want to know?
Lewis Black Hates Candy Corn: A Rebuttal
ON his 2007 Grammy Award–winning album, The Carnegie Hall Performance (which is not a pretentious name for a comedy album no matter what anybody says), Lewis Black spends over four minutes discussing candy corn. To summarize his opinion: he does not care for it.
Now, I like Lewis Black. I think he’s a highly intelligent comedian who articulates a funny and cogent point of view often missing in today’s overheated political rhetoric. When it comes to candy corn, however, he is a fucking idiot.
Were candy corn a person, it could sue for libel based on Mr. Black’s vituperative commentary. Unfortunately, candy corn is not a person. (Although if it were, it would be the most delicious person in the world.) And so, it falls on me to give voice to the voiceless, to defend candy corn from Mr. Black’s ad hominem attacks.
What follows is a point-by-point rebuttal based on the merits, or lack thereof, of Mr. Black’s arguments. [A note: Although we share a surname, we are not related. In fact, I changed my name to Black from Schwartz. He, presumably, changed his name to Black from Fucking Idiot.]
He begins: “[Candy corn] does not taste like either candy or corn. It tastes like something that was made out of oil.”
While good people can disagree about something as subjective as taste, I must take exception to his very first point. Candy corn does not taste like it was made out of oil. It tastes like it was made out of magic. That’s how delicious candy corn is. If magic had a taste, it would be the sweet, slightly buttery taste of candy corn—as would rainbows, if they had a taste.
Furthermore, to argue that it tastes like neither candy nor corn is beside the point. No candy tastes like what it’s supposed to represent. For example, there is a popular candy called Circus Peanuts, which is a candy representation of circus peanuts. For those of you who have never tried this particular candy, IT DOES NOT TASTE LIKE PEANUTS. When we want the taste of peanuts or corn, we eat peanuts or corn. When we want the taste of sunshine and smiles, we eat candy corn.
Candy is not limited to representations of vegetables and nuts. A popular bubble gum called Big League Chew is designed to replicate what actual baseball players put in their mouths—tobacco. Guess what? It does not taste like tobacco. Nor do candy cigarettes taste like real cigarettes. That’s good news for parents who do not want their kids eating cigarettes.
“If you took all the bags of candy corn and melted them down, you could run a car.”
Strangely enough, this is true. Candy corn is made, primarily, from sugar and corn syrup. So while candy corn does not taste like corn, it is made from corn. The same corn used to make ethanol, which, as I’m sure you know, “could run a car.” This is where candy and science finally meet. Were you to melt down all those bags of sweetness and love, you would have a tremendous amount of potential energy to use for your driving purposes. Plus, your exhaust fumes would smell like leprechaun farts
.
“It is one of the shittiest tastes I have ever had in my mouth.”
Without having more information about what Lewis Black puts in his mouth, I can not rebut this.
“All the candy corn that was ever made was made in 1911.”
I did a little research on this point. Candy corn was actually invented in the 1880s. As it happens, the 1880s were a boom time for inventors peddling their wares. The safety razor, motorcycle, trolley car, gasoline engine, contact lens, ballpoint pen, and handheld camera were all invented in this decade. If I had to rank these inventions in order of importance to humanity, where would I put candy corn? First? Of course not. Second? Yes.
Candy corn has brought more joy to humanity than all of those other inventions combined. Nobody ever slashed their wrists with candy corn. Nobody was ever involved in a candy corn pileup on the interstate. Nobody has ever taken compromising photographs with candy corn. Candy corn is all upside, no downside. When people talk about technology having a dark side, they are not talking about candy corn.
“They never had to make it again…we never eat enough of it.”
Not true. Unfounded. Baseless. Disgusting. Did you know that total candy corn production in 2007 was three billion tons? That’s an astonishing number! Where did I get that number? Simple. I made it up. But I did so to prove a larger point: people eat a lot of candy corn. On average, Americans eat four hundred pieces of candy corn a year. Again, I made that number up because even the mighty Google could not provide me with the information I needed to determine this figure. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong—it simply means it could be right!
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