“And so, literally, after Halloween, the candy corn companies send out their minions…and they go from garbage can to garbage can and collect the candy, and throw it back in the bags. And it appears next year.”
When did Lewis Black become a communist? The reason I ask is, he obviously doesn’t love America or its capitalist system, because a capitalist would know this rudimentary economic concept: supply and demand. There is obviously a demand for candy corn. There could be no candy corn companies were there not.
It follows that, since apparently “nobody” eats candy corn, companies that make the stuff could only exist, at least in Lewis Black’s demented view of the universe, if they were subsidized. By whom? The government. What kind of government subsidizes candy companies? Simple. Communist governments.
Clearly somebody is eating the stuff—supply. And American know-how provides the demand. If Comrade Black prefers, I’m sure he can find a time machine somewhere that will provide him with a one-way ticket to the old Soviet Union, where I am told there used to be a constant and crippling candy corn shortage. I am also told that on those rare occasions when candy corn was available, good citizens waited in line for hours to get it, only to be disappointed when they finally reached the front of the line and were handed a pair of shoes.
“I will never forget the first time my mother gave me candy corn. She said, ‘Lewis, this is corn. And it tastes like candy.’”
Lewis Black’s mother hates her child. That’s what I take from the above sentence. What kind of person would describe candy corn as “corn that tastes like candy”? Why didn’t she describe it properly, like this: “Lewis, this is corn-shaped candy, and it tastes like magic.”
I will reiterate my original point. If Lewis Black thinks that candy corn should taste like corn, he is utterly misguided. So much so that it makes me question whether or not he’s even fully in control of his own mental faculties. Candy corn was never intended to taste like corn. It was intended to taste better.
And it does.
All candy tastes superior to its natural counterpart. This is why grapes are referred to as “nature’s candy,” but candy is not referred to as “humanity’s grapes.” Those are testicles.
In the 1984 comedy Irreconcilable Differences, a young Drew Barrymore attempts to divorce her parents. I only wish Lewis Black had seen this movie as a young man—perhaps he could have saved himself from a lot of torment. Or maybe Social Services could have paid a little more attention to the Black household. There are some very good foster families out there. Good foster families, I should add, that do not hate America.
Why does Lewis Black have so much hatred for goodness? I do not know. Because I am not a trained psychologist, I think it would be unethical for me to attempt to analyze him. But based upon his feelings regarding candy corn, I think it is safe to assume that he hates freedom, hates himself, and wants to fuck his mother.
I No Longer Love You, Magic Unicorn
PLEASE sit down. Or stand. I guess standing is probably easier for you. This is so hard for me. These things always are, but we need to talk. I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. I no longer love you, Magic Unicorn.
These feelings have been building for a long time, and I can’t even tell you exactly why I feel the way I feel. I just do.
Yes, we’ve had many good times together. Like when you took me to your home, Magic Unicorn Land, where we frolicked on clouds and ate cotton candy every day for breakfast. Or the time you made it snow in the middle of July. Do you remember how we had a snowball fight and tobogganed down Chestnut Hill? And even though I developed a pretty serious case of Lyme disease from that, it was worth it. And I can’t even count the number of times you let me burrow my head into your downy unicorn mane when I was sad. We had many good times, and I will always remember you fondly for that.
So what happened? There’s no one answer to that question. It’s everything and nothing. It’s the fact that you claim to be an expert at balloon tying, but when push comes to shove you have no balloon tying talents at all. You can’t even hold the balloons in your unicorn hooves, magical or no. Yet if I even mention this fact to you, you explode at me. You have a temper, Magic Unicorn. You have a very bad temper.
Perhaps it’s because you tease the dog so much. The dog never did anything to you, and yet you never miss an opportunity to provoke and goad him. Why? The dog was never a threat to our relationship. Maybe it was all in good fun for you, but I couldn’t help but notice that when you took your sabbatical last year, the dog’s shaking condition noticeably improved. When you returned, so did the shakes. Look, I know that a little competition between family pets is natural, but when one of those pets is magic, it’s no longer a fair fight.
Or perhaps it’s because you claim diplomatic immunity even though both of us know that diplomatic immunity does not apply to unicorns.
Or the fact that somebody peed on the drapes that time, and while you claimed you had nothing to do with it, I noticed that the pee was sparkly, and we both know there’s only one creature in this house who has iridescent urine. I didn’t want to confront you with this telling piece of evidence because I did not want to deal with your temper—or your specious claims of diplomatic immunity. So I just had the drapes cleaned and didn’t say another word about it. But I have to say, the lying has become a problem.
Then there is the small matter of the rent. When we moved out of my parents’ house, we agreed that you would pay a small portion of the rent. Obviously you are a unicorn and so you cannot be expected to hold down a job. On the other hand, you are magic, and so getting money should not be a problem for you. I can’t help but notice that whenever the rent is due you plead poverty, and yet you always seem to have enough money for new ribbons for your horn and bows for your tail.
When I was younger, none of this stuff bothered me. The temper, the lying, the vanity. After all, I was the new kid in the neighborhood and I didn’t have any friends until you came along. I was willing to overlook all of your flaws because you were funny and kind to me, and because you never made fun of my teeth.
But now I have grown older, my braces are gone, and frankly, for the past several years, I’ve been having a hard time even believing in magic unicorns. Maybe this is just a natural part of the maturation process. I don’t know. All I know is that lately it has struck me as increasingly silly that a thirty-six-year-old man has a magic unicorn named Dewey.
I packed your things and put them by the door. Please don’t look at me with those big magic unicorn eyes. The truth is, this is going to be better for you, too. We both know I haven’t spent nearly as much time with you as I once did. But can you blame a guy for preferring to spend his free time with his fiancée instead of with an invisible magical horned horse? Can you honestly blame me?
Look, Dewey, you’re going to be fine. I took out an ad in the Pennysaver last week. Turns out there’s a boy across town whose parents just divorced, and he’s in the market for a magic unicorn. I told him all about you, and we scheduled an interview at eleven. It’s kind of far away, I know, but if you use your magical powers, I’m sure you can get there on time.
Some DJ Names I’ve Been Considering
RECENTLY I read a study with a conclusion that was, frankly, startling. By the year 2013, every man, woman, and child on earth is going to need a DJ name. Nowhere in the article was it explained why we would all need DJ names, but just because I don’t understand the science behind the study doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
We’ve been in this situation before; scientists repeatedly warn us about impending danger, only to be ignored until it’s too late. Well, I’ve learned my lesson. This time I’m getting ahead of the curve. I’ve already started considering potential DJ names so that when the time comes, I’ll be ready.
DJ Freaq: Any DJ name that ends in “q” is pretty cool. The problem with this one, though, is that I think “freaq” is a little hard to pronounce at first glance. (I pronounce i
t “Freak,” just with a “q” instead of the “k.”) Might people think it’s pronounced “Free-Q”? That would be terrible. This is the same reason I have never liked the singer Sade. If I can’t pronounce your name right off the bat, chances are I’m not going to like your music either. Maybe DJ Freaqy would be better, but then I lose the “last letter q” thing, which was the whole point.
DJ Animal Lover: This also has some pros and cons. On the plus side, I like that it takes social activism to the realm of the DJ. You don’t often find DJs making a social statement with their DJ names. “Animal Lover” is a little clunky to say, though, and it’s also (let’s be honest) a little gay.
DJ Super DJ: This one’s very good because it’s almost a palindrome. Also, it’s kind of funny, which is good because chances are, when I’m finally up there “spinning the wheels of steel,” I’m going to pick more than my fair share of Weird Al. It’s good to tip people off that there’s going to be a lot of Weird Al ahead of time, so they’re not too disappointed when I fade from Kanye West to “Eat It.” This one definitely makes the short list.
DJ VD PHD: This one also makes the short list. I like that it’s all initials. DJ = Disc Jockey. VD = Venereal Disease. PHD = I don’t know what PHD stands for, but it makes me sound intelligent. Put it all together and you get a very smart DJ who likes to fuck. Smart and sexy is a difficult combination to beat in a DJ name. Potential drawback: it’s kind of a tongue twister.
DJ Sandra Bullock Fan: Honestly, this one probably doesn’t have much of a shot, but Sandra Bullock doesn’t get nearly the credit she deserves as an actress and person. Everything I read about her in US and People makes me really, really like her. Even so, there might be a better platform for me to express my admiration for the star of Miss Congeniality 2: Armed & Fabulous than in my DJ name. And yet, there might not be.
DJ Shake Your Rumplestiltzkin: Another good choice. It definitely puts one in the mind of sweaty tushies, which is a bad thing in the corporate world but a very good thing in the world of underground after-hours dance clubs that specialize in postmodern trance hop. So it’s good, but I wonder if it reads a little too “urban”?
DJ Bertolt Brecht: A DJ could do a lot worse than naming himself after one of the twentieth century’s most important playwrights and dramaturges. Might be a little obtuse.
DJ LOL: If “friendly and computer literate” is the image I decide to project as a DJ, this would be a fine choice. On the other hand, will it seem dated in 2013?
DJ Edamame: Rhythmically, this is excellent. Kind of rolls off the tongue. And I really do enjoy edamame, which are boiled and salted soybeans. Plus, Japanese names always sound awesome. Short list.
Some other names I’m considering:
DJ Sweaty Goat
DJ Nipples
DJ Sweaty Goat Nipples
DJ Your Mama’s on Zoloft
DJ Arlene Zambrowski
DJ Herpes
DJ Cake Tastes Good Unless It’s Dry
DJ Don’t Talk Shit About Allah
Obviously I have my work cut out for me. This is why it’s critically important to get under way now, before it’s too late. Also, I want to make sure to get a cool DJ name before all the good ones are snapped up. DJ names are like snowflakes: each is unique. There can only be one “DJ Sandra Bullock Fan” after all, and it would be a shame if some kid in Bangladesh got it while I dithered.
Am I taking a risk by publicizing my short list now? Yes, but I’m doing it for humanity’s sake. Not my own. We’ve got to get DJ names. Now! Ignoring this gathering storm will only make it worse in the long run. If you thought global warming was bad, just wait until 2013. It’ll be like Hurricane Katrina, the tsunami, and a hit of really bad E all rolled into one.
I Have an Indomitable Spirit
I have an indomitable spirit. Nothing gets me down. Perfect example: the other day, I got into a little fender bender. I was backing out of the driveway and smacked right into the paperboy. The car was badly dented. Now a lot of people would look at that dent and be upset. Not me. Because instead of focusing on how badly damaged my car was, all my attention went to that poor paperboy and how badly damaged he was. Compared to that boy, the damage to my car was nothing.
By concentrating on the positive (the minor damage to my automobile vs. that broken, crumpled boy), I ended up feeling much, much better. In fact, I felt so good that I didn’t give the incident another thought as I got back into my car and sped off to work. Later that day, when one of my coworkers asked about the damage to my car, I just smiled and said, “Oh that? That’s nothing. You should have seen the other guy!” Of course my coworker thought I was joking, and we had ourselves a good old-fashioned chuckle. You see how I used my personal tragedy to brighten somebody else’s day? That’s the hallmark of an indomitable spirit.
Incident at the Torpedo
LET’S start from the top, shall we? Name? Is that two “l”s or one? Alan. Is that right? And I assume the last name is like the color? With an “e.” Alan Greene. Very good.
So, Mr. Greene, what brings you to Six Flags today?
Of course you do, sir. It’s a free country, and you have the right to go anyplace you like. The only reason I ask is, as I’m sure you noticed, you don’t fit the profile of our normal customer base. No offense, of course, but normally our guests are a little bit younger. Do you mind if I ask how old you are?
Eighty-one years old. Well, that’s very impressive, Mr. Greene, very impressive indeed. Did you come to the park alone today?
You did. I see. Okay, let’s talk about the incident. Would you like to tell me your version of what happened?
You got on line for the Torpedo, right.
I understand it was a long line, sir, and we’re very sorry about that. The Torpedo, as I’m sure you know, is our newest attraction. Might I add, I think it’s also our most exhilarating attraction. Consequently, the lines have been long, which is an unfortunate fact. What happened next?
It is hot. I definitely agree with you there. That’s why we’ve placed spray misters all over the park. Those misters can be a real lifesaver on a day like today. I don’t mean that literally, of course, although a man of your advanced age might think twice before standing on a line like that in this kind of heat.
You took off your shirt. Perfectly understandable. No sir, that’s not a problem at all. Many of our guests prefer to forgo shirts, especially during this time of year. I probably would have done the same thing myself. Between you, me, and the lamppost, those misters can only do so much. Okay. You’re on line. The shirt comes off. How did you meet the lady in question? Did you initiate the conversation or did she?
You don’t recall.
Okay, well according to the report I have from Nicole—that’s the young lady’s name—she says that you initiated the conversation. She says you complimented the tattoo on her back. Is that true?
I did see the tattoo, sir, and it is a fine piece of work. No sir, I don’t, but if I did I would probably ask her where she got hers done, because that’s as good a tattoo of a butterfly as I’ve ever seen, and as I’m sure you can imagine, I see quite a few of them working here. Although in my case, I probably would opt for something a little less feminine than a butterfly. Perhaps a bulldog, which is the mascot of my alma mater. “Go bulldogs!” That’s not really relevant right now, of course. Why don’t you continue with the story.
You don’t recall what happened next. Okay. I’m just going through my report here. Nicole says she thanked you for complimenting the tattoo, then turned back to her friend, Tanya. Incidentally, Tanya corroborated Nicole’s version of the events for what it’s worth. What happened next?
Well, Mr. Greene, that is decidedly at odds with Nicole’s version of the events. She says the next thing that happened was that you asked if she would, and I’m quoting here, “like to see your junk.”
No sir, I’m not calling anybody a liar. I’m merely trying to ascertain what occurred. She says you asked if she would li
ke to see your junk, to which she replied, “No.”
No sir, she did not mention that she called you a “creepy old perv.” I’m jotting that down as we speak. Creepy. Old. Perv. Got it.
After that, Nicole says she turned back to her friend again, and within a few moments she says she felt, and again I’m quoting, “something furry like a caterpillar” on her back. She says she tried wiping it off, but it kept returning. Finally she turned around, and when she did, she says she saw you rubbing her shoulder blade with your nipple. Do you dispute that?
Okay, let’s hear your version.
Yes, I understand it was crowded. As I said, the Torpedo is our newest attraction, so yes, I can see how people might be jostling each other in line. When you put it that way, I can absolutely see how it might be possible for a shirtless man to accidentally rub his nipple on the shoulder blade of the person in front of him. The problem I’m having, though, is Nicole says, and again this is corroborated by Tanya as well as two gentlemen who observed the entire incident, that you were pinching your nipple at the time and making, quote “goo goo noises,” which to my ears doesn’t sound accidental. Can you understand why Nicole felt the need to call security?
I hope it was all a big misunderstanding, Mr. Greene, I really do, but here’s the problem I’m having: when I combine furry nipple pinching with goo goo noises it starts to sound less and less like a misunderstanding and more and more like a creepy old perv, which I believe is the phrase Nicole used. We simply can’t have our guests groping each other, Mr. Greene.
Of course I have, sir. Many times. But there’s a difference. When other people do it, it’s consensual. That’s the distinction I’m forced to make here. Consensual groping, while possibly distasteful to some, is still legal—within certain boundaries, of course. Your behavior, however, really crosses the line, sir. Even if it had been consensual, which clearly it was not.
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