My Custom Van

by Michael Ian Black

  Do Not Buy Tundra from a Door-to-Door Salesman

  IF a man comes to your door one day and offers to sell you five acres of prime undeveloped Arctic tundra, do NOT buy it! He will be persuasive, this man, as he tells you about the “stark beauty” of the land, the unspoiled views, the pristine ecosystem, the clarity of the stars on freezing moonless nights. Yes, he will be good, this man. He will be very good. But DON’T buy any tundra!

  As I once did.

  Yes, I fell for this man’s pitch. Over my wife’s strenuous objections, I bought five acres of Arctic tundra from a door-to-door salesman, thinking it would be the perfect place to build my dream home and raise my family. Boy, was I wrong.

  Everything about the move was a disaster. In fact, just getting to our new homestead proved to be incredibly difficult. First we had to drive to the airport, take a plane to Canada, take a smaller plane to a smaller part of Canada, then take a car to the end of a road where we got on a dogsled for nine days, until we were almost to the North Pole.

  The trip was taxing for all of us, but especially for my three-year-old daughter. Before we left Connecticut she refused to leave the house unless she could wear her flip-flops. Needless to say, you don’t want to get into an argument like that with a three-year-old—not when you’re already late for your plane. So we let her wear the flip-flops. By the time we got close to the North Pole we were all regretting that decision.

  When we finally reached the tundra, it was tough to figure out which five-acre lot was ours because, honestly, everything kind of looks the same up there. It was important to find the correct lot though, because we specifically paid extra for a corner lot. The lack of corners though made it tough to distinguish which site was ours.

  Just then, our Inuit guide, Ra-ka’, decided that it would be the perfect time to inform us that there was no place nearby to buy either juice boxes or veggie burgers. No veggie burgers? Was he kidding? It’s not like we were asking for fancy tempe burgers or anything, just any kind of run-of-the-mill soy patties. But Ra-ka’ said there was nothing like that up there and if we wanted veggie burgers we should have brought our own. (He said all of this in Inuit, which took a long time to translate, especially because our Inuit dictionary, inexplicably, didn’t have an entry for “veggie burger.”)

  Needless to say, I was pissed. I specifically asked the door-to-door salesman if there were supermarkets nearby, and he said that while he didn’t know for sure, he was pretty confident there was a twenty-four-hour gourmet grocery nearby, as well as a very good jazz-themed pizzeria and an espresso shop. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! I don’t know if he was misinformed or what, but there was nothing of the sort anywhere within a thousand miles. I could tell my wife was getting very upset about the situation, but when I asked her what was wrong, she just stared at me as if the entire predicament was my fault. I wasn’t the one who said the kids needed to get out of the house more.

  Ra-ka’ took the dogsled and left us on what we thought was our five-acre corner lot. It was very cold. Fortunately, we were all expecting the cold since we had read up on the tundra before leaving home. So we knew enough to bring blankets and mittens. My blue jeans, however, quickly became stiff with condensation, making it almost impossible to walk. The kids had a good laugh watching Daddy walk around our homestead like a robot. They busied themselves in the snow (or “permafrost,” as it’s called up there) while my wife and I mapped out the ideal location for our dream house.

  We decided on a flat parcel in the northwest corner of our acreage because there was a scrubby little bush there, which looked dead, but we thought maybe in the springtime it would come back to life and provide the house with some much-needed greenery. Of course, it was June, so I’m not sure when we thought spring would be arriving.

  That night we slept under the stars. As promised, they were spectacular. They were hard to enjoy, however, because my daughter’s blackened toes were hurting her so much that she kept letting out loud, annoying cries. My son was not much better, incessantly complaining about the cold and the lack of SpongeBob SquarePants. None of us got much sleep that night.

  In the morning, the kids were hypothermic and bordering on delirium. I suggested a rousing game of volleyball to get everybody’s blood circulating, but nobody was in the mood. The only thing anybody wanted to do was huddle and moan. Plus, I forgot to pack the volleyball.

  Did we eventually build our dream house on that parcel of prime undeveloped Arctic tundra? No, we did not. Within a few days, we called it quits and were evacuated by a rescue helicopter. To her credit, my wife did not say “I told you so”—not even once.

  In the end, my son lost some fingers, my wife also lost some fingers and a toe, my daughter spent some time in a medically induced coma, and I lost the twelve thousand bucks I gave to that shyster who sold me the tundra in the first place. I tried calling his company to get a refund, but the telephone operator said there was no listing for Number One First-Class Tundra Real Estate Group. Turns out I’d been had—I felt like a real sucker.

  To anybody considering a similar purchase, I know the tundra sounds great, but it has got some real drawbacks: the inhuman cold, the lack of food and shelter, the absence of any jazz-themed pizzerias, et cetera. Unless you’re an extremely rugged, childless individual with superior survival skills, I would stay away from the Arctic altogether. You can get the exact same effect in Minnesota without all the hassle.

  DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!!!

  FIRST of all, I’m calm. Let’s get that out of the way right now. I am calm, I’m very calm. I’m so calm, I’m almost unconscious. My near lack of consciousness is due to both my preternaturally calm disposition and also the fact that YOU JUST REAR-ENDED ME IN THE FUCKING PARKING LOT!!!

  Don’t tell me to lower my voice and don’t tell me to calm down. In a motor vehicle accident, whoever hits the rear of the other person’s car is automatically at fault. Therefore YOU ARE AT FAULT!!! Yes, I was driving backward through the parking lot at a rapid speed. Yes, technically your car was not “on.” That, however, does not mean that you are not at fault. If the front of your car hits the rear of my car, you are at fault.

  And I demand recompense. Lots of recompense. Like maybe a million recompenses. My car is totaled and if you notice, I am now speaking with a lisp. I DID NOT LISP BEFORE!!!

  I had a speech impediment, yes, but I don’t think ANYBODY would have characterized it as a lisp. A sibilant “s,” perhaps. But NOT A LISP. Now, though, I’m just full-on lisping. Do you have any idea how that is going to impact my job as a gym teacher??? High school kids DO NOT RESPOND WELL TO AUTHORITY FIGURES WITH LISPS!!! That has been well documented in, literally, thousands of professional journals.

  What are you—blind or something? How did you manage to be sitting in a parked car in this lot while I was driving through it backward? Were you not looking? Did you not see me doing figure eights and donuts in my whipcar? Or were you simply too self-absorbed to turn on your engine and drive away from me as I barreled toward you at speeds in excess of forty miles an hour?

  DON’T TRY TO TURN THIS AROUND ON ME!!! What difference does it make WHY I was driving like that? What possible difference does my motivation make now that the damage is done???

  Yes, I’m asking about YOUR motivation in sitting there because YOU had the power to prevent this accident! But YOU chose not to. YOU chose to sit in your parking spot reading your newspaper while waiting for your wife to come out of the supermarket. WHAT KIND OF MAN LETS HIS WIFE DO ALL THE GROCERY SHOPPING, ANYWAY??? A CAVEMAN, THAT’S WHAT KIND!!!

  How am I supposed to explain this to Gary? What do you mean, “Who’s Gary?” THIS IS GARY’S CAR, YOU MORON!!! Do you think a professional high school gym teacher can afford a car this nice? NO!!!

  Gary is my friend whose place I am house-sitting while he’s in Argentina. It was a “kill two birds with one stone” kind of situation in which Gary needed somebody to watch his house while my wife was simultaneously throwing me out of mine
. And Gary SPECIFICALLY told me NOT TO DRIVE HIS CAR. Because he said I am—and this is his word, not mine—“untrustworthy.”

  He said, “Doug, I DO NOT want you driving my car.” And what did I say? I said, “Okay, Gary,” because Gary is my friend and I respect his wishes.

  So what did I do? This morning, as soon as Gary left, I got in his car and started driving it around. Backward. That way the mileage wouldn’t show up on his odometer. And the reason I was doing donuts in the parking lot is because THIS CAR IS SO SWEET that it would be a crime if I DIDN’T do donuts!!! And then you had to park in that stupid parking spot and ruin everything.

  Listen to me, guy. Here’s what we’re going to do. When the police get here, you’re going to tell them the whole thing was your fault. Okay? That way, we’re both covered.

  What do you mean, YOU’RE not covered? You’re not SUPPOSED to be covered! As I already explained, this whole thing is YOUR FAULT! So why not just sack up and take one for the team? What team? OUR TEAM!!! Doug and you. You and Doug. That team. I’m a gym teacher, so with all due respect, I think I know a little bit more about teams than you.

  Look, I think we can both agree that you ramming into the back of my car was an unfortunate turn of events here today. And I think we can also both agree that one of us is going to have to take the fall. Here’s the problem: not only do I not have permission to be driving this car but I also don’t have an active driver’s license. My license was suspended precisely because ANOTHER ASSHOLE BACKED INTO ME in this same parking lot about six months ago. So, even though THIS IS YOUR FAULT, I suspect law enforcement is going to look askance at my particular driving status.

  So I’m sure you can see my problem. I’m kind of in a pickle here. I’m over a barrel. Frankly, I’m in a pickle barrel, which is why I need you to cover my ass. Now, lest you think you’re doing all the giving and I’m doing all the taking, I am prepared to compensate you very generously for your consideration.

  How? Well, as I said, I am a teacher of physical education at a public high school in the area. As such, I have almost unlimited access to basketballs, climbing ropes, field hockey sticks, and pinnies (which are the mesh overshirts teams wear to distinguish themselves). I also have a key to the gymnasium. While I cannot give you any of this stuff, you are more than welcome to use it ON ANY WEEKEND YOU WANT!!! If you were to join a gym, this kind of service would cost you fifty or sixty dollars a month. I am offering it to you FOR NO CHARGE WHATSOEVER!!!

  Also, in my wallet is an NEA discount and attractions card. This exclusive card is available only to National Education Association members, and gives you discounts at restaurants and area attractions. The card is yours. One small caveat: if you decide to use the card, you will probably have to pay my union dues first as I have fallen behind on my payments. But when you consider the money you will be saving, I’m pretty sure you’ll agree it’s well worth that small cost.

  So that’s the unlimited weekend use of the gym and sporting equipment, and the NEA discount and attractions card and the satisfaction of taking one for the team. Our team. The Doug and You team, which I am hereby naming “America’s Team.” And I’m going to get T-shirts made, too. For us to wear.

  What do you say?

  Erotic Fiction: The Mad Scientist

  THERE. There in the moonlight she waits. Her dress rustles in the soft evening breeze; she is unspeakably gorgeous. She has a raccoon’s tail, yes, but it is a gorgeous, fluffy raccoon’s tail. Her damn father, the mad scientist, gave her this tail and you vow to one day avenge her.

  “Monica,” you say. You don’t know why you say this—her name is Heather. She has been crying and doesn’t seem to hear.

  “Oh Steven,” she whimpers. Her shoulders shake and a fresh torrent of tears pours from her eyes. “Steven, thank God you’ve come.”

  You take her in your arms. “I’m here now. What is it, my darling?”

  “It’s Papa,” she says. “He’s gone completely mad.”

  This is kind of a dumb thing for her to say. Her father was already mad. That’s why everybody calls him “the mad scientist.” They’re not being ironic. He really is mad in both senses of the word: he’s crazy, yes, but also very angry.

  If his madness has become more pronounced, she might have said, “He’s gone completely madder,” but that doesn’t sound right either, and you think it imprudent to correct her when she’s sobbing.

  “Somebody has to stop that man,” you say. “And if the Department of Science won’t do it, then I will.”

  “No!” she says, “He is too clever. Too strong. He has a team of henchmen, and they all have powerful animal tails.”

  “I don’t care,” you say, resolution creasing your otherwise flawless features. “He must be stopped.”

  “What will you do?” she asks, her face brightening for the first time as she lets out the tiniest fart.

  “I will do what any man in my situation would do. I will call the IRS.”

  “The IRS?” she asks. Her face falls and you realize this is not the action she was hoping you’d take.

  “Yes,” you stammer. “To report that he doesn’t pay taxes on the autographs he signs at those trade shows he attends.” She looks despondent. I continue, “You’re supposed to pay taxes on that. That’s considered income!”

  “Of course,” she says, her tail drooping just a little in the moonlight. She turns away, toward the sea.

  I don’t know what else to say. I look at her, struggling to find the right words, the words that will make her love me again. But no words come.

  “Go now, Steven,” she says. “Just go.”

  “Monica,” I say again, stupidly. Her name is not Monica. “Please.”

  It is over between us. Even after I call the IRS, even after they impose stiff fines on her father, even then she will not take me back.

  The next time I see her, she has been given duck’s feet and a piggy nose. And although I still care for her and feel terrible about my impotence in helping her, I am secretly relieved it is over between us because the raccoon tail I could handle, but a duck’s feet and a piggy nose? Jesus. Now she just looks weird.

  A Series of Letters to Celine Dion’s Husband, René Angélil

  Dear Mr. Angélil,

  Greetings from the United States of America! How are things in Canada? I have never been there, but I am told Europe is beautiful.

  A quick question before I begin: How do you pronounce your unusual last name? My hope is that it’s pronounced “angelly,” which I imagine would be the adverbial form of “angel.” Wouldn’t that be a beautifully descriptive word? Used in a sentence: “Celine Dion sang ‘My Heart Will Go On’ so angelly last night.”

  If that is not how you pronounce your name, do you think it is too late to start?

  I have never written a fan letter before, but I felt compelled to drop you a note after seeing you on television alongside your wife, the incomparable Celine Dion. While she gets all the attention, I am concerned that you do not receive the credit you deserve. If there is an overlooked, undervalued member of the Dion/Angélil team, I do not think it is Dion. She provides the angelly voice, yes, but you bring plenty to the table, too.

  After all, there are undoubtedly lots of females out there who sing as well as your wife. China alone probably has a few million. Some of these women probably dance better, and I have no doubt that A LOT of these women look better (no offense).

  So why is Celine a star, but they are not? I’ll tell you exactly why: because even though China has millions of incredible China Ladies, it doesn’t have a single René Angélil to discover them, guide them, manage them, and eventually, marry them.

  This is why China will never be as powerful as Canada.

  YOU were the one who discovered Celine when she was twelve. YOU were the one who mortgaged your house to raise money so she could record her first album. YOU did all this. She had the vision but YOU provided the eyeballs, without which vision is not possible.

&
nbsp; Anyway, I just wanted to write and let you know that SOMEBODY out there appreciates you and thinks you are more than just a slightly creepy older guy who got lucky.

  I am enclosing a self-addressed stamped envelope; if it’s not too much trouble, can you please send an autograph?

  Your number one fan,

  Michael Ian Black

  Dear Mr. Angélil,

  While awaiting an autograph and response to my first letter, I thought of a couple more questions that I would like answered.

  First, how do you keep your beard so neatly and evenly trimmed? I spent several hours today perusing photographs of you online, and in each one, your beard looks great. Personally, I do not have a beard. Part of the reason I don’t is that I am concerned about keeping it tidy. Is there a particular brand of beard trimmer you recommend? Any advice you have in this regard would be greatly appreciated!

  Equally important, I am interested in following in your footsteps as a talent scout and manager. Lately I have been hanging around my neighborhood middle school in the hopes of discovering my own Celine Dion. No luck yet. The only thing I’ve gotten for my trouble so far is a stern admonition from a VERY UPTIGHT school administrator. Apparently, even though my tax dollars help pay for that school, I am not welcome to take photographs of the students without permission.

  Nobody said showbiz was easy, right, René?

  You probably noticed I did not enclose a separate self-addressed stamped envelope this time. Feel free to use the one I already sent to respond to both letters.