Saturday, November 20, 2010

High School


“Don’t worry about it, man, he’s an asshole.”

Tom didn’t say anything, he just kept changing into his gym clothes. Isaac busied himself with his lock while Sam stared at Tom determinedly. Lunch had just ended, but Tom was still hungry.

“You hearing me, Tom? Screw that jock.” Sam mouthed something angrily at Isaac and jerked his head towards Tom.

Isaac sniffed and started wiping his glasses on his shirt. “Sam is right Tom, he’s a putz.”

“No, I’m the putz! I’m the one whose sandwich, yogurt and orange were used for throwing practice by the goddamn starting pitcher!” Tom shouted.

“Yeah…what an arm!”

“Hey Isaac! As soon as your done idolizing my tormentor could we get out of this sweatatorium?”

“Oh calm down Tommy boy. Whether or not it’s your yogurt being thrown, it’s still cool to see what happens to even the best-sealed dairy item after it has been accelerating towards the Earth at 9.8 meters per second per second for…well, if he threw it about 40 meters in the air…you ready on the calculator, Sam?”

“Sure thing!” Sam’s hand snapped to his left wrist and he started hitting minute buttons. “Okay so if velocity equals the square root of two-gravity-height…just a second here…”

“Oh my God you nerds! Stop calculating the hang time of my lunch!”

Sam and Isaac exchanged superior looks. “Why is someone who thinks that balancing chemical equations is cool accusing us of being nerds?”

The mutual understanding of their unconventional interests silenced the three friends and they quickly finished changing to minimize their exposure to the odious miasma that had amassed in the locker room over the years.

Back in the gym, the fear of death-by-dodge ball took Tom’s mind off of the pitcher. In the first round, Tom got lucky and was hit in the foot. He wasn’t going to leave his fate in the hands of the firing squad before him, however, and in the second round, when the coach wasn’t looking, he fell over, feigning ball-to-nose contact. It was similar to the way his mother told him to behave if he ever saw a bear: just be still and you’ll be left alone, honey. Since the coach’s intelligence was, in fact, only marginally inferior to that of a well-trained brown bear, the ruse worked perfectly and he took his seat next to Sam on the bench. They cheered on Isaac, who thought of gym as an opportunity to “have fun and get some good exercise.” Sure, Isaac had his quirks, but Tom and Sam liked him just the same.

Isaac was one of the last people to get out and as he joined Sam and Tom on the bench, red-faced and panting, Tom asked him, “Enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yeah! Can’t get enough of this game, man. I don’t have much of an arm but I’m quite the dodger.” To demonstrate, he rolled sideways, nearly knocking an especially supercilious Junior in the process. Fortunately for Isaac, he could never tell the difference between veneration and disdain so he puffed his chest out and flashed the girl a bracey smile.

“Doesn’t it bother you that you could lose the ability to have children if one of those jocks pulls a cheap shot on you?”

“Nah, they seem to go after the sissies more. Like you and Sam, for example.”

“Hey!” Sam interjected, “I got hit square in the stomach! I earned my spot on the bench. Tom here’s the one who displayed the fortitude of a dry leaf out there.”

Isaac sagely replied, “You see, gentlemen, it’s all about respect. I may be a Trekkie, but I try out there. These guys are a lot like gorillas. If you act weak, they’ll think you’re weak. If you act confident, you may not end up the alpha, but you also don’t have anyone aiming for your balls.”

“So you’re saying that life would be easier if we started trying to fit in better?” accused Sam.

“No, Tom, mi amigo, I believe you are referring to the phenomenon known as ‘being a poser.’ I try in gym because I want to. But then again…” And still slightly out of breath, Isaac turned to Sam and said, “Why didn’t we think of this before! If only we dressed how other people think we should dress and cared about the stupid gossipy shit people think we should care about, we would surely find happiness!”

“Why Isaac! I do believe you are on to something! Let us begin the transformation right…now!” And with that he turned to the class and shouted, “I love Janet Jackson and Vanilla Ice and… the GAP!” The Junior Isaac impressed a moment before curled her lip and turned away. Sam turned back to his friends and grinned with satisfaction. Isaac laughed at Sam’s antics but Tom just inspected his shoes’ aglets. Before the next round started, Tom snuck off to the bathroom. After ten minutes passed, he figured that class was over and he crept back into the gym.

“Goldman! Where the hell did you disappear to? Your team needed you!” Coach winked to a passing jock who guffawed.

“I had to go to the bathroom…stomach ache, must have been something I ate at lunch.”

“From what I heard, unless humiliation makes you queasy, Goldman, I don’t see what part of your lunch could have made you ill.” Tom turned pale. “Oop! Do you need to go back in for round two now?”

Tom’s jaw dropped a little and he stared at his gym teacher in disbelief. It was not the cruelty that surprised Tom, it was the rapidity with with gossip spread across this God-forsaken building that was awe-inspiring. The coach stared back with a smirk that said “Boy am I on fire today!” Defeated, Tom walked out of the gym towards the locker room.

Dinner at the Goldman household that night was the same as usual. As Tom tried to lock the day’s events in a vault, his mother prepared the TNT.

“Did you learn anything interesting today, honey?”

“No, mom”

“Not a thing? Then what are our tax dollars paying for?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t learn anything, I said I didn’t learn anything interesting.”

“Fine, smart alec, tell me anything you learned today.”

“I learned about sublimation in chem. It’s when a solid turns into a gas without becoming a liquid first. Well, the class learned about it. I read that chapter a few weeks ago.”

“Aw, that’s my boy! Always ahead in his studies!” Tom’s mother beamed at him and put her hand on his head affectionately. Tom smiled weakly at her. He never told her how his days really went anymore. If history taught Tom anything, it was that his mom was a greater danger to his social life than black eyeliner and a trench coat.

Whenever Tom’s mom found out he was being picked on, she would storm into the office of the first teacher or administrator she saw and rant about how “This school is run by thugs! How can you let the misfits beat up our country’s future like this? If you don’t do something about this, I’ll do something about you!” Oh, yes. Mama Bear Goldman had threatened no fewer than four teachers during her son’s academic career, so he just smiled and nodded.

Tom lay awake in bed that night, unable to fall asleep. He saw the dark outline of his desk chair, and the light from the moon was just enough for him to make out the outfit he had laid out for school tomorrow. Across the back of the chair lay a pair of carefully ripped jeans and a shirt from, of all places, the GAP. As he stared at this Judas of outfits, Tom silently debated with himself: I’m not doing anything wrong, I can dress however I want.

But you’re not dressing however you want! You’re dressing how others want you to.

And what if I want to look like others? What if I’m sick and tired of being an untouchable?

Anyone who considers you an untouchable because of the way you dress is an ass.

Yep that’s definitely Mom talking. And the fact remains that people will leave me alone if I dress this way. That shut Tom’s conscience up. Unfortunately, he forgot that this fact also applied to his friends.

When Tom passed Sam in the hall the next day, Sam did a double-take. “Why is this preppy kid talking to me?” he thought. When he saw that it was Tom his jaw dropped.

“Ha! Since when do you dress like Kurt Cobain and the class president’s love child?”

“What do you mean? These are normal clothes!”

“Are they?” He narrowed his gaze on the hole in over Tom’s right knee. “If your performance in gym class is any indication of your level of physical activity, then that rip is a fraud…Why’re you dressed like that?”

“Because the clothes make the man!” Tom said a little overzealously.

“What the hell does that mean? Wearing clothes that other people wear makes you more manly?”

“Perhaps, Sam. Perhaps I’m a man who doesn’t want his lunch sent into orbit anymore.”

“And you think that shirt will help! You think that oaf will leave you alone just because you’re not wearing your ‘I Roll With Trolls’ D&D shirt anymore? I think you’re in for a rude awakening, geek. I have to go to trig now but good luck to you and your magical +3 bully resistance shirt.”

Tom was hurt by this exchange, but he really couldn’t have expected anything else. Even he thought he was a traitor, a coward, a quitter. Sam and Isaac would never resort to using retail camouflage to hide from bullies. They dressed in their nerdy clothes, said their nerdy things and they didn’t give a shit who heard or saw them. Of course, Tom thought, They’re not going to get laid until they’re thirty.

Tom made his way to his locker. The pretty girl he was always too afraid to talk to was there, but so were all her giggly girlfriends. Looks like Tom would go another day without talking to her. As Tom got his books out of his locker he listened to their conversation:

“…so we’ll meet at 7:00?”

“Yes, Dana. At 7:00. Way to listen. And I only had to repeat myself three times!”

“You didn’t say it three times…and you were talking into your locker…I couldn’t hear is all.”

Another friend interrupted her, “Shut up Dana. Anyway, Jess, what’re you going to wear? I hear Brett’s going to the mall on Friday, too.”

“I don’t know. I just…put something on. I don’t plan out all of my outfits you know. Who’s that neurotic that they can’t go a day without spending an hour in front of a mirror every morning?” She then forced a laugh that all of her friends quickly joined.

One of the girl’s boyfriends then walked up and strutted around the hall for her like a peacock on steroids. She loved it. Tom glanced over, saw the jock engaged in his super-sophisticated mating ritual and chuckled a bit. But as those who watch nature specials know, camouflage doesn’t work very well if the hidden prey suddenly yells, “Hey! Eat me!”

The jock spotted the chuckle and the testosterone that had a death-grip on his brain left room for only one thought: kill the nerd! Seconds later the jock was holding Tom in the air by his collar, pinning him against his locker. “What’s funny, fag?”

“Mike Myers? Adam Sandler? Um…who else… wait, let me think”

“Oh, so it looks like you’re funny too! One clever, dead, loser, aren’t you?”

“What? No! I thought you wanted to know…”

“For tips? So I could go watch SNL tapes? Because I’m obviously trying to make people laugh. Hey, maybe the folks will get a good kick out of…” And suddenly Tom was being dragged. He heard his collar rip and started shouting at the muscle to let him go. Tom became dizzy as the jock used his collar as a handle and yelled, “Look everyone! Fag hammer throw!” The jock started spinning Tom around, trying to get him airborne. This only went on for another ten seconds or so, because at that point Tom’s collar completely separated from his shirt and he slid across the floor, slamming into the pretty girl’s open locker. She squealed at him to get away, get away, you’re bending my homework. For her sake Tom tried to scramble up, but his ankle must have twisted because it wouldn’t support his weight.

The jock came over. “Allow me, Jess.” And with a friendly smile he started kicking Tom out of the way with his instep. Having disposed of the garbage, Jess laughed and thanked the kind gentleman for his services. The bell rang and Tom was left moaning in front of his locker. His left knee was ripped and bleeding and his collar lay on the floor beside him. He was too busy inspecting his injuries to notice that Dana hadn’t shuffled off with the rest of her herd.

“That was stupid of you,” she said.

Tom cocked an eyebrow and replied, “I suppose you have more success dealing with these pricks?” Tom then squawked, “Shut up, Dana! Don’t make me repeat myself, Dana!” He then sat up against his locker and focused on keeping his ankle steady.

“At least they don’t break my ankle.”

“Broken ankles heal. In a week I’ll be able to walk again, but you’ll still be a tool.”

“I’m not a tool! My friends are always on edge is all.”

“And yet they seem to get along with each other just fine…how mysterious!”

“You little shit! You think you understand my friends and my life from little sound bites you catch while eavesdropping?”

“Yes, yes. I’m sure they only embarrass you in public. But in private they’re all very apologetic that they have to keep up this façade of you being the group bitch. In private you’re the leader, right? In private Jess hangs on your every w-…”

Before Tom could get finish, he yelled out in pain as Dana decided to end the conversation prematurely by kicking his injured ankle. As Tom lay there moaning and stretching his hands toward his ankle, Dana leaned over him and said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, geek. Next time you decide to laugh as someone, make sure it’s not the strongest, most popular guy in school.” She then pulled her leg back for one more kick and…

“NO!” Tom screamed. Dana put her leg back down and started laughing. She then wound up once more, just so she could see Tom’s entire body freeze with agonized anticipation. She smiled at Tom mirthlessly and runway-walked away.

Tom stayed put until the end of class, not that he had any say in the matter. After the bell rang, Sam and Isaac walked up to him and Sam asked “Want to go eat?”

Tom looked up at Sam, annoyed by his lack of sympathy. “Do you think we could stop by the nurse’s office first, buddy?”

“Sure.”

“But hurry up,” Isaac added, “I played soccer in 4th Period since Mrs. Sims is out sick and now I’m wicked hungry.”

Sam and Isaac helped Tom to his feet and walked him to the nurse’s office. The sprain wasn’t that bad so she just bandaged it to keep it still and gave Tom a crutch that had been forgotten there weeks before. Tom thanked her and the three friends headed over to the cafeteria.

“I see your camouflage failed, Tommy boy.”

“That it did, Sammy boy.”

“So what’s your next move?” Sam asked, holding a fake microphone to Tom.

Tom pushed his hand away and said, “I’m not sure…But I definitely need to think of something that’ll make me look less repugnant to the fairer sex. Maybe if I gel my hair it’ll distract from my Starfleet Command shirt.”

“Dude, nothing can distract attention from that shirt. You look like Kirk himself in it. Like a skinny, dumber version…”

“Really? You think I look like Kirk in it?” Tom Shatnered his voice and recited, “‘These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise…’” He then grinned and turned to Isaac and Sam and said, “Spock, McCoy, let’s go to the mess hall and get some lunch.”

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Anderson and Nash's Slave and Stone Emporium

For several months now, Fox News has been running commercials for various scams that try to get people's money by convincing them that they need to prepare for the end of the world TODAY. But you know how Fox is, with their naiveté and eternal optimism. The following ad is a little less hopeful and a teeny bit more barbaric. Sadly it's a TV ad so it loses something in its written form, but please enjoy nonetheless. If anyone knows someone who could make this kind of thing, please let me know! Without further ado:

Pan across a deserted oil field. Then flash over to riots.

Narrator: Our natural resources are being stolen by Jews, queers, and other liberal minions. (Show a good Christian baby crying) Oil reserves are running out, gold is rarer than a Democrat in church, and seed stocks are drying up. With civilization on the brink , you’ll need to provide for your family when the economy reverts to the Stone Age. When that happens, we’ll be ready. We’re Anderson and Nash’s Slave and Stone Emporium.

Anderson: Hi! I’m Toby Anderson, co-owner of Anderson and Nash’s Slave and Stone Emporium! We want you to be prepared when the shit hits the fan, and that’s why we carry the two things you'll need most when you're tanning on New Mexico's beautiful beaches: stone, and human beings. And boy do we have a selection for you! From your basic igneous to the practical sedimentary to the flashier metamorphic, we carry a rock for every budget! And the uses are virtually endless: Tupperware, skin care, entertainment, even prophylactics. (Respectively, show: a stone container with person struggling to somehow fit a top on it, someone using a flint to pop a blemish, a family sitting on a stone sofa laughing at a blank stone TV, and two people under a blanket with pained looks on their faces) The end is nigh, and if you don’t want to be caught in the dark (show a stone light bulb with zero light coming from it), you’ll invest in stone, today. "But Anderson," you might say, "stone is heavy! How will I ever transport it once mutant immigrants have taken over Washington?"

Nash (who’s huge): That’s where I come in. I’m Adolf Nash, and I’m here to solve all of your labor needs. We carry the finest selection of slaves this side of Cambodia. Don’t sacrifice style for substance like you would at other slave emporiums. Our team of design experts are here to find a slave to match every décor. And with a wide variety of races, colors, and creeds on display, you’re sure to find something you like. Interested in a durable limestone? Don’t let those frauds elsewhere match you up with any old slave! At Anderson and Nash we get creative: The pyramids of Giza are limestone, so why not pair it with a slightly annoying, yet tax savvy, Jew or, how about a hardy Egyptian? It not only looks great, but it’s a history lesson for the kids too!

No matter the slave’s origin, they all serve one purpose: to act as a ready labor supply when all other labor supplies fail. That’s right everyone, even after our factories have been liquidated to build Obama’s megamosques across America, our moderately well-fed slaves (Nash walks up to a sickly looking slave. He puts his hand on the slave’s shoulder and his knees buckle, forcing Nash to awkwardly catch him) will be here to do, heh, just about anything you want them to. From lifting stone, to moving stone, to testing your stone food for poison, our slaves can serve all of your end-of-the-world needs…and desires! (Hold up aforementioned stone prophylactic; wink). So come on down to Anderson and Nash’s Slave and Stone Emporium... with two convenient locations just 800 miles off the Atlantic shoreline, it's never been easier to stop on by! Don’t come alone, don’t come armed, and bring as much food as you can! See you soon folks!

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Mocking the Bible, verse by verse

For better or worse, the Bible has been a source of inspiration to people for thousands of years. Millions have scoured its pages for guidance and hope. More recently, it has been an invaluable resource to anthropologists, archaeologists, and sociologists who have studied it to learn about ancient Mesopotamian history and culture. Some have even used the glaring logical fallacies in the Bible to poke fun at Christianity and a certain omnipotent being, who, at His own request, shall remain anonymous here. But these individuals have stuck to big-picture humor and have neglected the ridiculously common gems that can be found throughout the So-So Book.

To rectify this situation, I have started a quest to mock God’s Word from cover-to-cover. From raining fireballs on a whim, to closing up a million wombs on a slight fancy, to flooding the earth because he was in the mood, I shine my spotlight of obnoxious sarcasm on each of God's subtle lessons and silly pranks.

I'm only up to the end of Genesis, but even that's enough melodrama to keep the dopes on All My Children busy for five seasons. Here are a few from that one time when God made us from dirt:

Genesis 2:7— the LORD God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.
~Later, Peter Safar and James Elam would show God up by creating mouth-to-mouth, a decided improvement of His mouth-to-nostril resuscitation technique.

Genesis 2:15—The LORD God took the man and set him in the garden of Eden, to work it and to watch it.
~And God hath said unto Adam “…and here are my prize-winning begonias. You will trim them weekly, fertilize them biweekly, and water them lightly twice a day. Hey, escuchando, señor? Dos veces por dia. If my babies die I’ll have your ass deported. This is Eden, not America—there are standards.”

Genesis 2:20— So the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds of the air and all the beasts of the field.
~But being unable to spell doryfera johannae, eutamias amoenus, or rangifer tarandus without Adam’s help, God went with hummingbird, chipmunk, and reindeer instead.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Meet the Barcas

Hannibal, the Carthaginian general, was one of the greatest threats to the Roman Empire in her 1300-year history. When Hannibal was six years old, his father, Hamicar Barca, forced him to swear vengeance against the Roman Empire for their arrogation of Sicily from the Carthaginians in the First Punic War. Little Hannibal later recalled this oath as an important turning point in his life, but at the time the Scourge of Rome’s future was far from certain. In fact, Mommy and Daddy Barca frequently argued about their son’s future. Miraculously, a friend of the court’s private record of one such argument survived for thousands of years on a piece of papyrus found in a particularly gossipy clerk’s grave. The following is a translation of the scroll:

Yesterday I went to the palace to confirm plans with the King for our upcoming slave-hunting trip. He had me wait in the corner of the room until the squawks issuing from the Queen died down.
“How can our son focus on his studies when you’re always dragging him outside to play Kill the Centurion?” she shouted.
“Now Marion, I thought we’d been over this: we want Han to be strong in mind and body. The boy needs exercise!” Hamilcar replied.
“Oh don’t give me that! You’ve got his future all planned out for him, don’t you?” And shifting her hips she began to count on her fingers, “First he’ll be on the U-8 prisoner-hunting team, at twelve it’ll be off to “Take Your Son to War Day” where you’ll be gone till Baal knows when! At sixteen he’ll move into the barracks like a good soldier and by eighteen the little brute won’t even remember how to use his abacus anymore!”
“Ah, yes! Take Your Son to War Day will be a great experience for the tyke! He can, uh, observe the engineers!”
“Wonderful, he can build bridges, knock down walls and catch a glimpse of Gaul schlong before he gets his head lopped off!”
“Oh you’re just being overprotective! Generals always have a bodyguard, anyway.”
“I thought he was going to be an engineer.”
“What did I say?”
“And if he wants to go to medical school? Or join the Peace Corps?”
“Aw gay! Why would he want to do that?”
“To create instead of destroy!”
“We’d be creating a new Carthage!” the Queen was about to speak again when the King quickly continued, “Yes and destroying Rome, but come on, Rome sucks.”
“Oh? You know Julia is a Roman.”
“Well Julia’s a slu—Ow! I mean Julia’s wonderful! Your friends are so…iiinteresting. But all those years ago, when our honor sank with our ships, I swore revenge against those usurping spaghetti-eaters!” Suddenly entering into an eerie trance, the King continued: “And someday, though I may be long dead, my son will rise up, and carried on the backs of our elephants, with Baal’s wind in our sails, I shall re-conquer the world!”
Bored, the Queen replied “I thought you were long dead.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Han is going to college, and after that he can pick a career for himself.”
“But after college he’ll be middle-aged already! And college is just for getting laid anyway. Let’s just have his consorts wear tweed and elbow pads. Or we could find some hot Philosophy majors. They’re always happy to be making the minimum wage.”
“True. But if he’s going to join the hunting team I also want him to join the recycling club so he learns social responsibility.”
“The only trash I want my son disposing of is that Cons-hole Fabius Licinus.”
“Well he’ll also be picking up Mr. Pibbius cans so get used to the idea.”
“No way. Do you know how much effort I put in to not enforcing immigration laws? Do you know why I put so much effort into ignoring the evangelicals? It’s so my son doesn’t have to do the work of Nubians!”
“And what’s that mean?”
“Wuh-oh! The PC police are here! It means Nubians pick up trash, my son kills Romans, and Jamaicans make those delicious meat pies. We’re all here for a reason Marion. I have work to do. We’ll talk later.” He then turned to me, said “In two days you shall meet me at dawn by my stables to come hunting with me” and marched back into his chamber.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Dear World,

For too long Jews have been shockingly under-represented in the world of comedy. Did you know that of the world's 13 million matzah-lovers, only 94% have found success in the entertainment industry? The remaining 6%, of course, failed to make it in show business and became doctors and CEO's as a last resort. Their mothers and rabbis were very disappointed, and in accordance with Jewish tradition, their foreskins were publicly reattached while they were forced to eat bologna on white with mayo.

I have therefore decided to make the best use of my BA in economics from Vassar College by becoming a comedy writer. This may surprise you, but let me explain. No, there is no time. Let me sum-up. Economics is about the distribution and consumption of scarce resources. It tries to balance the needs of “efficiency” vs. “equitability” (i.e. maximizing wealth vs. finding a “fair” distribution of wealth). In life, the most precious resource is time. I can either waste my finite supply of time in front of a computer screen in a fabric cube in a wicked ugly building to make a bunch of money for a boss who takes his anger out on me because he had his lunch knocked out of his hands one too many times as a tot…or I can sit in a Wi-Fi enabled park writing jokes about the Bible, Ben Affleck, and the hypothetical international trade ramifications of Africa’s relative labor abundance in conjunction with that continent’s lack of contract-enforcing institutions.

Just kidding—that last one is for the 6% of us who fail and have to move to Washington and work for Brookings.