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May 9, 2012

Maybe This Whole Thing Was Avoidable

by Jordy Greenblatt

Alright, I get it. Everyone’s mad at me. I’m not oblivious. To be honest, I can completely understand why. Even though the whole thing was an accident—AND IT WAS—it may have been avoidable.

I should probably start by saying that I get invited to very few open bar events (maybe this whole incident explains that fact) so, needless to say, I jumped on the opportunity. Hell, I’ll just come out and say it; I slightly overindulged. Nick, I sincerely apologize for spoiling your special day. And Beth, I am truly sorry for vomiting on your wedding dress, which by the way is gorgeous. Maybe this isn’t the right time to say it, but you guys were made for each other. I bet some day this whole thing will just be a funny story for you to tell your kids. That said, I am fully aware that we are not laughing about it yet.

Before I go on, I have to ask: why didn’t anyone tell me that knife was a priceless heirloom from Nick’s dad? I’m not fucking psychic! When I look at an old rusty knife, my first thought isn’t going to be, “hey, this looks like something that would have been handed down from father to son on the son’s wedding day for seven generations.” Admittedly, I still shouldn’t have grabbed it without asking but, like I said, my judgment was a little impaired.

It will be difficult to explain what happened next without you all seeing it from my inebriated perspective. Nick approached me, very distraught, and asked if I’d seen the knife. Normally I would have just handed it over, but clearly I wasn’t in my right mind. Maybe I was worried that you’d be mad, Nick. Maybe I liked the knife and wanted to keep it. Or maybe I just flat out forgot I had it. Obviously, whatever the reason, I fucked that part up.

Now as for the fireworks, they were meant to be a fun surprise for after the reception. They were meant to be a magical ending to your wedding day and probably would have if I hadn’t left them next to the open flame at the omelet bar concealed in what turned out to be a flammable box. It might also have been a good idea to leave Max at home but I couldn’t find a last minute dog sitter and he has a habit of peeing on my favorite rug.

Finally, I was on the fence about whether or not to show off my new magic act but, get a couple of drinks in me and clearly my discretion takes a nosedive. You guys probably remember what happened next better than I do. Between the shock of the moment and the lingering effects of five Jager-bombs, a double martini that ended up being more like a triple, a surprisingly potent pitcher of margaritas, and some brownish mystery cocktail, my recollection is a little blurry. It seems that the moment Beth volunteered to be in my act (just to reiterate, she volunteered… not that I’m blaming you, Beth), the fireworks box caught fire. It probably would have gone out on its own except that when Beth stood up (again, not your fault, Beth), Max was a little startled by the squeaking of the chair and must have bumped into the omelet bar table.

Since everyone else was watching me, it was probably incumbent on me to notice the flaming box and anticipate the impending disaster, but I was very focused on setting up my big knife trick (which is actually a great trick, by the way) and of course my head was still swimming. The last thing I remember was the knife flying out of my hand when I heard the fireworks go off in back and then some screaming.

Basically, what I’m trying to say is this: First, I’m REALLY sorry. Second, I promise I’ll pay for the fire damage. Third, I cleaned off the knife as best I could, Nick, but there’s still some blood caked on the blade. Fourth, Beth, your finger is in the ice bucket over there and, I’m no doctor, but it doesn’t look like tetanus to me. And finally, since I didn’t get a chance to finish, does anybody still want to see the trick?

2 Comments
May 7, 2012

Baby Mensa

by Melissa Chiasson

Are you a well-off white person with a baby?

Do you believe your baby is the smartest baby to ever walk the Earth?

Do you have enough disposable income to spend hundreds, nay thousands, of dollars on some bullshit organization that will vet that your baby is indeed smart using techniques that are dubious at best?

If you answered “yes” to these questions and then blabbered on about how your baby is so fucking smart, I invite you to submit an application to our illustrious society for only the smartest babies, Baby Mensa.

We’ve taken the self-involved faux-intellectualism that defines adult Mensa and adapted it for your child! Hide all of your crippling shortcomings and insecurities about not being good enough by living vicariously through your “genius” infant.

Baby Mensa consists of monthly meetings where your babies will flail impotently in a holding pen while you sip cocktails and have conversations with other parents about how the American education system is deeply flawed (and how your goddamn smart baby will never be exposed to it, am I right?). Each meeting culminates in a presentation from a preeminent scholar in the childhood development field or from some woman who tells you that by feeding your kid a diet of organic fish oil and goat’s blood, he or she will become invincible.

Not only will your baby be invigorated by all of this mental stimulation and goat’s blood, you can impress all your friends! Roll up to the playground for your morning playdate and ask benignly what the other mothers are doing to keep their children intellectually active. Try to hide your smirk as they tell you that they’re watching Baby Mozart and thinking of starting Spanish lessons. Then tell them how Baby Mensa has opened intellectual frontiers for your baby by letting him or her interact with other babies with IQs of 130 and up. When the other mothers question the validity of an IQ score for a baby who can’t even read or talk, walk away. You’ve just won, my friend.

The application process is simple. Fill out an application form, making sure to note your baby’s biggest intellectual achievements (multiple languages, recently published books, Nobel prizes) and have your child draw a factually accurate picture of a dinosaur of his or her choice.Then put that in a suitcase full of money and drop it off at our offices. If you don’t hear anything from us, your baby unfortunately didn’t meet our stringent standards for intelligence. If you do hear from us, congratulations! Your baby might just be smart enough, and for only $20,000 more, we will administer an IQ test to see if your offspring can join the distinguished ranks of Baby Mensa. For those who don’t make the cut the first time, feel free to submit an application as often as you would like.

As the Hollywood classic Superbabies: Baby Geniuses 2 taught us, infant intelligence is not to be trifled with (and almost inevitably leads to crazy hijinks and dirty diaper jokes). Let Baby MENSA help your baby achieve his or her potential by feeding off of your money and neuroticism.

And your love for your child.

And your money.

3 Comments
May 4, 2012

Songs with Titles That Aren’t True or Require Qualification

by River Clegg

“Baby Got Back” — Not always.

“We Built This City” — No. The band Starship did not build any cities.

“What a Wonderful World” — Probably for some people.

“Love Me Do” — Grammatically unsound.

“(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” — This really hinges on how close you are at the time to a milkshake or drugs.

“Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” — Nope.

“Larger Than Life” — The title of this Backstreet Boys song doesn’t make sense. How can something be larger than life? What does that even mean? But try pointing that out to Melissa Richards when you’re dancing to it together at the 8th grade prom. Suddenly she doesn’t want to make eye contact and has to get home soon.

“Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony” — There is no historical evidence of the other four.

“Video Killed the Radio Star” — That depends. If you’re talking about the popular 1930s radio personality Eddie Cantor, it was a heart attack.

“This Land Is Your Land” — If you own it, I guess.

“It Was a Very Good Year” — Actually, there has only been one very good year on record so far. It was 1991, when Super Nintendo came out.

“She’s a Lady” — Not if you’re talking about Melissa Richards and staying with your prom date regardless of whether he forgot to shower that day and “smells funny” is something a lady is supposed to do.

“Walk This Way,” performed by Aerosmith and Run DMC featuring Cap’n Crunch — No such version of this song exists. But how cool would that be!

“I Will” — Over my dead body.

1 Comment
May 2, 2012

Kate Zimmerman, Will You Marry Me and if Not, Is Your Sister Seeing Anybody These Days?

by Jordy Greenblatt

Kate, the last two years have been the best of my life. I was in free fall when I met you but now I feel like, for the first time in years, I have two feet on the ground. I don’t want too much out of life, but I need someone like you to make it complete. What I’m trying to say is that I couldn’t imagine myself without a Zimmerman girl in my life, preferably you.

I brought you here to your family’s favorite restaurant to ask if you will do me the honor of giving me your beautiful hand in marriage. But if not, I also made a reservation for tomorrow night under Megan’s name. So, Kate, will you either make me the happiest man on Earth or else leave a post-it note on your sister’s door when you get home telling her to call me?

I just don’t want you to feel pressured. I love you so much but I won’t be crushed or angry if you say no. I won’t post dirty pictures of you online or slander you to our friends. I won’t delete you from my contacts or burn your love notes. I will just calmly and quietly go back to the apartment, pack up all my stuff into my duffle bag, and move it to Meg’s room on the third floor.

I remember the night we met like it was yesterday, every single detail. It was Ben Wilson’s holiday party and you wore that beautiful flowing purple dress you love with a white flower in your hair. The moment I saw you, I knew I had to be with you. Incidentally, I also remember that your sister was wearing a bright green blouse and a nice frilly plaid skirt. I guess I should add I also knew that, if I couldn’t be with you, I had to be with her. But I was much more taken with you.

If you’re not ready to get married, though, please don’t tell her I said that.

I went up to you nervously and said, “If I weren’t so hopelessly shy I would totally ask you for your name.” You laughed and replied, “If you weren’t so hopelessly adorable, I wouldn’t tell you.” Sure it was corny, but it felt right. Then we talked for an hour and a half and finally I worked up the courage to kiss you under the mistletoe and you said you thought it was ironic that two Jews would have “the WASPiest first kiss in history.” It was a magical evening.

Then you went to say goodbye to a friend and I chatted up Megan for a while. That was also magical, but less so.

We went to your parents’ house for your dad’s birthday two months later and I got to meet your wonderful family. We played scrabble and I argued with your dad about whether Casablanca was better than the Maltese Falcon until 1 in the morning! I went to shake his hand when I left but instead he gave me a big hug and invited me to come back for dinner that weekend. I wanted nothing more than to be part of your family. One way or another, I plan to make that happen.

I just want you to be happy. If that means spending the rest of your life with me, I will be overjoyed. I will be a loving husband and an endlessly loyal friend for as long as I live. I will be a great dad for our kids when we’re ready for that but you will always be my first love. I would fulfill every crappy love song cliché just to see you smile. So, Kate, please say yes and continue bringing meaning into my life the way you have every day for the past two years. But if not, I’m more than happy to set you up with my brother.

2 Comments
April 27, 2012

Etiquette

by River Clegg

1. While riding the subway, don’t touch anyone else unless you’re related by blood. If you do accidentally touch someone, apologize, but not too much. (Exchanging words on the subway is bad etiquette.)

2. Urinals aren’t for pooping.

3. Many people think the famous line from Casablanca is “Play it again, Sam.” But that’s not true: the line is simply “Play it, Sam.” Etiquette dictates that you correct this misconception at every opportunity.

4. Along similar lines, Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster. Christ, are you the only person who knows anything?

5. Holding doors open for women is not only polite, but a good way to show how strong you are and how you think women can’t do things.

6. If you’re playing badminton, there is no need to play for blood.

7. When you see someone walking with a limp, adopt a similar limp.*

8. While at the orchestra, remember not to clap between movements unless you want to be looked down on by some of the world’s most truly awful people.

9. Yes, it’s true, in movies something funny or dramatic often happens at weddings when the priest asks the guests if there are any objections to the union. But in real life it’s more just a tradition, so you actually shouldn’t say anything, even if you think up the perfect zinger about how the groom really should lose a few pounds and probably it affects his sexual stamina.

10. Try to tip around 20%. (Note: This refers to the money you leave your server at a restaurant, not the amount of cows you see grazing as you return home. Tipping cows over is not good etiquette.)

11. You might find yourself over at someone else’s for dinner and they’ll want to say grace. Just go along with it.

**

*This is more of a superstition, actually.

4 Comments
April 25, 2012

An Embittered Valedictorian Speech

by Jordy Greenblatt

Four years gone by. Wow. It’s difficult to describe the feeling I have standing at this podium in my blue cap and gown and looking at the faces of all my classmates. It’s almost like I’m seeing a living scrapbook of my high school memories. In the front row is the girl that turned me down for Prom both of the last two years, there’s the guy who left a dead possum in my locker for all of Spring Break until I had to have it rebuilt just to get rid of the smell, the gym teacher who used to shout homophobic slurs at me when I didn’t want to play dodge ball, the girl who told everyone that I got an erection when I saw Mrs. Zeever’s cleavage in ninth grade English, etc. I have to say, standing over all of you, looking down, and holding a piece of paper signed by the principal that says I’m objectively better than each and every one of you, I feel pretty good about the whole thing.

I’m sure everyone remembers when Jeff Saunders pulled down my pants in the packed football stadium. I know because I saw you all laugh and laugh until tears streamed down your cheeks. Well, enjoy your job at the Gas-n-Go, Jeff. When I come back to town in my shiny Porsche and stop for a fill up, I’ll be sure to tip you in pennies.

When the administration asked me to speak today, they said the topic would be “What I Learned at Greenville High and How It Will Guide Me in the Future.” Well, I’ll tell you exactly what I learned; people suck. People are sheep. Cruel, mindless, locker-vandalizing, homework-stealing, wedgie-giving, nipple-twisting sheep. How will it guide me in the future? First off, I will never trust anybody. Ever. Secondly, it’s going to guide me right back here for our tenth reunion to laugh at your minimum wage earning asses as I flash my thousand dollar Rolex under your dirty, plebian faces.

But I don’t hate you; I pity you. Actually, let me clarify: yesterday I hated you, today I pity you. Yesterday you were my tormentors. Yesterday you laughed at my awkward attempts to fit in. Yesterday you tied my shoelaces together and turned my backpack inside out for amusement. But today you sit before me, silent in the face of my indisputable triumph over your perverse, juvenile antics. Today you are mere insects and I am a 7 year old pyromaniac with a magnifying glass on a blindingly sunny day.

Well, it looks like I’m getting a signal from the principal that either means “time’s almost up” or “for the love of God, quit drawing attention to the hopeless inferiority of the overwhelming bulk of the graduating class,” so I’ll start to wrap up. But before I go, I’d like to offer these words of advice to the audience:

Treat others as you would like to be treated because the ones who are weakest now will grow to be your masters in a few years.

Everyone is accountable for his or her actions so think carefully next time you consider putting maggots in someone’s Star Trek lunchbox.

Revenge is a dish best served with visible schadenfreude and fits of uncontrollable laughter. So expect that.

Finally, I’d like to close by wishing good luck to all my classmates; you’re gonna need it, fuckers!

2 Comments
April 23, 2012

Choose Your Own Adventure: You’re Recently Graduated and Underemployed!

by Melissa Chiasson

Page 1

It’s your first day working an unpaid internship at Metropolis Publishing Corp. You’re well on your way to becoming a novelist who writes about her disillusionment with modern life! Stan, your middle-aged supervisor who smells like hot dogs, introduces himself and asks that you get him coffee. Well, you think, it is my first day; I’m sure Jonathan Franzen and Jeffrey Eugenides did they exact same things when they were interns (they didn’t). You fetch Stan his coffee. He tells you that it’s not warm enough. You return to the kitchen to microwave it, silently pondering if you really went to college for this. When you return with Stan’s coffee, he says it’s still not hot enough. What the fuck? Do you a) throw the steaming cup of coffee in his face and say dramatically, “Is that hot enough for you?” or b) nod your head politely while planning Stan’s doom?

Page 16

You wake up with a cough. Surely it will go away, you think, no need to involve a doctor, especially since I don’t have health insurance. The next day, you’re coughing up blood. Do you a) go to the ER or b) ignore it? I mean, it couldn’t be tuberculosis, right?

Right?

Page 23

After throwing Stan’s body into the East River, you decide to stop and get a meatball sub before catching the F back to the place you’re squatting in renting. You’re so hungry, you start eating it on the train. After a patch of rough track, a lone meatball falls to the floor of the subway car. Do you a) pick it up and eat it or b) pick it up, dust if off, and eat it?

Page 35

You see one of your former classmates walking down Fifth Avenue with his cadre of investment banking buddies. Before you can pretend to be really interested in a Duane Reade window display, he calls out to you. “Broseph,” he says to you, as you try to remind him that you are, in fact, female, “Broseph, listen, we should get together sometime, you know, grab a few beers and talk about what we’ve been up to.” Do you a) enthusiastically respond “Sure thing, dude,” knowing full well you will never take him up on this or b) laugh, and while going in for the embrace, whisper into his ear, “I will fucking end you.”

Page 38

“Yep, that’s classic tuberculosis,” the doctor says, examining the X-ray. “Luckily we caught it early enough so that we—wait a minute, where did you get a meatball sub in the ER?” Do you a) run or b) finishing eating the sub and run?

Page 41

As part of your court-ordered community service, you have to mentor a group of elementary school kids in the Bronx. One day, when you’re reading Animorphs out loud to them, which, let’s face it, is probably rock bottom for you, one of the kids raises his hand. “Would you ever write a book?” he asks. “Oh, I could write a book,” you say, “I could write a book that would blow your mind.”

“Cool,” he says. “There’s no way it could be better than Animorphs, though.”

THE END

3 Comments
April 21, 2012

Historical Misunderstandings

by River Clegg

The South: Slavery is good.

History: No it’s not.

______________________________________________

Napoleon: I’m taller than my average male contemporaries.

History: That’s true. Still, whenever there’s a short man who’s spiteful at the world, we’re going to compare him to you. We’re going to call it the Napoleon complex.

______________________________________________

John Hancock: By signing my name in large letters, I’ll ensure that everyone will remember all the important things I did to help America gain her independence.

History: Actually, we’re just going to remember the name thing.

______________________________________________

George W. Bush: I’ll let history be the judge of me.

History: Way ahead of you.

______________________________________________

Nickelback: We’re just a band making music we like. Why does everyone hate us so much?

History: Shut the fuck up, Nickelback.

______________________________________________

Nero: I didn’t really play the fiddle when Rome burned; that’s a myth.

History: Another myth is the myth of Pygmalion. He was a sculptor who built a statue of a beautiful woman, and then she came to life and married him.

______________________________________________

Martin Luther King, Jr.: I have a dream.

History: Anything else you want remembered? Maybe about entrenched economic disparity being one of the foundational problems with American race relations and all of society in general? No? Perfect.

______________________________________________

Tyler Hutchinson: I hope I make varsity.

History: You haven’t been born yet.

______________________________________________

Judas: If Jesus isn’t executed, he can never redeem humanity’s sins or ascend to Heaven to sit at the right hand of God. So of course I’ll be celebrated throughout the ages for delivering him to the Roman authorities.

History: …Sure.

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April 18, 2012

My Life as an Actor Who Exclusively Plays Corpses on TV

by Jordy Greenblatt

It’s good to be on top, even if that means lying lifelessly on top of a sewer grate. Half of the big police procedural stars have stood over me at some point or another, shook their heads, and said something like, “Time of death 2:53 AM.” And you can bet your ass the other half wishes they had. If you’ve ever seen Dexter or Law & Order, you’ve probably seen my mangled body splayed out on a coroner’s table and let me tell you, life is good as TV’s favorite rotting pile of flesh.

Aside from the thrill of seeing yourself on TV, there are lots of perks to the job. I’ll walk into bar and someone I’ve never met will come up to me and say, “Aren’t you the guy who was found dead in his pool on CSI: Miami last week?” And I’ll give him a knowing smile and he’ll call his friends over and ask me to play dead for them. I’ll pretend to be shy but I love the attention and before you know it I’m flopped down on the bar so convincingly that the bartender starts to call 911.

Or sometimes a woman will come up to me and say, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” I’ll respond, “Does this look familiar?” and fall to the ground in a heap. 9 out of 10 times I end up going home with her. Best of all, I never have to search around at the last minute for a Halloween costume!

People always want to know my method. The key is to keep in mind how the character died. If he was strangled to death, maybe you want to put your hands up to your throat as if you were trying to stop the strangler. If he was hit by a car, don’t lie stiff as a board; throw your limbs around in every direction. If it was a slow death like a bludgeoning or a torture case then show some pain on your face. If you’re really serious about the role, you may even want to get into a bar fight the night before to make it look authentic and to understand the pain of being clobbered to the ground.

Also, try not to move or breathe too much.

Do I consider myself an artist? Well, I’m no Ron Goldstein (probably better known to you as “Guy With Ice Pick in Head” in Episode 103 of NYPD Blue). But I think that I am an inspiration to other corpse actors and, when you’ve got more dead bodies on your resume than a New Jersey reservoir, it sure as hell pays the rent.

That said, I didn’t get into it for the money. I do it because I love it. I do it because I’m damn good at it. Most of all, I do it because, when people see a corpse on TV, they shouldn’t think to themselves, “Oh that’s just some guy lying down in a pool of red dye.” They should think, “Wow, there is no doubt in my mind that this guy is dead. I’ve seen living people, and they do not look like that. That is one very dead man.”

To be a good actor, you have to be committed. You’ve gotta love it. Sure it’s a glamorous lifestyle, but it’s not a walk in the park. It’s not easy to day in and day out get up, go to work, lie down, not move, get back up, go home, and lie down again. It’s not for everyone, but I for one couldn’t imagine living a better life or dying better deaths than I do every single day.

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April 16, 2012

The Butterball Turkey Talk-line® in the Off-Season

by Melissa Chiasson

Agent: “Hello, welcome to the Butterball Turkey Talk-line! What turkey-related questions can I answer for you today?”

Caller: “Hi, I’ve got a pound of thinly sliced turkey breast, some bread, mayonnaise, cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, you name it.”

Agent: “Sounds like you have the makings for a tasty turkey sandwich!”

Caller: “So I wasn’t supposed to roast that all together in the oven at 400 degrees for five hours?”

______________________________________________

Agent: “This is Butterball, hope you’re having a turkey-rific day! How can I help you?”

Caller: “How would you recommend I get rid of the man from Turkey who lives across the hall from me?”

Agent: “Excuse me, ma’am?”

Caller: “He’s up to no good, I just know it.”

Agent: “Ma’am, I can only answer questions about turkey, the meat item, not Turkish people.”

Caller: “Right, right, of course. How would you prepare poisoned turkey?”

______________________________________________

Agent: “This is the Turkey Talk-line, serving all your turkey-based needs.”

Caller: “Hey! I’ve invited a girl over to my place tonight for dinner, and I need some help deciding what to make.”

Agent: “No problem! What kind of flavors does she like?”

Caller: “She’s really adventurous, you know, she loves trying new things.”

Agent: “Okay, could you be a little more specific?”

Caller: “More specific? Jess, I’ve found someone else.”

______________________________________________

Agent: “Butterball Turkey Talk-line.”

Caller: “Yeah, I’ve got a pretty aggressive turkey waiting outside my front door. He’s looking me straight in the eye right now, like he’s studying me, watching my every move.”

Agent: “Sir, I can’t help you unless you are trying to cook a turkey.”

Caller: “Shut up! He can hear you.”

______________________________________________

Agent: “Please tell me you are actually roasting a turkey.”

Caller: “Wait, is this the suicide hotline?”

Agent: “I wish.”

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