Gary Shaloub

Poetry

2006-12-01T00:27:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I crave the taste of human flesh

But then I remember pie.

There are many types of legal pies to eat.

Apple.

Pumpkin.

Blueberry.

Cranberry.

People.

Did I say people?

I meant pecan.

Pecan… Pecan… Pe—

There are many types of legal pies to eat.

I just wish that all pies were legal.

Sex must have been so awkward during the holocaust...

2006-06-23T03:17:00.000-04:00

"Honey, no, not tonight. Not until they let us shower."

The Darkest Sketch I've Written

2006-06-20T15:47:00.000-04:00

Man: Hi honey, did you pick up the kids from— (doubling over in pain) Ahhhhh, my pancreas!

Voice: Feeling pain in your abdomen?

Man: Uh huh.

Voice: Are you especially weak or tired?

Man: That sounds like me.

Voice: You might have pancreatic cancer. Each year 32 thousand Americans are diagnosed with the condition.

Man: Is there some new treatment that I should talk to my doctor about?

Voice: No. You’re going to die.

Lights

EDIT: Karma... fuck me.

The Daredevil of Prospect Park

2006-05-25T00:52:00.000-04:00

He sat on the stoop of his father’s brownstone eating Hellmann’s mayonnaise with a spoon. The spoon was from Dinosaur National Monument in Vernal, Utah; his family had road tripped through the west when he was six. The mayonnaise was from D’Agostino. He approached his task with rhythmic dedication, first removing a layer of mayonnaise from the jar half a teaspoon at a time, then letting his tongue flick itself around the egg white covered concavity until the embossed T-Rex reappeared. He would use the handle of the spoon to flatten what remained in the jar, before scraping the interior wall with the edge, clearing out any residue left by a given layer. He repeated this process until he was two thirds of the way through a jar and could no longer reach the mayonnaise easily, at which point he would wait for his father to finish the jar and purchase more.
His dad had gone up to Westchester to play a quick eighteen with the partners, and he was supposed to have hopped on the Manhattan bound B train when he woke up. His frame was slight, he did not look all of his thirteen years, and the mayonnaise habit was part of a larger scheme to make himself older by force. He did not shave the shadow of a mustache resting on his upper lip. He practiced furrowing his brow in front of his bathroom mirror, engraining wrinkles into his smooth forehead. He once dusted his hair with talcum powder before school, but that only started a lice scare.
He masturbated like a teenager. He froze individual frames of family films, some girl’s thong provocatively visible or a glimpse of cleavage, and spilled himself into his sheets after school, his mind focusing on implausible sex acts. He would experiment with tempo, duration, and architecture. He had a list of personal records (speed: thirteen seconds, quantity: 4 times in an hour, etc.) that he recorded on a piece of looseleaf, college ruled paper. When he had captured his data, he would fold the sheet seven times for security, and tuck it behind the ID card window in his LL Bean backpack. He took no pride in his accomplishments, though he suspected such data would apply nicely to future, hypothetical love making.
This morning, after an unremarkable masturbation session, he walked southwest towards Prospect Park. He knew boys who frequented the park, boys who were encouraged to play sports. They would gather at the soccer fields or baseball diamonds with their orange slices and Kudos bars. Shuttling between boroughs on the weekends left little time for organized athletics. He hadn’t been a member of a league since he was nine; he played soccer for the Terminator’s [sic], and his disinterest and sloth led his coach to slot him as backup goalie. His father forgot to register him the following year.
The athletic fields were on the way to his destination. His knowledge of his city was unimpeachable, as he had studied maps when he was first forced to navigate the New York underground as an undersized ten year old. On his laminated map of South Brooklyn there were three waterfalls: Binnen, Fallkill, and Ambergill. He was determined to see all three.
There would be a daredevil in a one piece swimsuit atop each of the falls, each of whom with his own barrel. The barrels were stocked with stunt necessities: granola bars, feather pillows, copies of pornographic magazines. Crowds of supporters dressed in turn-of-the-century garb would cheer these men’s collective daring. The daredevils would wave to the crowds pull their novelty sized goggles over their steely eyes. They would step into their barrels, clapping the lids on top of themselves in rhythm. Sealing themselves off from the world. And then? Someone would have to push the daredevils he supposed, but his fantasy petered out before any spectacular acts had been accomplished.
He decided to start out at the southern most point in the park’s waterway and work his way back up. He barreled past the Brooklyn Zoo. His mother frequently took him to the Zoo in Central Park, but he had never been to this one. His father had assured him that all the good animals were in Manhattan. He plowed through the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. He had no interest in flowers this afternoon. The May air was cold enough to suggest that summer might not come this year, and the chill propelled him towards his destination.
He moved west across the Terrace Bridge by the boathouse, up a bike path to the Binnen Falls’ viewing platform. He found himself alone. No crowd, no barrels. A small information plaque, bronze, had information on elevation (63 feet) and the history of the falls. They were not named for a Mr. Binnen, but instead after the Dutch word meaning within. He peered over the edge of the platform, to the river below. No one would take a barrel off these falls, as it would little qualify as a feat of daring.
He stared down to gauge the depth of the water below. He longed for a nautical breakdown of the park’s water, but figured that no cartographer would waste his time with Prospect Park. He could tell it was no more than a couple feet deep. As he stared down he let his eyes freeze on a rock sticking out of the spray. The falls had weathered the features of an elderly woman into the rocks.
No one noticed when he peeled off his beat up Adidas, middle school sweatshirt, white t-shirt, and Levi’s he had yet to grow into. No one noticed him walk slowly back from the railing, counting his steps as he had learned to do in his elementary school diving class. No one noticed when he sprinted forward, his bare feet pushing him high enough to clear the barrier. No one saw his dive towards the rocks below. When his wrists collided with the riverbed two feet below the surface of the water, his bones bent back, splintering. They wanted to burst through his skin. No one noticed as he stood upright and stepped onto that old lady’s chin.
Fifteen minutes would pass before a park ranger pulled him out of the water and called his mother. He did not hear the ranger chastise him. When his mother met him at the orthopedists, he would not stop grinning. His wrists would be set in matching black casts. His father was furious at his disobedience and worried this would be used against him by the boy’s mother. But that anger would dissipate soon after he noticed that his mayonnaise was no longer disappearing.

The Kidmedian

2006-05-03T13:31:00.000-04:00

I’m smarter than ninety nine percent of the people I meet. There’s no hubris in that statement, nor is there any pride or ego. I just meet a lot of idiots. That may not be fair, just, or warranted. I suppose I should clarify; I meet a lot of children. Children sure are stupid.

Just last week I met this kid Tommy. His mom drops down the eighty dollar deposit on my services, and she tells me that he’s scared of clowns, so I shouldn’t do anything too clownish. (Notice how I used the proper form of (to/too/two) in that instance. Kids mess that stuff up all the time.) I tell her, “Look, lady, I don’t tell you not to wear, well, whatever it is that you’re wearing,” she was wearing something hideous, “so don’t tell me how to not be a clown.” I had her eighty bucks, so I figured I was in the clear. She made some comment about how I am not the one buying her clothes, so I sprayed seltzer in her face.

I guess at this point I should make it clear that I’m not a clown. I’m the guy that comes in when a clown isn’t right and magic is too scary. Or magic isn’t right and clowns are too scary. Some would call me a stand-up kidmedian, and those people are miserable. Seriously, I hope anyone who refers to me as a kidmedian gets liver cancer. Well, I guess I just alienated the liver cancer readers out there. Sorry. I hope you get better. Really. I do.

I have a thing that I do for the kids. I tell a couple jokes, get the kids going. “Knock knock,” I might say.

“Woof,” the kid will reply.

“What, you’re the one telling the joke now? You can’t even understand a simple knock knock joke. You’re supposed to say, ‘who’s there.”

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there? Wait… you say who’s there.”

“Who’s where?”

“You are so stupid. I can’t believe you’re nine. Could we get Mikey here a short bus, I mean honestly. Have you guys heard of the Special Olympics?”

Some other kid will usually pipe in with, “Is that the one with wheelchairs?”

“No, that’s the Paralympics, idiot.” That bit usually warms up a crowd.

So, anyway, I spray this woman with seltzer and she looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Are you crazy? I wasn’t telling you how not to be a clown. I don’t even know how I’d do that. I guess I’d start doing that by telling you not to spray seltzer in people’s faces.”

BAM! I hit her again with the spray. Wait, bam is not the right onomatopoeia. (Kids have no idea what onomatopoeia means.) Substitute Squspray for Bam, please.

So I Squspray her, and she’s furious now, all red faced like she doesn’t know what the word non-refundable means. “I know what the word non-refundable means, but I want my money back,” she squawks.

“Clearly you don’t know what non-refundable means because you want your money back.” If someone thinks that they can get their non-refundable deposit back because they get hit by the old “seltzer in the eye” gag, they clearly underestimate the severity of the word non-refundable.

“Look, fine, you came highly recommended, so I guess.” Cue the rules speech. “There are going to be some rules mister. No cursing. You don’t curse do you?” She must think I’m pretty stupid.

“Fuck no.”

“That’s a joke right?”

“Hell yes.”

“Ok. Just don’t spray seltzer on me.”

“Is that one of the rules? Or just a temporary guideline for the duration of—“

“Think of it as a rule.”

“Got it.” I mimed writing on a pad. “No seltzer and cursing.”

“What are you doing?”

“My brain only works if I pretend to write something down. Otherwise I can’t even pretend to remember it. And if you don’t want me cursing and seltzer…ing, well.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Well, don’t worry, it’s not true.”

She pretended not to hear me. “Don’t forget to close the side gate when you come in. We have this terrier.”

Everyone is so goddamn picky with their gates. God forbid the entertainment comes in through the front door, entryway, or vestibule.

“Thanks. I open lots of gates without closing them. Really.”

“You didn’t pretend to write that down.”

“Whoops.”

“Non-refundable?” She asked. I nodded. “Be there at three,” she sighed and left my place of business.

“You’re late,” Tommy’s mom said at four.

“Yup. Nice party hat.” She was wearing one of those cone things with the rubber band that goes under the chin. She looked ridiculous.

“Why are you late?”

I pretended not to hear her. My primary field of work is not lucrative enough to support my lifestyle, so I supplement with odd jobs. The night before Tommy’s party I was housesitting my buddy’s apartment. Naturally I was hungover and did not get out of bed until a quarter to four.

“Where do I set up?”

“We had to move up pin the tail on the donkey because of you.”

Parents say the dumbest things.

“Excuse me?”

“Pin the tail on the donkey. It was going to be at four, but we had to move it up to—”

I ripped the sunglasses I was apparently wearing off my bloodshot eyes. “Do you hear yourself? I bet you were cool once.”

“I’m still cool.”

“Are you?”

“What? I am. I am still cool.”

I am cooler than ninety nine percent of the people that I meet. I have come to realize that having children immediately makes you lame. People with children buy gazebos, go to PTA meetings, and drive cars with those hideous child safety seats in the back. They carry diaper bags, strap their kids to leashes, and smell vaguely of baby vomit. They aren’t at clubs, bars, or movie theatres, except when they are, which is even worse. People with children call me a kidmedian.

“Where do I set up?”

“By the… on the… next to the gazebo.” I had clearly rattled her, which was good: she probably hadn’t noticed that I didn’t close the gate.

I would love to recount in detail my act at Tommy’s party. It was good. The kids laughed, I got in a couple good jabs at the party hats, and there was an absolute minimum of clowning. The idiot kids totally missed the punchline of my Sirhan Sirhan bit, but that hasn’t played well in years.

After I closed my set I was sucking down a Turkish Gold by the gazebo when the cake came out. Tommy was turning eight, (well, actually he had turned eight on Thursday), and everyone was singing as the cake came out.

“And Scooby Doo on channel two!” some dumb kid belted out after the song.

“Hey mom,” Tommy said.

“Yes dear?”

“Where’s Scruffy.”

“I don’t—” Her eyes and mine immediately shot to the open side gate.

“Where is he? I want Scruffy to make a wish.”

“I don’t—We’ll find him. Just blow out the candles.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Is Scruffy okay?”

“We’ll find him.”

I was supposed to help some guy move, transport, or convey some boxes that evening. The job was worth forty bucks. But instead I was driving Tommy around in my beat up Trans Am tacking up signs. Dirty blonde hair reflected in the streetlight as he tacked his last sign up. “Lost: Brown Terrier goes by Scruffy. If found please call 845-807-6029.” And then the picture, the two of them playing on the gazebo. Stupid kid. Shouldn’t have gotten so attached.

From the Desk of G. Shaloub

2006-03-01T18:55:00.000-05:00

This is the first in a new series of more dramatic posts.

She would have told him to stop futzing with the radio. He never knew if futzing was a slang term, or if it was, like so much else, a construct of her imagination. It was real, of course, but he assumed it was some false Yiddishism she tried to work into some screenplay only to have it removed by some executive who couldn’t write his way out of some box.

She would have told him to buckle up because it’s a goddamn law. He thought she picked the laws she cared about out of a hat. Like some judicial lottery: today we will be enforcing seatbelt violations, 2^nd degree manslaughter, and light treason! We won’t mention the half pound of pot in the freezer, the unlicensed pets, or the stolen cable. He thought it was an idiotic double-standard, except when he was rolling joints out of her stash.

She would have told him to relax at the moment of impact. Don’t let that hideous scraping sound tense you up. She would’ve thrown her arm out across his body to restrain him, so his cheeks would not be shredded by the windshield as it shattered on his skull. As he was ejected forward upon impact.

She would have howled loud enough to immobilize every car on every highway. Loud enough that her tar soaked lungs would have exploded inside her chest. Loud enough to drown out the tectonic shift that was his 8^th vertebra separating from his 9^th.

She sits beside him reading what she grabbed out of a box marked “Gary’s Books” in the attic. It was a great green room. Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall. Max went to bed without his supper. If you run away, I will run after you.

Look at me, I'm Samuel Beckett, Fuh Fuh Fuh

2006-02-13T20:57:00.000-05:00

A couple stands in the corner of what may be a gallery. They are looking at the schematic of a 1997 Toyota Corolla posted upside down... or something else...

W: So

M: What?

W: Your turn

M: It’s

W: Yes

M: It’s a blending of pre and post proto ironic ideals

W: What is?

M: This

W: Oh

M: You don’t

W: Well

M: No, no, I

W: I just don’t

M: What?

W: I don’t want to pin it so firmly in a corner like that

M: But it’s in a corner

W: I

M: Sorry

W: No, no, it’s just that

M: You can’t see the ironic levels?

W: I do see, well, no, I don’t see levels per se

M: I don’t know, I see levels

W: That’s ok

M: Shit

W: No no, it’s ok

M: No, it’s not ok

W: It’s ok

M: NO, NO NO

W: Ok

M: I was so sure there were levels

W: There usually are

M: I know that

W: Don’t snap at me

M: Sorry

W: No, I’m sorry, you can

M: But I shouldn’t

W: Well no

M: Fuck

W: What?

M: I, again

W: No, stop, that’s not what this is about

M: Yes, there were, I

W: Levels?
M: Yes, both post and proto

W: and pre?

M: Yes, pre too

W: Well, I think your terms are ill-defined

M: How so?

W: Proto is pretty passé

M: No

W: I mean, it was, but now

M: Oh god, oh fuck god god fuck oh god

W: No, no, it’s fine,

M: GOD FUCK GOD

W: Please stop

M: FUCK FUCK FUCK GOD OH FUCK GOD OH OH GOD FUCK

W: There is a level

M: OH FUCK GOD

W: A LEVEL

M: Oh?

W: Sure

M: No?

W: Sure, because the proto is post

M: Well, yeah

W: Don’t act like you knew that

M: But I did

W: Explicitly?

M: Why?

W: What?

M: Why does it matter if my knowledge is explicated?

W: Because that is how you know

M: Explicitized

W: Stop it

M: But I did know, I said it, I said

W: Yes, but you didn’t know

M: I did

W: Did you?

M: Didn’t I?

W: I think, no, no no

M: Oh

W: Yeah

M: It sparkles your eyes

W: Please

M: Oh

W: Don’t

M: Sorry

W: You don’t have to be

M: But I am

W: Why?

M: Because now the dynamic is

W: Is?

M: Well, we were just looking, but now

W: Oh

M: Yeah

W: Huh

M: It does sparkle your eyes

W: I can’t see that

M: Well, no, you shouldn’t should?

W: I, no, eyes, no

M: It’s a message

W: There’s no message

M: No no, maybe that is

W: No

M: The message

W: No

M: Maybe, just

W: No

M: IT’S MY TURN

W: Oh, yeah. What is the message?

M: I don’t, can’t, I see

W: Oh

M: You don’t think

W: No

M: But if there is only the one level

W: I don’t know that there is

M: But you

W: I know I did, but

M: Fuck

W: What?

M: There aren’t are

W: No

M: But then there’s a

W: No

M: But if there aren’t levels

W: No

M: There has to be

W: NO

M: THERE HAS TO BE A MESSAGE, because there has to be something

W: No

M: Then nothing?

W: No

M: Then what?

M: I wish you could see it sparkle your eyes

Gossellaar Pt 2 (feat. a brief foray into the dramatic)

2006-01-26T19:09:00.000-05:00

Gary barges in

Gary: Guys, what’s with this internet bullshit

Will: Thank you! It’s fucking ridiculous

Gary: We’re paying how much a year? Like 38 grand? Can’t even get the internet. What if I had to do research right now?

Will: Exactly.

Gary: So who wants to smoke away the pain? (Gary pulls out a small bag of pot and a pack of papers)

Will: Yes please.

Miles: Gary, do you know how to spell Gossellaar?

Gary: As in Mark-Paul?

Miles: Yeah man.

Gary: G-o-s-s-e

Miles: Yeah we got that part.

Gary: Well, that’s all I got. You want some of this?

Miles: Ehhh.

Will: Ehh?

Miles: I think I’ll pass. Hey did you go home with—

Will: Quivering vagina.

Miles: Stop saying that dude. Gar, did you wind up going home with that girl last night?

Will holds up fingers to make quivering vagina hand motion

Gary: What’s that?

Will: Quivering vagina.

Miles: Stop it dude. I’m trying to talk to someone here

Gary: No no, this is good. I’ve never seen quivering vagina like that before. I do it like this (makes his hand into a diamond)

Will: Ooooh, that’s nice.

Miles: Shut up Will.

Will: What? He’s the one who did the diamond.

Miles: Please be quiet for a second.

Will: Sorry, it’s cool if you don’t want to smoke.

Gary: Cool is one word for it. Quivering vagina is another.

Miles: Quivering vagina is two words. And stop it. Seriously.

Gary: Ok, whatever. You roll it (Throws will the pot and papers)

Miles: So Gary, did you go home with that girl last night?

Gary: Which girl?

Miles: The blonde one you were talking to, I didn’t catch her name.
Gary: Oh, yeah, totally dude! She gave me massive dome.

Will shakes his head.

Will: You gonna stick with that?

Gary: What?

Will: That story about the massive dome. I think it has massive plot holes, but whatever.

Gary: What the fuck do you know?

Will: I saw what you left the party with.

Miles: That ugly?

Will: Well, it wasn’t really a person at all.

Miles: Ohhhhhh… ‘cado

Gary: What? Come on.

Will: Come on what? You flagrantly went home with the seven layer dip last night.

Gary: No. No. That’s crazy, who’d go home with dip?

Will: You, you stoner fuck.

Miles: You didn’t close on that girl and you’re calling me a quivering… whatever.

Gary: The word’s Vagina.

Miles: I don’t like it.

Gary: Vagina?

Miles: Yeah. I mean no. I like it. I just don’t like to say it.

Gary: Are you 12?

Will: What do you call it?

Miles: Nothing.

Will: No, seriously, when you refer to the vagina what do you say?

Miles: I… nothing... love box.

Gary: That’s weird dude. And you don’t get to rip me. That girlfriend advantage takes you completely out of the equation.

Miles: My ability to maintain a steady relationship means I can’t make fun of you for going home from a party with Mexican condiments again. That doesn’t seem quite—

Will: To be fair that was a tasty dip. You got any left for after we spark this.

Gary: Um… yeah… but… you probably don’t want to eat it.

Will: Well, not yet, but in a minute I bet you a thousand dollars I will.

Gary: Um… ok. Whatever. So, what are you guys doing tonight?

Miles: I’m seeing a movie with Alex.

Gary: Ok. Let me rephrase. What are you, guy, doing tonight? I don’t want to hear from the ladies.

Will: Smoking this. Then eating dip. Then who knows. I certainly won’t be doing valuable research on the internet.

(Will lights the joint. He and Gary smoke it.)

Miles: FUCK

Gary: What?

Will: Dude. Dude. Read your poem. No no wait. Wait til he smokes. Then read him your poem.

Miles: I can’t right now. I need to e-mail this in. Like now.

Will: The prof knows the e-mail is down. It’ll be cool.

Gary: Yeah man. What sort of poem is this?

Will: A Christmas poem.

Gary: That’s cute

Will: You have no idea. I don’t think he knows what the word wassailer means.

Miles: Shut up. It’s funny if you were there.

Will: Where? Class? It would be funny if I went to class? Disagree. It would be painful, and slow, and not funny. It would be not funny. Not funny.

Miles: Whatever dude, you’re the one blowing your tuition.

Will: Thanks dad. No really. Thanks. (Takes a big hit and blows it in Miles’ face.)

Gary: Oh dude, dude, give me your computer.

Will: Why?

Gary: Cause I want to show you something.

Will: The internet’s still down.

Gary: Oh shit, you’re right. Anyway, I’m looking at this 50 inch plasma for my dorm room.

Will: Seriously?

Gary: Yeah, DLP, HD. Dude, HD is just so much D’er than regular D.

Miles: Aren’t those like 2 large?

Gary: 35 hundred in this case, but it’s worth it.

Miles: Where the fuck are you getting 3500 from?

Will: Yeah, you didn’t have 6 bucks for a calzone last night.

Gary: Don’t even worry about it.

Miles: Excuse me?

Gary: Don’t even worry about it.

Will: Well that’s officially the fishiest thing ever said in this dorm room.

Miles: I don’t know, what about that dip comment earlier?

Will: Oh dude, get the dip.

Gary: Um… Miles might be right on that one.

Will: What? Come on. (Starts chanting) Dip. Dip. Dip. Dip.

Gary: Just forget about the dip.

Miles: The dip doesn’t exist.

Will: You ate it all didn’t you?

Gary: Sure, go with it.

Will: You fat bastard. Now I want some fucking dip and it’s all gone. Well thanks. Thanks a million. Goddamn it. What does it take for a brother to get some fucking guac around here? Honestly.

Gary: Miles.

Miles: Yeah.

Gary: Should I go get the dip.

Miles: Later.

Will: Ok, I can deal with later. I guess. Clip me.

(Miles tosses him a roach clip from his desk drawer)

Gary: Jew.

Will: What?

Gary: Let’s roll another one and live a little.

Will: And throw away perfectly good pot? That’s insane.

Gary: Do whatever you want. I’m gonna roll another one. From this bag. (Pulls out a Ziploc baggie filled to the brim)

Miles: Holy shit.

Will: Whoa. Where did that come from?

Miles: Oh you stupid fuck.

Gary: What? Are you kidding me?

Will: Slow down, what’s stupid about a giant bag of pot.

Miles: But you’re not gonna make 3500 from that.

Gary: No no, of course not. I got a little more coming though.

Miles: How much more.

Gary: A little bit.

Miles: That’s a lie.

Gary: Ok, I got 6 pounds coming tomorrow.

Miles: And how do you plan on moving 6 pounds on this campus exactly??

Will: Dude, I’m on it. We’re going to need 100 packs of zig-zags—

Miles: Shut up Will.

Will: I was being serious.

Miles: You absolutely cannot move that much product here without getting noticed. Do you even have a plan?

Gary: Of course I have a plan. I’m divying it up 8 ways, and hooking up Ted, Matt, Randall, Louise, Joanne, Chris, Nate, and Terry with a half pound each. Each of them is lining up the niche suppliers across campus. It will filter through and it won’t get traced back to me. Easy Peasy. It’s out of my hands by the end of the week.

Miles: You don’t get it do you?

Gary: What is there to get? I make the quickest 20 grand of my life. I’m going to move it through a couple online poker sites to make it disappear, and presto chango: plasma TV. Who doesn’t have a plan now?

Miles: Allright smart guy. What happens when some freshman who buys from the Frisbee team gets nailed smoking in his dorm room? And security applies the pressure and he names his dealer? You think that everyone is going to stay in line and take the fall for you. Every bag on campus is going to be traceable back to you for the next 6 weeks. That’s like the riskiest proposition possible. There are only 2200 people here, it isn’t going to be rocket science figuring out who distributed enough pot to supply the entire NBA for a season.

Gary: That’s what this is for. (Flashes the handle of a gun tucked into his waistband).

Miles: Get out of my room.

Gary: Fuck you.

Miles: Get the fuck out of my room now. You stupid motherfucker get the fuck out of here. You can come back when you aren’t packing heat.

Gary: Chill man, it isn’t—

Miles: GET OUT NOW.

Gary: Alright, dude, chill out. Honestly, you’re making this into way too big a deal.

Gary leaves.

Miles: Back me up on this one. For Gary’s sake.

Will: You think it’s going to go badly.

Miles: Yeah. I do. It just can’t be worth it.

Will: Easy for you to say.

Miles: I know.

Will: I hope he comes back with the dip.

Miles: Gary fucked it.

Will: What?

Miles: Gary fucked the dip.

Will: No. That’s weird.

Miles: Gary’s a little weird. He has a thing for avocados.

Will: No.

Miles: Think about it.

Will: Oh. Ohhhhh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I— oh. Well, I’m never eating dip again. Damn. I’m still fucking hungry I could join the Donner Party right now. I’m not gonna lie, your right arm is looking mighty tasty.

Miles: Didn’t you hear?

Will: What? Does Alex not find your arm tasty? Cause I feel like with the proper seasoning—

Miles: No, no, it turns out the Donner Party might not have resorted to cannibalism.

Will: Bullshit.

Miles: Seriously, I read it on Cnn.com earlier today. I’d show it to you but—

Will: Really? I can’t believe that. The Donner party has been a staple of my humor repertoire since like 3^rd grade. Wow. That changes things. It’s like finding out Helen Keller was faking it.

Miles (Laughing): Did you notice how I said “read on Cnn.com” and not “C-n-ned it” or something retarded like that.

Will: Miles, how can I be more like you?

Miles: You could join me at class sometime.

Will: That’s true. Class sounds great. You’ve reached me. LORD HAVE MERCY I’M A CONVERTED MAN.

Miles: You asked me a question dude. I was just giving you a fair answer.

Will: I definetly could go to class, but I also could suck down this roach and fire up Mario Kart. (He does so) Go to sleep little brain cells.

Miles: That’s why I love you. Not in a gay way or anything… awkward…

Will: What if there are two a’s?

Miles: Where?

Will: In Gossellaar.

Miles: A-l-l-a-r?

Will: No, e-l-l-a-a-r.

Miles: Be more high.

Daylight Savings Time

2006-01-23T00:58:00.000-05:00

Daylight Savings Time… Finally! I look forward to this day all year! My grandma used to call it Happy Day. We’d get clocks and candy and tell the ceremonial scary stories of Day-After-Tardiness. Grandma would dance around the house changing clocks and singing the clock song. “Tick tick tock. Tick tock tack. You spring forward, I fall back!” I fell forward once, and she smacked me in the ear. “Central time now is Mountain, Fuck up again an’ you’ll get a poundin’!”

Boy, her leprosy sure has changed things. Now I get to set the clocks because she has no arms. “Back an hour, move that clock. If you touch me, your skin falls off.” Ugh. The presents aren’t as good either. “Thanks grandma, but I already have two ears.” At least my sister got some new boobs out of the deal.

There sure are a lot of clocks to change in this house. Gotta get ‘em all though. I don’t want to end up like tardy Maurice who came to church an hour late. Winding up alone, unemployed, with terrible heartburn, all because he forgot to reset the VCR! Spooky. Grandma herself doesn’t celebrate with her old gin soaked vigor. “D-S-T, please help me, I’m not a monster, WHY WON’T YOU LOOK AT ME?” She sure is blunt. That’s probably why I stopped taking her calls.

Any Publicity is Good Publicity

2006-01-20T04:21:00.000-05:00

I’ve had a tough go of it recently. I’m driving downtown, waiting for that KNX traffic report tone that they apparently threatened to change (DOO-DOO-DOO-doo-doo-doo-DOO-DOO-DOO-doo-doo-doo), when I hear that Judge Alito does not believe in abortion. Well, I think he believes it could happen. I don’t think he doesn’t believe in the existence of abortion. To the contrary I think he thinks it happens a lot. Which makes me wonder, why haven’t I gotten one? I’ve never even been knocked up. And I drive a pretty sweet ride, the sorta ride that should get someone pregnant. And my girlfriend drives a van, so if I were to conceive we’d have the ride to get the kid to and from soccer practice with all his little annoying little buddies. I hope none of them see Deuces Wild. That was an embarrassment.

I then hear from the newscaster Howard Dean does not support Judge Alito. Which confuses me. I mean, isn’t he just a hothead with a penchant for screaming at crowds of his own supporters? Wouldn’t he support not believing in abortions? If he could wish abortion away through thought and faith then wouldn’t he have bigger crowds to yell at? It’s at this point that I get flipped off by some jackass in a Yukon. He should’ve signaled if he didn’t want me to merge in front of him. Oh wait. I should have signaled. Well fuck him. Where was I?

Oh yeah, I’m confused about this whole Supreme Court thing. Plus, I think the confirmation hearings are preempting the traffic report. I mean it is bump and grind on the 101 all the way downtown, but I have no idea how bump and grind. Maybe I should become a Scientologist. God traffic sucks. Although it’s not like I know any other routes downtown anyways. I heard that if you take Vermont far enough and then hang a right on something, Pico maybe, you run into the Staples Center. Maybe not. I could not hate Howard Dean more right now. And his abortion related beliefs. I think I would vote Republican next year.

Now I’m passing the BA Self Storage place at about 12 miles per hour. Shocking. I haven’t ever passed it anywhere near the speed limit once in my life. It’s where open road goes to die. That’s a nice title for my autobiographical screenplay. Brad’s Life: Where Open Road Goes to Die. Nah, too wordy. This one time I was leaving a club at like 4 in the morning, and we roll by the self storage place, and I’m tripping out of my skull, and we’re rolling at like 12 miles an hour. 12 miles an hour at 4 in the morning! That’s absurd! I easily should have been able to go 50 at that hour. Which is exactly what the CHP officer told me when he threw me in his squad car. So I can’t really vote. Well, that and I tried to hotwire a yacht. Spring Break, Fort Lauderdale, ‘99. We’d have pulled it off too, but we forgot to untie it from the dock. I was wasted. Good times.

But I still have an opinion on this court stuff, and the guy from Vermont is pissing me off. First of all, who is he to ask questions? I have questions too, and I don’t get to ask anyone. Where have all the cowboys gone? Are we alone in the universe? Why is Keanu a bigger star than me? Nobody will even take my calls. Second, does Vermont really deserve to ask the same amount of questions as other states? No. Howard Dean should only get one question. Wait, this isn’t even Howard Dean. Who’s Pat Leahy? Why are there are two guys from Vermont?

Now I’m lost. My buddy told me that I’m meeting up with some guy named Bear in some alley around 7^th and Flower. I’ve never been to Skid Row before. Closest I’ve been was this USC party on frat row back in the day. After The Client came out. It was Tri-Delt Ho’s and Bitches ‘95. Pretty cool for a 15 year old huh? I was pretty cool then. Shit, I think I’m in Chinatown, or Phillapinotown… is there a Phillapinotown? I went the wrong way down Grand maybe? Oh no… it’s just one way. I hate downtown.

Didn’t I just pass 12^th street? I think the numbers just switched directions. So did my opinion on Alito. Kennedy makes some good points. Privacy is a right goddamn it. I don’t want anyone asking me what I’m doing, why I’m coming downtown, who Bear is… Who is this judge from New Jersey to tell me what is right or wrong? Back home in Tennessee we didn’t have to put up with any bullshit. The cops knew me there. I don’t think anyone recognizes me now. I’m “that guy” from “those things.” Sad Brad. So sad.

I wonder if this Ted Kennedy guy is related to Jaime Kennedy. Of the Jamie Kennedy Experience. I was kind of offered a guest spot on that. They shot a segment where they totally got me. To admit I have a drug problem. And herpes. And then I fucked a pony. A male pony. It would have been pretty embarrassing if that footage got out. Good thing they have to get you to sign a release. Good thing my parole officer was there to make sure I didn’t. I still think I should’ve let the Renfro name back out there. Any publicity is good publicity. Oh no… not my windshield. No washo! No washo! EL BIMMER NO WASHO!! Fuck. I just got this thing detailed. Is this guy Asian or Mexican? If they mate do they make Mexicasians? Didn’t have any of them in Knoxville. LA, what a bitch mistress.

Fuck KNX. I got this hot new playlist. Just, “I Wear My Sunglasses at Night,” by Corey Hart. Three hundred times. I totally feel his pain. My girlfriend bought me an iTrip now that I have a license again so I can listen to whatever I want. Technology is pretty great. Ah, here we are. This is the most beautiful alley in the world right now. I love heroine. God, I sound like a narc. “I love heroine?” But saying, “I love to ride the horse,” is just as lame. And, “I’m gonna smack my bitch up,” is so Eurotrash ’95. Maybe I should pick up something trendier. “I’m Brad Renfro, wanna roll on Meth then fuck?” That sounds pretty cool, but, no, no, that’s a bad idea. Heroine Heroine Heroine… is that a siren? Fuck.

A little ditty...

2006-01-17T03:14:00.000-05:00

Steve: Hey Diane, over here.

Diane: Steven

Steve: Great to see you.

Diane: What is it that you wanted to see me about exactly?

Steve: How are you, it’s been a while hasn’t it?

Diane: Yes, the last time I saw you I believe you were busting in my car windshield in the Goofy Lot on a dare.

Steve: And I’m sorry about that, but it was a very important business dare. Look, I just, have, well, some unsettled issues, that I wanted to see if you were a part of.

Diane: If this is just going to be a bullshitting session, I will walk right out of this restaurant.

Steve: No no no, don’t do that. Don’t do that, it’s ok. I was actually thinking, maybe I would apologize for some things?

Diane: That doesn’t sound like you.

Steve: Oh come on, I love taking responsibility for things.

Diane: When you blew divots in my front lawn with M-80’s, you told me it was gophers.

Steve: It absolutely could have been gophers

Diane: You didn’t even clean up the debris!

Steve: Gophers don’t clean up debris.

Diane: Why am I here Steven?

Steve: Ok, I’ll come right out with it. I’m sorry about the gopher thing. And the windshield thing too. Whoooo. That feels great. Glad to have that off my chest.

Diane: That’s not good enough. You think I’m going to sleep with you again don’t you?

Steve: Baby, no, it’s nothing like that.

Diane: Steve, it’s not just the a couple of incidents. It’s a matter of trust. I can’t trust you not to blow up my things, or douse them in acid—

Steve: Diane stop boring me with your whining! I’m cursed here. Someone cursed the Stevester. And methinks the lady is the devil. (falls to his knees) Undo it Undo it Undo it! It burrrrrrrns!

Diane: You are some kind of stupid.

Steve: Please Diane! Stevie faucet leaky.

Diane: Ewwww. I certainly am not going to sleep with you now.

Steve: Look, I don’t care about fucking, and sucking, and more fucking… all I care about is peeing. I’m afraid to go to the bathroom here.

Diane: You used to have penicillin for this kind of emergency.

Steve: No no, nothing works. And I know the clap, and the clap don’t glow. It’s a real curse. And you did it!

Diane: What? Why would I curse you into dripping?

Steve: Because if you can’t have me no one can!

Diane: That’s ludicrous.

Steve: Is it Diane? Or is this ludicrous (rips off shirt) That’s right, Pec City!

Diane: Oh those pecs… I thought you said you were going to apologize.

Steve: I did! For the gopher thing. That was an apology if I remember correctly. It’s not like I did tons of other stuff bad.

Diane: What about my little brother?

Steve: How was I supposed to know he was allergic to peanuts?

Diane: You never listen to me!

Steve: Babe, I whatever something something. May I just say your rack looks fantastic?

Diane: I told you he is allergic like 20 times.

Steve: Don’t you mean he was allergic. He’s not anymore is he?

Diane: Well no.

Steve: Thanks to this guy.

Diane: That pb and j killed him.

Steve: I dare you to fuck me!

Diane: No!

Steve: Damn! Look, are you going to let me pee in peace or what, cause I am fucking dying here.

Diane: I told myself I wouldn’t do this.

Steve: Fuck me while I’m dripping? Because you are in a position to join a hallowed line of high school dropouts and exotic—

Diane: No Steve. I told myself I wouldn’t reveal the secret of my curse.

Steve: I KNEW IT! I was always right when we fought. WHOOO! (Does a victory dance, and spikes a water glass) STILL GOT IT BITCH!

Diane: I’m a witch Steven.

Steve: Then why did we never do it on a broomstick once? Riddle me that?

Diane: I trained without rest in the Occult Arts since the day I left you, hoping to one day teach you the lesson you so deserved.

Steve: And you did. Lesson learned. Now, undo the drip or I’ll be forced to flash the guns. I call this one AJ. It’s just one letter away from AK. One letter bigger. Then you multiply by 47 to get the oh so obvious answer: sexy.

Diane: Apparently I failed.

Steve: And that means I win. I suppose I will have to take your hot body as my prize. Welcome to Pec City. Population: Babe. I’d pity your loss if I didn’t envy your reward.

Diane: I haven’t lost yet.

Steve: I meant your brother.

Diane: Oh.

Steve: Yeah. Yeah.

Diane: Steven, we can make love if you want, but I warn you, the results will be catastroph—

Steve (Claps his hands): I’m in.

Diane: Don’t you want to know what will happen?

Steve: I already know. Blast off to Sex Mountain in T minus 2 boobies.

Diane: Why does that turn me on?

Steve: Because you know my ride is wilder than Mr. Toad’s.

Diane: I hate you so much, but that’s the sexiest Disneyland reference I’ve ever heard.

Steve: I’m gonna fuck you like a teacup. It sure as shit won’t be a small world.

Diane: Steve, stop, I can’t take anymore!

Steve: Let’s have our own little Country Bears Jamboree if you know what I mean.

Diane: Oh goddess forgive me.

Steve: I’m going to rawdog you like the Matterhorn Yeti!

Diane: Ok ok! I give up. Let’s get out of here. My place or yours?

Steve: The M-80’s in my pocket say yours. I’ll get the valet to bring around the Cavalier. I got a new one. It’s an ‘86 this time.

Diane: Steve, I just want you to make a commitment this—

Steve: Be quiet! I don’t want to have to pay for this little ren-dez-vous.

Diane: Eh, at least I’m pretty sure your dick’ll fall off if this works right.

Steve: Whatever babe, I’ll still be more man than your brother.

High Class Bat Mitzvah

2006-01-09T02:13:00.000-05:00

High-Class Bat Mitzvah

We were chatting about the market when it happened. I only met Mr. Tatumbaum once before, but he had yet to impress me. At this point in the conversation he was throwing hors d'oeuvres back like that sad divorced guy who’s too old to be at the club throws back last year’s trendy drink. The gluttons are the worst sinners of all.

I was telling him how he was shorting too much of his portfolio given the GDP growth of the previous three quarters. He still saw the potential for widespread market failure, and we were about to agree to disagree when a little bit of crab salad slid off his toasted sesame water cracker and into his shirt pocket. To be clear this wasn’t krab salad, but fresh Alaskan King. The good stuff. The whole bat-mitzvah had been class all the way. Someone had splurged for a chocolate fountain, ice sculptures, and a Coppola on video production. One of the many 7^th graders there was spreading a rumor about the Laker Girls showing up at some point, but I didn’t believe it.

So Tatumbaum reaches into his pocket and grabs the hunk of crab. God only knows what particulates had congealed into the Mayo. What if he clips his fingernails and saves the pairings in his shirt pockets? And then one of those pairings bonded to the crab? People do clip their nails into their shirt pockets. It was a Jeopardy answer once (A: This is where 12 percent of men clip their finger nail pairings; Q: Where is their shirt pockets?)

As his tongue lurched forth from his mouth to steal the morsel of crab meat from his grubby little fingers, a little bit of vomit surged up my throat. I let out a gurgled “don’t do that you fat fuck,” as I watched his throat pull the crab down to his plus sized belly. Apparently, people don’t like being called fat fucks, even if they clearly are. All of a sudden a half dozen Jewish women had descended upon me, saying things like, “fuck you, my husband has glandular problems,” and, “my daddy’s not a fat fuck you goyesha schmuck.” I was about to explain to that little 8 year old bitch that my mom is Jewish and that means I’m no goy in the eyes of God, when she reared back and kicked me in the shin. And I went down, hard.

Next thing I know, I’m the bad guy. Look, you just don’t eat sticky food that’s been in your pocket. And if you do it in public you open yourself up to ridicule. I tried to explain my position, but those damn Jewesses wouldn’t let me get two words out. Typical. After much debate it was decided that I was to eat some pocket crab to repent. I calmly explained that they could all go fuck themselves, and that I would storm out of there just as soon as I could feel my toes again. When I realized that wouldn’t be for some time I panicked.

A seafood fork was procured, as was the margarine tub in which the crab salad had been mixed in the first place. A glob was spooned into Mr. Tatumbaum’s pocket, and the fork was jammed in after it. I was sure that I was going to wind up taking gross things for 2000, when a purple and gold streak flashed by. Fearing the worst (Kobe) I huddled over like a prisoner fearing a hose down. But when I look up everyone is gone. And over the PA system I hear, “Welcome to the stage your three time champion Los Angeles Laker Girls.” The 7^th grader was right. Mr. Tatumbaum gets distracted by the Girls, which pisses off Mrs. Tatumbaum something fierce, and I carpe diem on the situation and limp out the back of Temple Ben Aron never to be heard from again.

At the end of the day though, I was left with this nagging suspicion I had been the bad guy. What if crab fell in my pocket? I obviously wouldn’t eat it, because that is sick and only a sick person would do that. But I certainly would not have wanted to be mocked publicly. Especially in a house of worship. So when I got home and realized I had forgotten to gift the Tiffany’s Keychain I had purchased for the bat mitzvah girl, I threw it an envelope and mailed it to the poor schmuck. Hopefully he gave it to his wife, and it shut her yap for at least a couple of minutes. It was the least I could do.

Gossellaar

2006-01-09T00:31:00.000-05:00

Roommates sit at desks facing the far walls of a small dorm room. Both are working at their respective computers. They face away from each other.

Miles: How do you spell Gossellaar?

Will: I don’t know, look it up.

Miles: How would I do that? How could I look it up if I don’t know how to spell it?

Will: Well, you could just IMDB Saved by the Bell.

Miles: I could what?

Will: You could use the IMDB website, and look up Saved by the Bell. And then it should have Mark-Paul Gossellaar’s name there.

Miles: Eh, I’ll just guess. I don’t like using websites after people use their names as verbs. Googling (shudders)

Will: That’s crazy. Why wouldn’t you look it up? It would take ten seconds. Honestly, ten seconds. Look, I’m doing it right now… (computer failure) Seriously. (hits the screen) Why isn’t this loading?

Miles: I think the internet’s down.

Will: Oh.

Miles: Yeah.

Will: Well why the fuck is the internet down?

Miles: It’s cool brah, I can just look up the name later. I’m just gonna guess for now.

Will: No, it’s not cool! What if I needed to use it for work? What if I had critical work due and the internet were down. I’d be totally screwed. I can’t stand this. (Pause) I think it’s two s’ and an e.

Miles: Where?

Will: G-o-s-s-e.

Miles: Well yeah, but what about the llaar?

Will: The what?

Miles: The end of his name. Llaar

Will: I dunno. I thought you were gonna guess.

Miles: I was, but now I’m kinda curious.

Will: Well maybe the internet’s still up somewhere else on campus.

Miles: I am not moving to find this information out.

Will: No no, obviously. I meant you could call someone and ask them to look it up for you.

Miles: Ah, that’s good. But AIM’s down, and I don’t have free minutes yet.

Will: What provider do you have?

Miles: Verizon.

Will: Well you can call any Verizon customer for free anytime. It’s InMinutes or something.

Miles: True, but who has Verizon?

Will: Most people have Verizon.

Miles: Yeah, but I need to know they have Verizon before I call them, otherwise it’ll count against me. I can’t risk using minutes.

Will: Just use my phone.

Miles: Nah, I don’t want that awkward moment where they pick up and think it’s you, and I have to be like, “no, it’s Miles.” And then we have to fake laugh. I can’t stand that fake laugh.

Will: Come on. There’s a little thing that comes up at the bottom of the screen. Like right when you call, it says like, “Verizon Wireless,” if the person you are calling has Verizon. So you could hang up before it rings if it doesn’t say that.

Miles: Eh, I’ll just guess.

Will: No. No you won’t goddamn it. I need to know. Is it G-o-s-s-e-l-e-r? Or maybe G-o-s-s-e-l-l-e-r? Although I’m starting to think it’s G-o-s-s-a-l-l-a-r.

Miles: That last one definitely doesn’t sound right. It’s not Gossaler (emphasis on the a). It’s Gossellaar.

Will: ACH! Call someone now. Look, I can spell Mario Lopez, and Dustin Diamond standing on my head. Shit, I can even spell Lark Voorhies’ name 9 times out of 10. But I swear to god if I don’t find out how to spell Gossellaar in the next 10 seconds, I might just have to kill someone.

Miles: Ok, ok, calm down. (calls, and quickly hangs up) that was Matt, he has Verizon.

Will: WHAT?? Why didn’t you ask him?

Miles: I thought I was supposed to hang up after I saw that he had Verizon.

Will: Are you serious? You were supposed to hang up if it didn’t say Verizon. Jesus fucking Christ.

Miles: Oh.

Will: Yeah. Call again, call again.

Miles: Ok ok, (calls again) Doo da doo. Ugh, machine.

Will: You mean Voice Mail

Miles: Yeah yeah, whatever, shhhhhhhh. Uhh Mark, it’s Miles. I mean Matt it’s Miles. Oh shit. Nevermind. (Hangs up).

Will: What the hell was that?

Miles: I panicked.

Will: Well clearly.

Miles: Your voice mail comment didn’t help.

Will: Look, if you can’t stand the heat get the fuck out of the kitchen. Voice mail is the new answering machine paradigm, don’t be a fool.

Miles: I’m sorry, but I was stuck thinking about Mark.

Will: Mark-Paul you mean. His name is Mark-Paul

Miles: Is his name Mark-Paul? I thought Paul was his middle name.

Will: No. It’s hyphenated.

Miles: Yeah, I guess you’re right.

Will: Shit, you should be forced to call him Mr. Gossellaar with all the bullshit you’re pulling.

Miles: Sorry dude. His message was kinda tough though.

Will: Was it one of those fake out phone machine messages? Where he pretends to answer, and then you talk to him, but it’s just a recording? God I hate people with those.

Miles: No. That’s my message.

Will: Oh, whatever... sorry. I thought Matt might have one like it.

Miles: Nope.

Will: Are you sure?

Miles: Yup.

Will: Well, I’m gonna call him and find out. (Calls, quickly hangs up) He answered.

Miles: What? Why didn’t you ask him?

Will: Because you hung up on him when the Verizon thing came up.

Miles: Oh come on. It’s already 6, and I was supposed to e-mail this to my professor an hour ago.

Will: Looks like you won’t be saved by the bell. (Miles shoots him an ugly look) What? You were the one who said it could wait. Don’t be an ass.

Miles: I was just trying to play it cool.

Will: Whoops for you. What’s this for anyways?

Miles: Oh, I have to rhyme something with wassailer. It’s a Christmas poem that I tacked on to the end of my Physics problem set. It’s the little things that show a prof that you care.

Will: You quivering vagina.

Miles: Nah dude, it’s funny. Aristotle once was a wassailer/ But his theories are now old like fossilers/ In this holiday season/ I’ll tell you the reason’s/ Because he was no Mark-Paul Gossellaar

Will: I don’t get it.

First Post

2006-01-04T19:04:00.000-05:00

I'm gonna use this is a place to post funny things I write.

The Game Manager

This one time I gave my wife’s Ford Windstar to a homeless man I saw at the corner of Flower and 9^th. To be fair, I did make the decision under severe pressure. Well, I thought it would be severe pressure. He looked like the sort of homeless guy who would have begged my ear off if I didn’t toss him the keys when he approached me with a spray bottle and an LA Weekly circa ‘95. I just knew he was gonna blitz me with a whole schpiel about how he lost something in some war and then the government took his house blah blah blah. How could I reasonably be expected to deal with that much “in my face” pressure? Come on. Anyway, it’s not my fault I was given a car in the first place. So, now my family walks when we need to get somewhere. Sure it’s a little predictable, but it gets the job done.

On the whole the Shaloub family is doing pretty well for itself these days, and I am a big reason why. I may not be earning the money per se, but simply by relinquishing my position as “family investor” our assets have sextupled in the last three fiscal years. I myself used to go with a high-risk high-reward investment strategy. As I always say, “the bottom of one pyramid is really close to the top of a much larger pyramid… assuming the top of that larger pyramid is made up of the relatively small pyramid that our investment is currently located at the bottom of. And then we’ll be on easy street.” I don’t know why that expression never caught on. I also don’t know why the high-reward part of my strategy never caught on either. Whatever. Now my wife makes sure our investment portfolio is comprised primarily of no-load mutual funds and government bonds or something… and I let her. I don’t get enough credit for that decision.

My wife and I have two sons, both of whom are incredibly successful thanks to my attempts to stay out of their life. When my boys were young they would ask me questions, you know, kid questions. And I used to just answer off the top of my head: what’s a firetruck? A pizza; why’s the sky blue? Because god hates the color yellow; why were you suffomacating mommy last night? Suffomacating isn’t a word, and anyways, what I was doing is called rawdogging. That was wrong. I’ve since learned to stay out of my kids’ educations. When they ask me a question I usually tell them to ask their mother, though on occasion I send them to ask their teachers, a priest, a guidance councilor, a drug-dealer… whatever. It’s much easier for me and much more successful for them in the long run. When my boys’ get their college diplomas, it’ll be because I refused to answer even the simplest of their questions during their formative years. I’m a pretty great dad.

I’d say I manage the game of life pretty damn well. Sure I’ll never be employee of the month, or an employee at all for that matter, but I also won’t be able to be blamed for the failure of those around me. Plus I gave a homeless guy a van, and he probably uses it more than my wife ever did. I mean, she never slept in the van.