"Welcome, welcome. We are gathered here today to celebrate the joining together of Lyle and Bella in matrimony. We are privileged to bear witness to this grand occasion; this formal expression of true love. And we are privileged that so many have come before them to help pave the way for a union such as theirs to exist. When the nuptials between a man and a block of cheese can be officially recognized by the state of Delaware, it truly is a blessing. Many critics of same sex marriage have long feared that once gay and lesbian partnerships were afforded the same rights as a man and a woman's, then the next logical progression would be the uniting of man and beast. But nope. Turns out it's food.
"And how truly wonderful that is, especially for Lyle and Bella. For these two lovebirds, today is a very, very Gouda day. Ha! Forgive me. That's just a little cheese wedding humor. So let us begin. Lyle, please take Bella's hand."
Lyle picks up the block of cheese from a deli tray held by the Maid of Honor, his disappointed sister.
"Lyle and Bella have chosen to write their own vows. Lyle, when you're ready, we'll let you begin."
Lyle looks intently at the cheese.
"From the moment I first saw you in the display at Trader Joe's, I knew you were the one over all others. The way your cheddary sheen glistened next to the sausages and assorted chips and pretzels. Asiago, Feta, Colby, Gorgonzola - they all paled in comparison. As well as White Cheddar, for obvious reasons. More heralded cheeses didn't capture my heart either, like the snooty Swiss or the belligerent American. Sure, it was hard not to be tempted by the Mozzarella, but she's not really the type you settle down with.
"So I whisked you away, and we spent three glorious days watching the Food Network together. You even forgave me for the night I spent with those slices of Pepper Jack. For that and so many other reasons, I promise to never let you mold or pair you with inferior snack food. I will never turn you into whiz," Lyle pauses to collect himself as he begins to choke up, "and stuff you in a CAN!"
Many of those gathered at the ceremony awkwardly stare at the ground and scratch the back of their heads.
"And I will never insult you by baking a certain cake with your namesake and serving it to dinner guests. I will, however, tout your semi-hard texture, your non-offensive aroma, and your ability to enhance any situation involving beer or bread or bacon. I will keep you by my side during every meal, whether it be the finest occasion or simply eating breakfast in the car on my way to work. In short, I will cherish you for all the rest of my days."
"How lovely," the notary says. “Now for Bella's vows."
The cheese says nothing. A faint cough can be heard from the back.
"Excellent. Now for the rings. Lyle, please place Bella's ring on her... well, on her."
Lyle places an oversized onion ring around the cheese.
“Now repeat after me. With this ring, I thee wed,” the notary says.
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
"Now Bella, please place Lyle's ring on his finger."
Lyle's sister rolls her eyes and reaches in to place the ring on his finger.
“Repeat after me. With this ring, I thee…”
“You know what, I think we’re good,” Lyle interrupts.
"Very well. The rings symbolize Lyle and Bella's commitment to one another; their pledge to live as one. And with that, you are officially wed. So by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!"
Amidst applause, Lyle kisses the cheese. Gasps replace the clapping as he then takes a bite.
"Well, looks like the groom is a little overcome by the proceedings," the notary nervously laughs.
Lyle takes a larger bite out of his new bride, this time while growling like a large jungle cat.
"Uh... ok. Let's see, the couple asked me to let everyone know there will be a reception with lots of wine and crackers at the West Valley Bingo Hall on the corner of 9th and Mellwood in roughly 30 min..."
Lyle shoves the remaining hunk of cheese into his mouth while emitting a loud, guttural moan.
"Sir, please. There are children present."
The crowd looks on in horror as Lyle brushes his hands on his jacket and wipes his mouth with his tie.
"Well, then," the notary says. "Thank you all for joining us."
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
The (Weiner) Gate Bursts Open
I know, I know, he’s doing it again. You don’t have to tell me, I’m the one in all the pictures.
Let me just start by apologizing on his behalf. I know he’s already done that, but I feel like I need to say it too. Make no mistake, though, I’m not apologizing for me. It’s not like I had a choice in the matter. You think he looked down and asked, “Hey Oscar, you alright with this?” before he thrust me into the spotlight? For that matter, do you think he’s ever asked me that before the camera bulbs start flashing?
Of course this isn’t the first time he’s passed around pictures of me, don’t be naïve. Ask his mom how many times she got a call from the principal. Polaroids weren’t even his preferred method back in the day. His true joy was having me make a live appearance. Frog dissection day in Biology class, Wiffle Ball day in gym class, and don’t forget the day his English class finally got to the “Et tu, Brute?” line in Julius Caesar. Believe me, you people aren’t seeing anything that hasn’t long ago passed through the halls of James Madison High.
And take it easy with all the jokes, will you? If you want to poke fun at him for all his preening or terrible decision making, go right ahead. But wherever you come down on the argument concerning my stature, please keep it to yourself. All I can say is, “It is what it is.” (By the way, I coined that phrase. I was left with little choice given all the times he answered the door, unencumbered by clinging cotton briefs, to a pack of giggling co-eds.) I admit I’m no Greg Oden, but then I’m no Brett Favre either.
And speaking of celebrities who conveniently are no longer in the news – Arnold Schwarzenegger, have I got a bone to pick with you. I can’t believe a couple of photos of me have knocked you completely out of the news. You impregnated your maid! You have a son that’s been running around for 14 years that nobody knew was yours!! If you were still in office, I wouldn’t have even made page 12 of The New York Post. You probably won’t agree with this at the moment, but you are one lucky s.o.b.
(Sigh). I apologize for being a little testy.
As for the media, let me offer you a tip: enough with using “gate.” Every scandal is a gate. Try some creativity! You could have a field day with this story. He Tweeted the pictures of me, right? So if you must use gate, why not TWeinergate? And weren’t a couple of the pictures taken with a mobile phone camera? So how about you introduce every new segment with, “And now for more sordid details on the Weinermobile story.” Coming up with something more clever than Weinergate shouldn’t be that… what’s the word I’m looking for? Difficult? That doesn’t sound right. At any rate, you get my point.
One last thing: he wasn’t yanking your chain when he said he’d never met any of the women that he talked to online. That’s the truth. He doesn’t even like women. Whoops! I think I’ve said too much.
Let me just start by apologizing on his behalf. I know he’s already done that, but I feel like I need to say it too. Make no mistake, though, I’m not apologizing for me. It’s not like I had a choice in the matter. You think he looked down and asked, “Hey Oscar, you alright with this?” before he thrust me into the spotlight? For that matter, do you think he’s ever asked me that before the camera bulbs start flashing?
Of course this isn’t the first time he’s passed around pictures of me, don’t be naïve. Ask his mom how many times she got a call from the principal. Polaroids weren’t even his preferred method back in the day. His true joy was having me make a live appearance. Frog dissection day in Biology class, Wiffle Ball day in gym class, and don’t forget the day his English class finally got to the “Et tu, Brute?” line in Julius Caesar. Believe me, you people aren’t seeing anything that hasn’t long ago passed through the halls of James Madison High.
And take it easy with all the jokes, will you? If you want to poke fun at him for all his preening or terrible decision making, go right ahead. But wherever you come down on the argument concerning my stature, please keep it to yourself. All I can say is, “It is what it is.” (By the way, I coined that phrase. I was left with little choice given all the times he answered the door, unencumbered by clinging cotton briefs, to a pack of giggling co-eds.) I admit I’m no Greg Oden, but then I’m no Brett Favre either.
And speaking of celebrities who conveniently are no longer in the news – Arnold Schwarzenegger, have I got a bone to pick with you. I can’t believe a couple of photos of me have knocked you completely out of the news. You impregnated your maid! You have a son that’s been running around for 14 years that nobody knew was yours!! If you were still in office, I wouldn’t have even made page 12 of The New York Post. You probably won’t agree with this at the moment, but you are one lucky s.o.b.
(Sigh). I apologize for being a little testy.
As for the media, let me offer you a tip: enough with using “gate.” Every scandal is a gate. Try some creativity! You could have a field day with this story. He Tweeted the pictures of me, right? So if you must use gate, why not TWeinergate? And weren’t a couple of the pictures taken with a mobile phone camera? So how about you introduce every new segment with, “And now for more sordid details on the Weinermobile story.” Coming up with something more clever than Weinergate shouldn’t be that… what’s the word I’m looking for? Difficult? That doesn’t sound right. At any rate, you get my point.
One last thing: he wasn’t yanking your chain when he said he’d never met any of the women that he talked to online. That’s the truth. He doesn’t even like women. Whoops! I think I’ve said too much.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
We'll Be Fine As Long As They Don't Unionize
For almost 18 months, my wife and I have owned a house. It’s not our first home, but it is our first house. With a yard. In a neighborhood. Which means a good portion of the people running around the neighborhood are kids. Most of them seem like normal, well-rounded people. Only two have given me cause to be concerned about the future.
I recently learned about the ambition of one of the neighborhood kids – the 7-year-old girl across the street. Her name is Kate and she knocked on our door on a Wednesday evening and asked if she could walk our dog for some money. She needed to make some cash so she could save up for a violin or some shoes or a couple of other things (she hadn’t really decided on just one thing yet). Begrudgingly, I said “sure.”
I say begrudgingly because I didn't know how much would be appropriate to pay her. Or how often she would expect to receive payment for walking the dog. Or if this would impede my ability to pay the mortgage. Kids seem to make a lot more money these days for doing, well, nothing. I know parents who’ve given their kids shares of Google for losing their first baby tooth. When I lost my first baby tooth, the tooth fairy left me a pamphlet on how to avoid gingivitis.
So, to buy myself (pun intended) some time to figure out how to handle this, I told Kate to come back on Saturday to walk the dog. From her reaction, she must have thought there was a pretty decent chance I was going to say, “No, you can’t walk my dog” because she threw her hands in the air and ran back across the street cheering as if her school had permanently cancelled math class (you know how girls are with math). After she left, I decided I would have her walk Moose, the dog, up and down our street one time and for this I would pay her a hearty $5.
Moose doesn’t exactly mirror his namesake. He weighs somewhere between 8-9 lbs. and is whiter than the line at a Rush Limbaugh book signing. Given his size, Kate probably wouldn’t lose control of him, but he’d make her work at it, and being only 7 years old, there’s always the chance she’d ditch him for a bunny or a hamster (our neighborhood is overrun with stray hamsters). So, I wanted to keep the task short and simple.
She was at our doorstep by 9 a.m. on Saturday, eager and up to the task. I told her how far to take him and what she would earn upon their return. Her face lit up as she immediately imagined all the violins, violin cases, bows and lessons she could buy for $5. Unfortunately it had been raining all morning, so I asked her to come back later and walk Moose after the ground had dried; at least a few hours. Having taken everything she’s learned in school about telling time, Kate returned 20 minutes later. There was no delaying it.
Moose was eager too, either for a walk or for the meat he thought Kate had in her pockets, because he sprinted out the front door and leapt at her, scratching her leg in the process. Her enthusiasm went a little south after that. Moose’s scratch drew blood, she screamed, and my wife had to walk her back home. Surprisingly, while her enthusiasm was diminished, it wasn’t completely extinguished. Brigitte and I thought for sure the dog-walking experiment was over before it started, but through her sobs, Kate asked if she could walk Moose “a little later." Brigitte assured her that she didn’t have to walk him at all, but that violin wasn’t going to buy itself, and her mom said that Kate was also hoping to get over her fear of dogs (of course).
So after she went inside to get cleaned up, our whole family, plus Kate, took Moose for a walk. Brigitte held the leash and Kate held my four-year-old son’s hand, at his insistence (he’s got a thing for older women). Afterwards, I paid Kate $7. Part of it was to go toward a violin, part of it toward more band aids, and part of it was gratitude for not filing workman’s comp.
In case that sounds cheap, let me point out that I’d be happy to continue paying her, but she hasn’t come back. That’s ok, though. Either way, I have confidence in our future workforce.
I recently learned about the ambition of one of the neighborhood kids – the 7-year-old girl across the street. Her name is Kate and she knocked on our door on a Wednesday evening and asked if she could walk our dog for some money. She needed to make some cash so she could save up for a violin or some shoes or a couple of other things (she hadn’t really decided on just one thing yet). Begrudgingly, I said “sure.”
I say begrudgingly because I didn't know how much would be appropriate to pay her. Or how often she would expect to receive payment for walking the dog. Or if this would impede my ability to pay the mortgage. Kids seem to make a lot more money these days for doing, well, nothing. I know parents who’ve given their kids shares of Google for losing their first baby tooth. When I lost my first baby tooth, the tooth fairy left me a pamphlet on how to avoid gingivitis.
So, to buy myself (pun intended) some time to figure out how to handle this, I told Kate to come back on Saturday to walk the dog. From her reaction, she must have thought there was a pretty decent chance I was going to say, “No, you can’t walk my dog” because she threw her hands in the air and ran back across the street cheering as if her school had permanently cancelled math class (you know how girls are with math). After she left, I decided I would have her walk Moose, the dog, up and down our street one time and for this I would pay her a hearty $5.
Moose doesn’t exactly mirror his namesake. He weighs somewhere between 8-9 lbs. and is whiter than the line at a Rush Limbaugh book signing. Given his size, Kate probably wouldn’t lose control of him, but he’d make her work at it, and being only 7 years old, there’s always the chance she’d ditch him for a bunny or a hamster (our neighborhood is overrun with stray hamsters). So, I wanted to keep the task short and simple.
She was at our doorstep by 9 a.m. on Saturday, eager and up to the task. I told her how far to take him and what she would earn upon their return. Her face lit up as she immediately imagined all the violins, violin cases, bows and lessons she could buy for $5. Unfortunately it had been raining all morning, so I asked her to come back later and walk Moose after the ground had dried; at least a few hours. Having taken everything she’s learned in school about telling time, Kate returned 20 minutes later. There was no delaying it.
Moose was eager too, either for a walk or for the meat he thought Kate had in her pockets, because he sprinted out the front door and leapt at her, scratching her leg in the process. Her enthusiasm went a little south after that. Moose’s scratch drew blood, she screamed, and my wife had to walk her back home. Surprisingly, while her enthusiasm was diminished, it wasn’t completely extinguished. Brigitte and I thought for sure the dog-walking experiment was over before it started, but through her sobs, Kate asked if she could walk Moose “a little later." Brigitte assured her that she didn’t have to walk him at all, but that violin wasn’t going to buy itself, and her mom said that Kate was also hoping to get over her fear of dogs (of course).
So after she went inside to get cleaned up, our whole family, plus Kate, took Moose for a walk. Brigitte held the leash and Kate held my four-year-old son’s hand, at his insistence (he’s got a thing for older women). Afterwards, I paid Kate $7. Part of it was to go toward a violin, part of it toward more band aids, and part of it was gratitude for not filing workman’s comp.
In case that sounds cheap, let me point out that I’d be happy to continue paying her, but she hasn’t come back. That’s ok, though. Either way, I have confidence in our future workforce.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Rapture, Take Me Away
Since I will undoubtedly be one of those chosen to go up when the Rapture strikes tomorrow, I just want to wish you all good luck and let you know what kind of torment you can expect during your remaining time on Earth:
The only e-mails you’ll receive will be marked ‘urgent’ even though they couldn’t be less so.
Toddlers will sleep for no more than 45 minutes during any given 24 hour period.
The next long-running political saga that refuses to die will be Donald Trump trying to prove that his hair was born in the United States.
It’s learned that Oprah quit doing her show because she received advance notice that she would be one of the chosen ones. Those left behind, however, continue to get their fill as re-runs of her show air on every channel 24/7.
The only options that remain for pets are cats and skunks.
Airplanes will no longer have window or aisle seats. Middle seats for everyone!
Everyone also gets the same two next-door neighbors: Glenn Beck to the right, Keith Olbermann to the left. Moving doesn’t change this.
Baseball is the only sport still played and the Chicago Cubs win the World Series every year for the rest of eternity. Not a single Cubs fan gets to see them win, however, as none of them will be left behind.
The rest of the world’s view of the United States fails to improve as we elect Kid Rock as our President-for-Life.
Skunks soon top the charts as the world’s most popular pet.
Those choosing to text are forced to do so using phones that have 3-4 letters of the alphabet on each button. Then you can see what I have to deal with every time one of you f*!#ers sends me a text message.
Nearly all of the Facebook posts made by your friends who were among the chosen ones will say, “This is great, sorry you can’t be here!” The only time they take a break from this is when they post pictures of their kids.
Hard liquor will cease to exist. Anyone who orders beer will be served wine. Anyone who orders wine will be served sweat from a cow, though this is not likely to bother many of these people as few will be able to tell the difference. Soda will still exist, but no matter which brand you choose, they will all taste like Diet Sprite. And coffee will cost $150 a cup.
The only e-mails you’ll receive will be marked ‘urgent’ even though they couldn’t be less so.
Toddlers will sleep for no more than 45 minutes during any given 24 hour period.
The next long-running political saga that refuses to die will be Donald Trump trying to prove that his hair was born in the United States.
It’s learned that Oprah quit doing her show because she received advance notice that she would be one of the chosen ones. Those left behind, however, continue to get their fill as re-runs of her show air on every channel 24/7.
The only options that remain for pets are cats and skunks.
Airplanes will no longer have window or aisle seats. Middle seats for everyone!
Everyone also gets the same two next-door neighbors: Glenn Beck to the right, Keith Olbermann to the left. Moving doesn’t change this.
Baseball is the only sport still played and the Chicago Cubs win the World Series every year for the rest of eternity. Not a single Cubs fan gets to see them win, however, as none of them will be left behind.
The rest of the world’s view of the United States fails to improve as we elect Kid Rock as our President-for-Life.
Skunks soon top the charts as the world’s most popular pet.
Those choosing to text are forced to do so using phones that have 3-4 letters of the alphabet on each button. Then you can see what I have to deal with every time one of you f*!#ers sends me a text message.
Nearly all of the Facebook posts made by your friends who were among the chosen ones will say, “This is great, sorry you can’t be here!” The only time they take a break from this is when they post pictures of their kids.
Hard liquor will cease to exist. Anyone who orders beer will be served wine. Anyone who orders wine will be served sweat from a cow, though this is not likely to bother many of these people as few will be able to tell the difference. Soda will still exist, but no matter which brand you choose, they will all taste like Diet Sprite. And coffee will cost $150 a cup.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Common Rejections from Magazine/Newspaper/Online Editors (And What They Really Mean)
Thank you for your entry, but I’m afraid we have to pass. Please feel free to try again. (You can try again, but you better make the next one waaaay better.)
Thank you for your submission, however it’s just not the right fit for us. (It fits just fine with the kind of material we run, but we Googled you and you don’t appear to be famous, nor does it look like you’ve had a book published. Unfortunately, we only run material submitted by those who clearly don’t need the exposure.)
We thank you for your submission, but unfortunately we will not be using it. (To be perfectly honest, we didn’t read your submission. We have way more entries than we could ever get through and, let’s face it, “Angry Birds” isn’t going to play itself.)
We enjoyed your piece, but we are not accepting unsolicited submissions at this time. (I know it looks like we accept unsolicited submissions all the time because every week we print pieces from writers who aren’t on staff or even experienced freelancers, but… well… what do you want us to say? Do you really want to hear that it sucks? Ask yourself if that would really make you feel better.)
Despite its obvious merit, we will not be able to use your piece. (It’s pretty clear that we don’t actually think it has merit, otherwise we would publish it. We’re just trying to let you down easy because we don’t like to be mean. Unlike those other guys who are obvious liars.)
We appreciate you taking the time to submit your entry. It is quite amusing, however we respectfully decline. (Again, the whole “We don’t like to be mean” thing.)
You clearly have a very unique writing style and are bound for great things. (You weren’t educated on the East Coast, were you?)
We feel the timing is not quite right. (Just like the last time you submitted something wasn't the right time and the next time won't be the right time either. Face it, you suck. I mean, the "timing' argument is complete bullshit. If it's not the right time, why couldn't we just keep what you wrote until it WAS the right time? Know what I mean? Let's say in the middle of August, you submitted something about Christmas. Obviously we wouldn't run it during the middle of August, but if it was good, there's no reason we couldn't hang onto it until Christmas, right? If you buy this whole "the timing isn't right" rejection, then you are a moron.)
Thank you for your latest submission! We think it’s great and we would love to publish it in our next issue. (Psych! Ha ha, sucker.)
Best of luck next time. (Ok, you really need to take a hint.)
No thanks. (Dude! Fuck. Off.)
Thank you for your submission, however it’s just not the right fit for us. (It fits just fine with the kind of material we run, but we Googled you and you don’t appear to be famous, nor does it look like you’ve had a book published. Unfortunately, we only run material submitted by those who clearly don’t need the exposure.)
We thank you for your submission, but unfortunately we will not be using it. (To be perfectly honest, we didn’t read your submission. We have way more entries than we could ever get through and, let’s face it, “Angry Birds” isn’t going to play itself.)
We enjoyed your piece, but we are not accepting unsolicited submissions at this time. (I know it looks like we accept unsolicited submissions all the time because every week we print pieces from writers who aren’t on staff or even experienced freelancers, but… well… what do you want us to say? Do you really want to hear that it sucks? Ask yourself if that would really make you feel better.)
Despite its obvious merit, we will not be able to use your piece. (It’s pretty clear that we don’t actually think it has merit, otherwise we would publish it. We’re just trying to let you down easy because we don’t like to be mean. Unlike those other guys who are obvious liars.)
We appreciate you taking the time to submit your entry. It is quite amusing, however we respectfully decline. (Again, the whole “We don’t like to be mean” thing.)
You clearly have a very unique writing style and are bound for great things. (You weren’t educated on the East Coast, were you?)
We feel the timing is not quite right. (Just like the last time you submitted something wasn't the right time and the next time won't be the right time either. Face it, you suck. I mean, the "timing' argument is complete bullshit. If it's not the right time, why couldn't we just keep what you wrote until it WAS the right time? Know what I mean? Let's say in the middle of August, you submitted something about Christmas. Obviously we wouldn't run it during the middle of August, but if it was good, there's no reason we couldn't hang onto it until Christmas, right? If you buy this whole "the timing isn't right" rejection, then you are a moron.)
Thank you for your latest submission! We think it’s great and we would love to publish it in our next issue. (Psych! Ha ha, sucker.)
Best of luck next time. (Ok, you really need to take a hint.)
No thanks. (Dude! Fuck. Off.)
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Disaster on Deadline
*This post was crafted before the Midwest and Southeastern parts of the country were struck by devastating tornadoes, and is in no way intended to mock those events.
Reporter John Davies’ phone rings.
“Hello?”
“John, how’s the story coming?”
“Still waiting on the fire department to get here so I can try to get a statement on the cause of the fire. I can hear the sirens, so it shouldn’t be too much longer. Hang on, hang on… The television news crews that are down here are all packing up and hurrying into their vans. They’re shouting something… Oh crap, they’re yelling ‘tornado.’ I’m gonna have to call you back.”
A fire broke out at the Morning Songbird manufacturing plant on the corner of 5th and Wiltshire in downtown Ridgeville Tuesday at approximately 9 p.m. The fire quickly consumed the second and third floors of the factory, billowing thick, black smoke into the sky. Crew members working at the plant at the time the fire broke out confirmed that everyone made it out safely.
The fire raged on for nearly 30 minutes before the fire department arrived, as a tornado that moved through neighboring Harbor Township kept the trucks from getting near the area for roughly 10 – 15 minutes. In addition to the fire spreading to the Our Dough For Yours bakery next door, a number of homes in the three to four blocks surrounding the plant were damaged due to the storm.
Davies’ phone rings again.
“Hello?”
“John, how’s everything going out there? Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I hid out in the bathroom of a Wendy’s until the tornado passed. But now I have to alter the story a little and I still need to talk to the fire department. I’d also like to get some quotes from some of the folks living in the area. Pretty wild night. Oh, hold on. One of the news vans is pulling up to my car…
“Uh, ok, well now it seems the tornado hit the Ridgeville dam and they’re saying parts of the dam have burst open. I need to head up there to see what’s going on.”
“John, you’re on deadline here. I need to get that story ASAP!”
“I know, I know. Let me call you back.”
A tornado ripped through the northern part of Ridgeville last night, destroying multiple homes in and around Harbor Township, delaying the fire department from reaching a fire at the Morning Songbird manufacturing plant and shredding the city’s dam, which sent the Abandoned Tire River pouring into downtown Ridgeville.
In addition to the number of homes and businesses that were blasted by the water, many of the animals in outdoor habitats at the city zoo were lifted up and pushed out of their enclosures by the raging rapids. The lone bright side to the unfortunate series of events is that the flood put out the fires at the plant and the Our Dough For Yours bakery next door.
Davies answers his phone again.
“John, listen, I need that story. Is it ready to go?”
“Tom, it is mass chaos out here. You’ve never seen anything like this. The tornado did in fact hit the dam, water poured into the city, and now there are jungle cats and wild birds all over the streets. I’ve had to completely re-write the lead, I’m waiting for the zoo director to get off the phone with the mayor so I can get a comment on the situation, and I still haven’t talked to any of the residents who were hit by the storm or the flood. Uh oh. Oh God. Oh God! I gotta go. AAAAHHHHHHH!”
Ten minutes later Davies calls his boss at the copydesk.
“John, the only thing I want to hear from you is that you sent your story in five minutes ago.”
“A bear shit on me, Tom.”
“What?!”
“You heard me. I was sitting on the hood of my car, talking to you and going over my notes, when tigers, giraffes and some kind of platypus-looking things started running past. Then I saw a bear heading straight for me. He jumped on the roof of my car and then he jumped over me and let out some kind of horrible… I don’t know, bear scream… as shit rained down on me before he hit the ground again. Have you ever had a bear shit on you, Tom?”
“No.”
“I have four kids and none of them have ever shit on me before, Tom.”
“Ok, ok. Look, I know you’ve had a crazy night. Why don’t you take a few minutes to clean yourself up and just get the story in when you can. We can push it back a little given everything that’s happened tonight.”
“Thank you.”
Thirty minutes later Davies answers his phone one last time.
“Tom, good news – I just finished it. I’d like to have a few more quotes, and I’m not sure I captured the true feel of what it’s like out here, but I think it’ll work.”
“Forget it. It’s over. I just got the call from corporate. They’re shutting us down, effective immediately. There will be no more editions of the paper.”
“What?! That’s it?! Does that mean I’m out of a job?”
“Sorry man. I’m sure there’s something on the Internet you can contribute to. It’s been real.”
Click.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Future Sundays Without the NFL
Location: A dance studio
“Alright, now really put your heeps into eet! And one… and tu… and sree… Hold eet, hold eet. Meester Thomas, you look like a feesh.”
“I’m doing what you’re doing. With your hips and such.”
“No, no, no. My body is alive wiss passion! You move your legs like you have gaerle scouts tied to zem. Let me show you wiss Meeses Thomas.”
(Enrique takes Mrs. Thomas’ hand and pulls her into him. Heat instantly emanates from their bodies as they glide around the dance floor as one)
“You see? You must feel za rhythm pump sroo your bones!”
(Mrs. Thomas returns to her husband)
“Now one… and tu… and sree… Hold eet, hold eet. Zat’s a leetle baytter, but your face… eet’s so dull. Zere’s no expression, no feeling. You need to look as if you have never seen a woo-man before, but now you’re dancing wiss za most beautiful woo-man in za waerld! You cannot believe your goood for-choon. She excites you, and you must have her. Nah-sing will stop you from taking her right here on dis dance floor!”
(Pause)
“I’m a claims adjuster.
(Awkward silence)
“Can we take a nacho break?”
Location: Midtown Mall
“Ooh, hon, what do you think of this one?”
“Uh, it’s nice, I guess.”
“This one will match the colors in the kitchen, but I’m thinking of changing the colors altogether, so maybe I should pick one that’s a bit more vibrant.”
“It’s just a tablecloth. How many people are going to see it?”
“Your mother will see it. And it will be one more thing she’ll delight in criticizing me about.”
“Yeah, I’ll do it when we get home.”
“What? You’re not listening. Why are you staring at your BlackBerry? There are no scores to check and no fantasy trades you need to make.”
“Just a habit, I guess. Sorry I wasn’t listening. I was thinking I should probably mow the lawn this afternoon.”
“It’s November. You haven’t had to mow the lawn in two months. Now, let’s go look at place settings.”
“(mumbling) I bet Belichick isn’t looking at place settings.”
“Belichick? Is that another one of your obnoxious poker buddies?”
“Nevermind.”
Location: A cooking class on the Upper East Side
“Why did you bring me here? I hate cooking!!”
Location: Somewhere in Virginia
“Hey Mike, you got your money in yet?”
“Yeah, I’m all set.”
“That bitch of yours gonna win tonight?”
“You know it. Got her eyes on the prize!”
“Do you think Coach will be pissed if he finds out you went to another dogfight?”
“Nah, he’s cool.”
“Alright, now really put your heeps into eet! And one… and tu… and sree… Hold eet, hold eet. Meester Thomas, you look like a feesh.”
“I’m doing what you’re doing. With your hips and such.”
“No, no, no. My body is alive wiss passion! You move your legs like you have gaerle scouts tied to zem. Let me show you wiss Meeses Thomas.”
(Enrique takes Mrs. Thomas’ hand and pulls her into him. Heat instantly emanates from their bodies as they glide around the dance floor as one)
“You see? You must feel za rhythm pump sroo your bones!”
(Mrs. Thomas returns to her husband)
“Now one… and tu… and sree… Hold eet, hold eet. Zat’s a leetle baytter, but your face… eet’s so dull. Zere’s no expression, no feeling. You need to look as if you have never seen a woo-man before, but now you’re dancing wiss za most beautiful woo-man in za waerld! You cannot believe your goood for-choon. She excites you, and you must have her. Nah-sing will stop you from taking her right here on dis dance floor!”
(Pause)
“I’m a claims adjuster.
(Awkward silence)
“Can we take a nacho break?”
Location: Midtown Mall
“Ooh, hon, what do you think of this one?”
“Uh, it’s nice, I guess.”
“This one will match the colors in the kitchen, but I’m thinking of changing the colors altogether, so maybe I should pick one that’s a bit more vibrant.”
“It’s just a tablecloth. How many people are going to see it?”
“Your mother will see it. And it will be one more thing she’ll delight in criticizing me about.”
“Yeah, I’ll do it when we get home.”
“What? You’re not listening. Why are you staring at your BlackBerry? There are no scores to check and no fantasy trades you need to make.”
“Just a habit, I guess. Sorry I wasn’t listening. I was thinking I should probably mow the lawn this afternoon.”
“It’s November. You haven’t had to mow the lawn in two months. Now, let’s go look at place settings.”
“(mumbling) I bet Belichick isn’t looking at place settings.”
“Belichick? Is that another one of your obnoxious poker buddies?”
“Nevermind.”
Location: A cooking class on the Upper East Side
“Why did you bring me here? I hate cooking!!”
Location: Somewhere in Virginia
“Hey Mike, you got your money in yet?”
“Yeah, I’m all set.”
“That bitch of yours gonna win tonight?”
“You know it. Got her eyes on the prize!”
“Do you think Coach will be pissed if he finds out you went to another dogfight?”
“Nah, he’s cool.”
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