"A site of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy."
Apparently, I’m not the only one who had this happen to them. Check out Michael Lacher’s “The Only Thing That Can Stop This Asteroid is Your Liberal Arts Degree” over at McSweeney’s. It’s magically hilarious.
I know. I know. I’ve been especially lazy in terms of posting on here as of late, but for good reason. A few other things I’ve written may soon end up being published.
But just online. So settle down.
In the meantime, please check out this link to Michael Lacher’s painfully hilarious “A Message of Apology From the Commander of Undersea EnviroDome 25-B” over at McSweeney’s. Well worth the read.
A classic from the archives at McSweeney’s. You can thank me, post-coitally, on Monday.
R,
Merry Andrew
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X = A kiss.
O = A hug.
R = A saucy lick.
T = A meaningful pat on your high, yummy ass, not too hard, not too soft, now you try it on me, perfect, that’ll do just fine.
I = Remember that day at the park? That day when we walked hand-in-hand alongside the reflecting pool and then strolled, ever so casually, over to the cocker spaniel with the very bad breath and that vague, faraway stare that reminded me of the rabid dog I once saw beneath the arts-and-crafts cabin at summer camp? I’m recalling that memory as I write this. You should be, too.
W = A delicious ear nibble, making sure not to draw blood this time. Sorry about the last time.
G = Nude calisthenics, preferably before a very large mirror and with appropriate lighting.
S = A shake of the head, a puzzled frown, a slight gasp. Is that a new haircut? I like it. May I ask you a funny question? This is just in the planning stages, not completely worked out, but I’m thinking about leaning you over my strong, compliant lap and spanking the fire out of you. What’s that? Don’t feel like it? Then be a sweetheart and hand me the new Kissinger bio … Can’t you reach it?
H = I would very much like to fix you a bath of sparkling champagne. If that’s too expensive, then something much cheaper. Wine spritzer, perhaps.
V = Both of us in bed, side by side, watching American Idol with our tops off. I’m holding the clicker.
J = A linking together of our arms, a counterclockwise gambol, do-si-do and away we go, a change of direction on the second lap … This time to the accompaniment of actual music and not with me blowing trumpet noises through my tightly clenched fist … Work with me here, c’mon, I can’t do this alone …
Z = The back of my hand pressed soothingly against your forehead. It seems that your fever has finally subsided. I shall now slowly close the bedroom door and allow you to slip into a deep and relaxing sleep, and we shall talk tomorrow about your screams concerning the carnival roustabouts in your last fevered dream. Just let me write down the word “syphilitic,” as I’ll most surely forget it before we talk again … Done.
C = An exciting, powerful high-five, similar to the maneuver we once saw performed at the local sports bar, minus the spilling of onion rings onto our laps.
N = A shrug and a confused look. The bedroom aids? The ones with my initials on them. Still at the dry cleaners?
B = A lingering caress, a removal of your shoes, my shoes, an unzipping of your pants, an unzipping of my pants, an unbuttoning of your shirt, an unbuttoning of mine, your underwear, socks, bra, my socks, underwear, a jump into the outdoor whirlpool, a request to the voyeur across the yard to aim his telescope at somebody else, a caress, another request to the neighborhood freak, the middle finger, a halfhearted attempt on my part to jump out of the whirlpool and into his yard, the sudden turning off of the lights in his basement den, me jumping back into the whirlpool, an embrace, a loud crash emanating from his upstairs bedroom, a shadow in the form of this prick and his telescope, an exasperated rolling of our eyes, a shouted promise to have him beat up by that other neighborhood freak, that fellow with very little intelligence and yet, please note, a young man with a very admirable penchant for remaining frighteningly loyal to those who buy him hot-fudge sundaes at Friendly’s.
L = Oh, don’t look at me like that, please don’t look at me like that. (Pause.) All right, milady, I’ll clean out the frog cage. Then may we lie in each other’s arms?
F = And this one, let us not forget this one, for this one means that I love you … I always have and I always will … In this lifetime and in the next … You are my everything, let us never be apart … By the way, that Kissinger bio that I was asking you about? Pass it over already, I’m still waiting … There we go, baby … Nice.
Gentle Readers,
After a lengthy hiatus, I’ve returned to the McSweeney’s front page. Enjoy. Or, pretend to enjoy. I’m very sensitive, you know.
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Chapter 5:
Personality Overboard: Strained Relations on The Good Ship Guppy
Just a few years into his captaincy, it became apparent to everyone that Cap’n Crunch was a veritable powerhouse on the seas—a seemingly untouchable icon. Many found inspiration in Crunch’s humble beginnings directing a meager crew comprised only of a bespectacled young boy and a dog. As the years progressed, the crew grew steadily larger, though not older. Rumors began to surface that the crews were always children only because there wasn’t an adult in the world naïve enough to tolerate Crunch’s overbearing ego. Unnamed sources in the military all corroborated that despite four decades of experience commanding a ship, it was Crunch’s abrasive pompousness that prevented him from ever realizing that elusive promotion to Admiral.
Former crew members (that is, those who hadn’t lost their lives to alcoholism and drug abuse in adulthood) filed a joint lawsuit in 2002, citing severe mental anguish from the Cap’n’s relentless boasting at having his own cereal and his oftentimes-violent insistence that anything could be achieved with it. Whether it was save the day, cure onboard illnesses, or treat wounds, Cap’n Crunch incessantly praised and employed his cereal. As the cereal grew in popularity, Crunch’s delusions became more frequent and far more pronounced. He was often found bathing in his cereal, sleeping with his cereal, and court records indicate he officially married it in 1977.
Chapter 9:
The Soggies
Though no one could have predicted it at the time, it was Crunch’s campaign against the Soggies that would eventually result in his dramatic fall from grace. True, the Royal Oats Navy had given the orders to Cap’n Crunch to contain and eliminate the “Soggie Threat,” but no one could have foreseen the extreme lengths the Cap’n would go to in order to succeed. The gruesome spree of decapitations that Crunch engineered in his drive to eradicate the Soggies would come back to haunt him.
Later, when the world discovered that crunchberries originated on a remote archipelago the Soggies were indigenous to, the truth was revealed—the Cap’n had been illegally harvesting crunchberries and ruthlessly exploiting the natives for years. The news came as a shock. People’s perspectives changed. No longer were the Soggies the evil aggressors we’d all made them out to be. It became apparent that the only thing the Soggies were guilty of was trying to defend their way of life.
Public opinion slowly began to turn on Crunch. The papers were ruthless.
Accusations of the military manufacturing the “Soggie Threat” on Crunch’s behalf were everywhere. The word “genocide” was bandied about. And all this before the illegal crunchberry-beast market the Cap’n was allegedly orchestrating came to light.
Chapter 11:
Crunch’s Milk Goes Sour
In the years after the Soggie story leaked in the Post, several other allegations began to surface that would lead to Cap’n Crunch’s eventual court martial and Dishonorable Discharge. There were the millions of dollars in property damage from the countless instances Crunch grounded his ship in overzealous “Crunch-a-tizing” operations. Plaintiffs recounted with horror the same haunting whistle moments before The Good Ship Guppy came crashing through private and public property alike. The payouts to cover the skyrocketing rate of nervous breakdowns and post-traumatic stress disorder were enough to financially and emotionally bankrupt the Cap’n.
Environmental groups had a heyday when it was revealed that the Royal Oats Navy had been covering up the staggering casualties to sea organisms from Cap’n Crunch constantly lavishing his cereal on various ocean animals. Then there were the protests holding Crunch accountable for the myriad international child labor laws he ignored over four decades. The most damaging allegations personally to Crunch—the metaphorical sea salt in the wound—were the charges brought up by the medical community, citing two generations of grotesque palate disabilities from the severe lacerations that often accompanied the consumption of his cereal.
Afterword:
Sailing Into the Sunset
While researching this book, I was invariably met with the same question everywhere I went. “Why would you, Jean LaFoote the Barefoot Pirate and long-term adversary of Cap’n Crunch, want to pen a biography about your arch-nemesis?
Well, let me to answer this by saying that I’ve grown considerably as a person since my pirating days began. I wear shoes now. I own a condo. Sure, my mother had to co-sign, but it’s pretty much mine. And looking back on it, I have difficulty determining why I devoted so much of my life to stealing Horatio’s cereal recipe. So I suppose I penned this biography to gain some new perspective about myself.
I’m not ashamed of my past. When you spend your life at sea, you discover things about yourself. And the Cap’n… well, I’ve come to recognize that the Cap’n is a very charming man. The precise details of our current relationship are not ones I wish to delve into here, but let’s just say that the Cap’n is a very considerate shipmate. He makes me feel safe. And his moustache is surprisingly soft and silky. As for whether or not there is any truth to the rumors that we plan to use the profits from this book to retire to a secluded tropical island together… I have no comment.
A brilliant piece from McSweeney’s that examines the trials and tribulations of the twelve days of X-mas. Enjoy.
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Day 1
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree. Such a thoughtful gift, she knows how much I love fruit. She also knows my building’s pretty strict about pets so the bird threw me a little. But he is a cute little guy.
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Day 2
On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me, two turtle doves. Wow, she’s really into the avian theme this year. Um, thank you? I guess I’ll just put them in the kitchen with the partridge and the pear tree, which suddenly seems a lot bigger than it did yesterday.
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Days 3 & 4
On the third and fourth days of Christmas, she gave me three French hens and four calling birds. Funny, I don’t remember telling her my dream was to one day open a chapter of the Audubon Society. Jesus. You know what would have been nice? Some birdseed. I’m out of saltines and things are starting to get weird in here.
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Day 5
On the fifth day of Christmas, she gave me five golden rings. See, now that’s a nice gift. A nice, practical gift. A little on the feminine side, but I’ll take it.
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Day 6
Six geese a-laying. Hmm, that’s so weird because I was just telling someone that I could use some MORE FUCKING BIRDS. Do you have any idea how much shit six geese generate in a single day? Literally, pounds. Pounds of green, grassy turds. And in case you’re curious, all six of them have been a-laying since they got here. There are no less than seventy-five enormous eggs in my apartment right now. And as a side note, I just tried to make an omelet out of one of them and almost ralphed. Very gamy.
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Day 7
Guess what I signed for this morning when the UPS guy rang my doorbell? Seven swans a-swimming. True story. So… no more baths for me, I guess. Thanks for that. These are terrible gifts! Terrible, confusing gifts. Do you know how big a fucking swan is? Or how mean those bastards are? Oh, and guess who swans don’t get along with? Geese, turtle doves, French hens, calling birds, and partridges. Glad you did your homework there. There’s more bird-on-bird violence going on right now than I care to mention.
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Day 8
I’d like to give you the benefit of the doubt on this one in case you ordered these eight maids a-milking online and there was some confusion, but just to clarify, there are eight middle-aged women wearing bonnets in my apartment right now. And they each brought a cow. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? They’re all here, in my STUDIO apartment, and judging by the size of their suitcases, they aren’t leaving anytime soon.
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Day 9
Big day today. Not only did I receive the unexpected gift of nine ladies dancing, I also got a nice little note from my landlord. He covered all kinds of stuff, but in a nutshell it was about excessive dancing, illegal livestock, unnatural amounts of bird feces, and me not living here anymore. Big day.
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Day 10
Ten lords a-fucking-leaping! Yes they are. Ten leotarded assholes are literally jumping around my apartment screaming “Wheeeeee!” every time their feet leave the goddamned ground! WHY?? Why are you doing this to me? You’re sick! I loved you so much and you destroyed it. You destroyed everything. Tensions in here are escalating faster than I could have imagined. The maids and dancers appear to have laid territorial claims in opposite corners of the apartment. They are not the same civilized ladies who arrived here a short time ago. They bear a darkness now. One of them stole my golden rings and I know just the one who did it. I’m waiting until nightfall and I will reclaim them through any means necessary. I’m beginning to fear something isn’t right with the birds, they’re watching me… conspiring… it’s just a matter of time.
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Days 11 & 12
These final days have come and gone in a bewildering fog. I remember drummers. Pipers. Lots of them. I haven’t slept or washed my body in quite some time. Food is scarce… the fighting, fierce. I killed a lord today! Snatched him right out of the air and killed him with my bare hands. Now he doesn’t leap anymore. I used his leotard as a net to trap one of the swans. She was delicious. Didn’t even cook the old gal. Ha! I made everyone gather around and watch—that’s what you do when you want to send a message. A very important message! This is my castle! Do you all hear me? Do you see what I’ve done? What I am capable of!! No more eye contact with the king, do you understand? Or I will end you! I will end you all right here and now!! Now one of you fetch me a goddamned pear. The king needs something sweet.
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Normally, I like to avoid publishing other people’s work here, but I couldn’t help but showcase a brilliant pirate-based list found over at McSweeneys written by Christopher Robinson.
Enjoy:
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ECON 212: Fluctuations in the Buillon market
ENGL 442: Post-structuralist Decay and the Hermeneutics of Land-lubbing
ENGL 515: Lawless Scallywags and Counter-hegemonic Narratives
LING 224: Sign and signifier: Chomsky on Arrrrr
LING 310: Semiotics of the Jolly Roger
MATH 348: Game Theory and the Albatross
MED 458: Extemporaneous Prosthetics: Pegs and Hooks
PHIL 360: Epistemology of Davy Jones Locker
PHIL 390: Dancing the Hempen Jig: The Ethics of Capital Punishment
PHYS 220: Directional Combustion and Projectile Motion
PLSC 216: Filthy Bilge Rats: the Aleatory Class System on the High Seas
REL 336: Yam Gods of the Barbary Coast
SOC 212: All Hands on Deck: a Marxist Approach to Piracy and Leadership
SOC 469: Captain Jack and Captain Jim: Heteronormativity and the Modern Pirate
SOC 740: A Post-feminist Approach to the Mayor’s Daughter
Click here for the direct link and to read other great McSweeneys lists.
In honor of Sesame Street’s 40th anniversary, I’m repackaging and regifting this little essay I wrote a couple years ago about my favorite hirsute dessert enthusiast.
C is for Cheapskate, that’s good enough for me.
Me know. Me have problem.
Me love cookies. Me tend to get out of control when me see cookies. Me know it not natural to react so strongly to cookies, but me have weakness. Me know me do wrong. Me know it isn’t normal. Me see disapproving looks. Me see stares. Me hurt inside.
When me get back to apartment, after cookie binge, me can’t stand looking in mirror—fur matted with chocolate-chip smears and infested with crumbs. Me try but me never able to wash all of them out. Me don’t think me is monster. Me just furry blue person who love cookies too much. Me no ask for it. Me just born that way.
Me was thinking and me just don’t get it. Why is me a monster? No one else called monster on Sesame Street. Well, no one who isn’t really monster. Two-Headed Monster have two heads, so he real monster. Herry Monster strong and look angry, so he probably real monster, too. But is me really monster?
Me thinks me have serious problem. Me thinks me addicted. But since when it acceptable to call addict monster? It affliction. It disease. It burden. But does it make me monster?
How can they be so callous? Me know there something wrong with me, but who in Sesame Street doesn’t suffer from mental disease or psychological disorder? They don’t call the vampire with math fetish monster, and me pretty sure he undead and drinks blood. No one calls Grover monster, despite frequent delusional episodes and obsessive-compulsive tendencies. And the obnoxious red Grover—oh, what his name?—Elmo! Yes, Elmo live all day in imaginary world and no one call him monster. No, they think he cute. And Big Bird! Don’t get me started on Big Bird! He unnaturally gigantic talking canary! How is that not monster? Snuffleupagus not supposed to exist—woolly mammoths extinct. His very existence monstrous. Me least like monster. Me maybe have unhealthy obsession, but me no monster.
No. Me wrong. Me too hard on self. Me no have unhealthy obsession. Me love cookies, but it no hurt anyone. Me just enthusiast. Everyone has something they like most, something they get excited about. Why not me? Me perfectly normal. Me like cookies. So what? Cookies delicious. Cookies do not make one monster. Everyone loves cookies.
Me no monster. Me OK guy. Me OK guy who eat cookies.
Who me kidding? Me know me never actually eat cookies. Me only crumble cookies in mouth, but me no swallow. Me can’t swallow. Me no have no esophagus. Me no have no trachea. Me only have black fabric throat. Me not supposed to be able to even talk.
Me no eat cookies.
Me destroy cookies.
Me crush cookies.
Me mutilate cookies.
Me make it so no one get cookies.
Everyone right. Me really is cookie monster.
The folks over at QN Podcast (formerly Quirky Nomads) did a reading, in character, a few months back. Check it out here.
Copyright © 2008 Wit Cracker. All rights reserved. Modified by Villain Factory Inc.
