RESURRECT DEAD ON PLANET JUPiTER

The buzz around crack has been around since the mid-80’s, but missed opportunities and bad timing have kept me from reviewing this popular drug. I know that I’m late to the party, but I thought it was still worth a try.

Unlike its big brother cocaine, crack is an equal opportunity high: cheap, common and accessible. On most of my crack runs, I was able to purchase a couple of small rocks for anywhere from $5-15. Crack is easy to find in most major cities. A good rule of thumb is to look for raggedy, jittery men pushing shopping carts down the street a little too fast.

I bought my crack right on the street from a high school kid. I thought of smoking my “blue tops” in an abandoned house, but the gentleman out front told me that the cover was $8. And that $8 was just the door fee. Once you’re actually inside, house crack-whores engage you in high pressure sales tactics, pawing at you with bony hands and licking their lips like desperate crack addled drug addicts. Also dissuading me was the lack of basic amenities like electricity, plumbing, air conditioning and valet parking. Authentic experience aside, I decided to take my crack home.

Not eschewing authenticity entirely, I stole a car antennae/pipe from an old Toyota Corolla and decided to smoke my crack in the small alley behind my house. On first impression, I thought it was fucking awesome. What a rush! Like the fast food version of cocaine, crack hits you fast and hard.

Each step becomes determined. Everything is forward and everything has purpose. No one can stop you. Then like 15 minutes later that shit wears off and you’re looking around your house for shit you can sell. How much can I get for that air conditioner? That TV? The bedding on my mattress? And where can I find a shopping cart to haul this around in? Damn, my lips are dry.

As you soon learn, everything in crack culture is about earning crack money. In the end, I found crack culture unappealing. While the pursuit of crack gave purpose to my increasingly pathetic life, I was left unfulfilled. I missed my job and a steady paycheck. I missed not having intestinal parasites and foot rot. Most of all I missed not coughing up blood.

My stint with crack may have been short lived, but I understand its appeal. While it wasn’t for me, crack dovetails nicely with the lifestyle of many Americans. And while I haven’t smoked rock for more than a year, I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for that harsh chemical taste and crazy bug eyed rush.

Since I’ve got nothing to say today, I’m digging through the archives of my phony product reviews. In days past, I had a bad habit of writing fake product reviews for odd items I found on epinions.com. Here’s one I wrote for something called the “Rectal Fever Thermometer.”

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I am constantly probing my anus for any signs of rectal fever. Rectal fever is most easily distinguished by an abnormally hot rectum. There is only one truly accurate way to diagnose rectal fever and that is with products like the Rectal Fever Thermometer. Sometimes people will walk up to you, grab the fatty tissue of your left buttock and exclaim:

“Feels like you’ve got a case of rectal fever.”

This method of diagnosis is highly inaccurate. The feel method may distinguish a hot ass from a normal one, but full-blown rectal fever is a condition entirely different. The feel method is wholly unscientific for a number of reasons.

First of all, unless you’re butt naked or you are Prince, the feel method is obstructed by the layers of clothing covering the ass. In my case the feel method is usually impeded by the presence of tight stone washed jeans or Lycra booty shorts. Even with full-blown rectal fever, you can’t feel the heat through denim. Sometimes also, my pants conduct their own heat thus promoting mixed results. Secondly, the feel diagnosis of rectal fever can be skewed by bias of the feeler. Remember personal bias can lead to misdiagnosis of rectal fever. I thought one girl that I know had rectal fever for years, although later I found that I was just hot for her. Her rectum was warm, even hot, but not feverish. My bias led to misdiagnosis.

To diagnose true rectal fever, you’ve gotta get in there with some technology. The Greeks often diagnosed rectal fever in their young servants with the single finger method. If you’ve ever seen the movie Caligula, you know that techniques varied between the Greeks and the Romans. These days our instruments are far more accurate.

The Rectal Fever Thermometer is the cutting edge of rectal fever probes. Soft, gentle and easy to assemble, the Rectal Fever Thermometer is a must buy. At less than 5 dollars, you’d be cheating yourself if you didn’t purchase this product and stick it deep into your anus. Everyone should know if they’ve got the rectal fever. The readout is quick and accurate. You’ll know in minutes just how hot your rectum truly is.

This is also the thermometer advertised as the one that doctors use most. I know my doctor diagnosed his own case of rectal fever with this very thermometer. I was there the night he did it. But that’s a separate story.

I am proud to say that I’ve got the fever. In fact, I’ve got a wicked fierce case of it. Sometimes it is a burden, but usually the benefits outweigh the detriments. My doctor tells me it will go away by the time I’m 40, so for now I’m living it up. Buy this thermometer and see if you’ve got the fever too.

Here’s a product review I once wrote for: Body Shop Glycerin & Oat Facial Lather.

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The internet is a wonderful tool for research. But this story is a word of warning to all you web surfers out there. Before you start, it’s imperative that you know at least a little bit about the subject that you’re looking into. My total ignorance of one topic nearly cost me my relationship.

It all started when Abby - my girlfriend of 3 years - mentioned that her skin was dry and unhealthy. We were sitting around finishing off a nice bottle of Chilean red wine when she told me she was thinking of buying a creamy facial treatment for her face.

Unless you’re as clueless as I was, you can probably already see where this is going. The next day I typed “creamy facial” into my favorite search engine and got some startling results. I viewed some pictures and downloaded some informative videos, entirely captivated by the subject and the research in general.

Then I asked myself, how much was she paying for this? It didn’t look like there was too much to the whole procedure. I doubted I was missing anything important and technique appeared sloppy at best. After a brief deliberation, I decided to perform the facial myself. We are both frugal people and I was sure she’d love the savings.

Assuming she hadn’t asked me out of consideration to the slight embarrassment the subject might have caused, I decided to surprise her. I was sure that she’d be happy about my willingness to help out.

The next Saturday morning I surprised her with breakfast in bed. I cooked up pancakes and topped them with fresh fruit and maple syrup. She was very pleased and certainly surprised. I thought that following one surprise with another would kick off the day in true form. As she finished breakfast, I reviewed my creamy facial videos and prepared for execution. Before long, I was ready to go.

When I came at her ready for the big moment, her reaction was most definitely surprise. Then shock, then something that can only be described as horror. In those precious few seconds I yelled that I just wanted to give her a cheap facial, but this just made things worse. At that last critical moment, I felt the cold smack of her breakfast tray on the side of my head. Knocked backwards to the floor I lay there helpless, my solution spilling uselessly to the floor.

After a few minutes of intense confusion and anger, emotional levels returned to normal and a proper dialogue was established. I told her the story from the start and she explained to me what facial creams actually were. When I grasped the concept of facial cream, my heart sank. I realized that my research was misguided by an alternate definition of the term. My embarrassment was devastating. Later we both went out to the Body Shop to buy some “Body Shop Glycerin & Oat Facial Lather.” We went home to test the foaming cream. It was great. Cool to the skin, this stuff feels great from the start. It doesn’t leave your skin too oily or too dry like other facial treatments.

The Body Shop Glycerin & Oat Facial Lather has a pleasant aroma as well. Within a few days I noticed an improvement in my skin as well as Abby’s. No more dryness and no more flaking. Our skin was also softer then it had been and it felt quite a bit healthier as well. Now I am a regular at the Body Shop too. I’m hooked on facial cream. I can’t get enough of it. I recommend it to anyone who may have dry, flaky or otherwise unhealthy skin.

Work demands my time, so once again it’s time to dig deep into the archives and pull out something sweet. Here is a short list of helpful driving tips I originally put together in September 2000.

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Driving in the city teaches you a lot about human nature. Just a few hours on the road can turn an introverted, geeky little bookworm into a snarling, profanity spewing madman. To keep your calm on the big city streets, there are a few helpful hints to remember:

1. If you find yourself stuck in traffic, honk your horn repeatedly. This will encourage the gridlock to break up and traffic to begin flowing again.

2. If someone cuts you off, pull up next to them and flash a gun. This will make them think twice before cutting you off again. If you don’t have a gun, tousle your hair and gesture like you do have one, and mouth the word “pow” several times. This usually works just about as well.

3. If you’re caught in traffic on a large, multi lane road make use of the shoulder. No one ever uses the shoulder. Usually you can stream right by all those other saps at about 60 mph.

4. Similarly, if you miss a yellow light and are forced to drive through a red one, turn on your high beams and honk your horn to alert other drivers.

5. If you are pulled over, do not be polite to the officer. Police don’t like being sucked up to and would usually prefer a physical confrontation. Their jobs are mostly paperwork; every cop likes getting the blood going a little bit. If you are pulled over, leap from the car before it comes to a complete stop and start running for the cruiser screaming like lunatic. You’ll both appreciate the excitement.

6. If someone on the road really gets under your skin, put on a pair of sunglasses and follow them around for a while.

7. If you are male and you encounter someone you think is hot do all of the above, but exchange all violent and/or lude gestures with sexual innuendo. Romantic pursuits via car to car flirtation, are often successful. Using all of the listed techniques will prove to the female that you are a masculine creature capable of pleasing her in every way. Shout sweet nothings into her window at red lights to increase probability of copulation.

Well, you get the idea. These are just a few helpful hints that will aid you in your travels. I hope they work for you as they have worked for me.

Every once in a while I resurrect one of my phony product reviews from the website epinions.com. From 1999-2001 during slow time at my job in an animal ER, I used to write things like this review for a strap on catheter:

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How my life has changed since I discovered the Netti One-Leg Stocking. This nifty little device makes conventional toilets obsolete. I’m not incontinent, but what’s it matter with convenience like this? The Netti One-leg Stocking is the bathroom you strap to your leg. Anytime, anywhere, there it is.

I know you’re skeptical. You’re probably reading this and thinking, is this guy for real? I must admit that when I first came across this product, I had the same objections to the whole concept of peeing into your leg that you’re probably having right now. But you need only to cross a small mental barrier in order to see the light.

The beauty of it is that you aren’t really peeing on yourself. In fact, the urine never touches you. The product is clean, easy to assemble and cheap. The practice of using only a conventional restroom is an entirely culturally based construct, and if I might add, just a little bit snobbish. If you break the hegemonic relationship between yourself and your bathroom like I have with the Netti One-leg Stocking, imagine the quality of life you will gain.

In the car, at the movies, everyplace you have wished you could urinate at will, you can! And I won’t lie, there’s a certain satisfaction gained in peeing comfortably while interacting in otherwise normal circumstances. Just the other day, I was urinating while I asked out an attractive young woman. You can’t even come close to imagining the added sense ease and comfort brought on by the relief of a good urination in such a situation. The same holds true for job interviews, uncomfortable holiday get togethers and pretty much any other high stress situation. The Netti One-Leg Stocking is a therapeutic device as much as anything.

The other day my boss was coming down on me hard for not getting a proposal in on time. Instead of fumbling for words, like I used to do, I smiled narrowly, initiated a steady flow of urine and calmly explained exactly why I was unable to meet the deadline. He appreciated my frank demeanor so much, he gave me a promotion! When I heard about the promotion, I peed ecstatically.

(And by the way, the date with that attractive young woman went so well that I had to exchange the urinary condom that I regularly wear, for… well, you know.)

Think of it.

The Netti One-Leg Stocking has given me comfort, time and increased my productivity. It saved my job and even granted me a promotion. Because of it, I have a steady girlfriend and am on the whole a much calmer person. The Netti One-Leg Stocking has paid for itself in more ways than I can list. This thing is just great. I can’t say that enough. In fact I love it so much… I’m peeing right now. Aah, sweet satisfaction.

On October 25 of the year 2000 I wrote this product review for the “Ouija Board” for epinions.com:

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If the dead want to talk, let them come to YOU
Oct 25 ‘00

Pros
good for contacting the dead

Cons
the dead will bore you to death

It’s about time for my favorite holiday, Halloween. I figured I should review something a little freaky. What’s better than the good old fashioned Ouija board?

The first time I used the Ouija board, it was me, my girlfriend and my uncle Teddy. I was about 15 at the time. These days Teddy’s upstate for boinking kids on a Cambodian vacation, but back then he lived in Burlington County NJ. All in all, he was the creepiest part of the night. Dimming the lights and lighting some candles, Teddy broke out the Army of Darkness edition of the Necronomicon and asked to speak with some dead people. Sure enough, some spirit began moving around the little pointer thing. We were all pretty excited, talking to the dead and all. Uncle Teddy had gotten us pretty liquored up with some Southern Comfort. We asked the name of the dead person and he said “Todd.”

That’s when we knew it was going to be a boring night. “Todd” went on and on about how he used to be alive. It took him forever to write out anything. He couldn’t even spell worth a damn. Turns out Todd was a single, shoe salesman who hung himself at age of 32 right in my bedroom! That was sort of interesting, but the fascination soon faded. Todd went on to spell out the words “died a verjan.” We supposed he meant “virgin.” My girlfriend told him she wasn’t surprised and Todd got angry. He tried to blow out the candles, but they just sort of flickered. We laughed and taunted him a while and eventually he left. It was an all around disappointment.

A few years later, me and some friends were bored. I had since moved out of the “Todd” house. It was 3 in the morning and all the bars were closed. We’d been drinking Southern Comfort again, (weird) and smoking opium. After a confused conversation, my friends and I decided that we were sharing hallucinations. All of us kept seeing little men running around under the recliner. Curious as to the nature of these little people, we decided to initiate contact via the Ouija board. We had no luck. The little men weren’t interested in us. Either that or we were just imagining them. We decided to go another route. We got one of my cats and put him near the recliner. Since cats are mystical creatures, we thought he could guide us. But the cat just licked himself and wandered over to the water dish.

At that point we decided we were just imagining things. In a last ditch effort my friend Stephan picked up the Ouija board and folded it up. Creeping over to the recliner he smacked the board down, right on top of one of the little men. He was all squashed and bloody, but you could see his little man hat and his little man pants. He looked like a tiny garden gnome. His little man beard was all stained with blood. My friend felt so bad for killing the little man that he started to cry, asking the other little men for forgiveness. But the other little men had already fled in fear. The next day, the corpse of the little man had turned into a dead cockroach. I gave it to my cat and he ate it.

Recently I took out the Ouija board again. I figured it had to be good for some entertainment. Again I was with friends and again we were drinking Southern Comfort, (I swear to you all, I never drink the stuff. It’s just one of those weird coincidences.) One of my friends got up to vomit in the bathroom. He came back white as a ghost. I asked if he was all right and he said that he was. He told us that he saw a fat woman lying face down in the bathtub. When he walked in he said she turned to look at him. Just as she turned, the SoCo made it’s return to the world and he hunched over to vomit. By the time he finished, the woman was gone.

“Weird.” The rest of us said in unison.

Incited and intrigued, we decided to get to the bottom of it. We took the Ouija board into the bathroom, wiped up the spatterings of sweet peach vomit with some balled up toilet paper and sat in a circle by the tub. We asked to speak with the woman. I’ll spare you the details of this encounter, but the woman was even more boring than Todd. She spent her earthly days watching daytime television and collecting disability. Then she asked us for plot updates on the Young and the Restless. Eventually we discovered that she had drowned in the tub after slipping on a bar of soap. The drain – clogged with matted balls of hair – had pooled around her feet and she died in 3 inches of dirty, oily water. This had been right before I moved in. I remembered pulling clumps of hair from the drain and shuddered in disgust.

The Ouija board is a good tool to contact the dead. But do you really want to? The dead are rarely more fascinating than the living. And on top of that, they usually haven’t talked to anyone for a very long time. They go on and on, trapping you with their stupid, irrelevant stories. The novelty of talking to a dead person wears off real quick.

So this weekend I decided to kick back and relax out in Amish country. The whole trip was precipitated by a craving for sliced ham, pickled eggs and tapioca pudding. Sometimes there’s nothing better.

Once I was full though, my thoughts turned to sex.

I did the usual, cruising the streets of Paradise, PA, whistling at Amish girls and looking all flashy in my motorized vehicle, but for some reason I wasn’t having any luck. Cruising for Mennonites can be rough. Full on Amish girls are even harder. In a change in strategy, I drove down to Route 23. I’d had some success there in the past. One time I met this inbred dairy wench that could churn butter back to cream.

But anyway, after being struck down in Churchtown and neighboring Goodville I drove over to Blue Ball. I hadn’t run into Blue Ball since high school. I’d even forgotten the uncomfortable feeling I used to get from Blue Ball. But there I was. Even though it was a little unpleasant, it was the biggest town around. Getting through Blue Ball was my best chance at scoring so I stopped at the corner bar and ordered a drink. They had Bud, Bud Light and Miller High Life, so I ordered whiskey.

The Blue Ball bar was a desperate place full of desperate men. It didn’t take long to see that life in Blue Ball weighed these people down. The men shifted uncomfortably on their stools, looks of frustration on their faces, nursing their shitty beers in some horrible Blue Ball limbo.

By contrast, the women were surprisingly upbeat. Whatever caused the throbbing, gut wrenching anxiety in Blue Ball, it only affected the men. I chatted with a nice brunette named Cindy. We talked about her hopes, dreams and some other crap. Things were going great and when we hit the dance floor, I thought I’d be busting through that Blue Ball barrier in no time.

Cindy told me to meet her later that night at her house in Intercourse. She promised me apples from her garden and fresh baked corn muffins. She slipped her number and address into my back pocket and told me to meet her at 9PM.

And that’s when things went wrong.

After finishing my last whiskey, I slipped out to my car, ready to hit the road. I felt fine, but for some reason my court ordered breathalizer said that I was too “drunk” to drive. It was bullshit, but I couldn’t start my car without a clean readout. I slammed the dashboard with both fists and fell out of the car into the gravel parking lot.

That’s when I realized that it was 8:30PM and I was stuck in Blue Ball with no way to Intercourse. My map told me that the trip was an agonizing 9.5 miles. I decided to run it. The last time I’d been to Blue Ball was for a statewide track meet. I’d run my way out of Blue Ball before and I could do it again. Unfortunately for me, I was a decade out of condition. With the promise of Cindy’s farm grown apples and the assumption that I would have sex with her also, I didn’t care how out of shape I was.

I hit the pavement. With every step, I drew closer to Intercourse, leaving Blue Ball far behind. But unfortunately, with every dry, pounding motion the pain and cramping just got worse. I started to doubt myself. Could I really get from Blue Ball to Intercourse? As I ran, I called Cindy on my cell and told her the problem. It was so hard I said, and I really, really wanted to come. She gave me a deadline of 10PM. After that, she was feeding her muffin to the dog and going to bed.

At 9:40, just 2 miles from Intercourse I buckled over, a cramp freezing my groin. I couldn’t move. That was it and I knew it. I wouldn’t make it to Intercourse. I lay in the shoulder all night, frustration and pain holding me down. Eventually I masturbated and went home.

Occasionally I repost phony product reviews from my brief ‘career’ over at epinions.com. One day while toiling away at work, I wrote this review of:

Home > Hotels & Travel > Destinations > “Hell”

Yes, Hell is a real place. I think it’s in the Caribbean. Here’s my December, 2000 review:

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I was just a small boy when my stepfather first told me I was going to hell.

“Liberator.” he would say, “You’re nothing but low life scum and if you don’t finish your damn mac and cheese, I’m sending you to hell 60 years early.”

Hell.

I found myself in hell after a brief stint up in heaven. I don’t know how I got there, the last memory I have I was trying to get a bagel out of my toaster with a butter knife. I guess I forgot to unplug it.

The next thing I knew, there I was. Just like in the Family Circus, heaven was a big place full magnificent light and beautiful androgynous beings. It all reminded me very much of the Velvet Underground. But there was something more to it. There was an ever present feeling of overpowering love. A feeling entirely absent from The Velvet Underground and Lou Reed overall. Up in heaven love had form. It had shape and texture. I supposed this was God. Being in heaven was the most spiritual experience I’ve ever had.

And then.

The feeling drained from my body like sand from an hour glass. My strength and understanding fell away as I was transported through a draining of consciousness into some other place of being. There was no sense of falling, there was no sense of movement at all. The change and the shift in perceived time and space seemed to come entirely from within. As love abandoned, my perception changed accordingly. I floated motionless as the world fell away. Ether and essence ceased to be. There was no pain. There was no feeling at all. I just floated, waiting to be thrown into the fiery pits of legend. But it didn’t happen. I prayed to God, begging for forgiveness and for readmittnance into his realm, but my thoughts were dead in nothing.

Without the aid of perception as there was nothing to perceive, I have been here now for what may be an eternity. My consciousness is all that remains. It lives here somewhere, blind, deaf and mute. No one and nothing is here. There is no love, there is no pain, no grand ideal, no emotion at all. No feeling at all. I can only think… I can only think. I’ve relived my life a million times. I’ve recounted every moment. I can do it a million times in what seems like a second. But as many times as I do it, I can never feel it. I can never feel in the memory of it. I can never understand it. I know I should, and I think that I can, But I can’t. I just can’t.

I’ve wondered where my thoughts go. Do they exist at all? I asked the same question on earth, but now I know the answer. On earth there was a purpose. There was a reason for thought and my thoughts were alive there. Thought was transcendent on earth. It lived in it’s own space. Now that I’m dead, I know this. That every thought I had on earth existed elsewhere, but it always tied into my life and myself. Why or how I ended up here I don’t know. I’ve thought of it forever, but just can’t understand. There’s nothing here to understand. Just words and dead thought.

What world do my thoughts end up in? Do they go anywhere from here? Can someone hear my thoughts now? Why am I here? Where are my thoughts now?

On days when I don’t have the time or inclination to post, I regurgitate posts from my career at epinions.com. There I wrote phony product reviews under the handle “liberator76.” My persona there was far more popular than this one here. This review for a Yugo convertible racked up 33 comments:

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When my job as a stack attendant at Borders Books International transferred me from center city Philadelphia to the main warehouse out in the burbs, I was faced with a bit of a dilemma. Of course, I had to take the promotion. Finally, my career was taking off. The job offered a raise in the upwards of a dollar an hour. Benefits included a 15% discount on all books, 10% on audio. I was finally going somewhere.

But every blessing comes with a terrible curse. Work kept me out of the house 50-60 hours a week as it was. My then-girlfriend, Cindy had already taken 5 or 6 lovers in my persistent absence. I mean I can’t blame her, I was never around and even when I was I usually just drank until I lost consciousness. I feared that she would leave me altogether if I worked anymore. I had to find a way to spend more time at home.

By bus, getting to my new job would require about 2 and a half hours of transportation a day. I had to take the el to the main terminal and then 2 buses to a spot about a mile from the warehouse. Moving was not an option, as suburban life isn’t for me. I decided to get a car. With the extra .92 an hour, a car was finally feasible. I went down to the corner store and lifted a copy of the �trader times.� In it I found all sorts of cars listed.

That evening I went home, stripped naked, covered myself in peanut oil and vinegar, lit 77 candles, arranging them in a spiral pattern around me. I affixed steel/leather clamps to my eyelids and nipples and induced bile from my bosom into a ceramic pot I had placed at my feet. Removing the clamps and returning to their burlap carryall filled with flour and corn meal, I sat in the center of the room and read through my issue of the Trader Times. Scanning the ads, I realized that most of the cars were all far too expensive.

Then I saw it. When the winter wind whipped through my broken window and into my room, the shadow of several candles converged on the ad of a 1991 Yugo convertible. The price, $112. Now this was a car in my price range! The next day I started my investigation of the owner. Urgbon Molzinvericheznt, was his name. A simple background check showed that his record in the States was clean. Having moved from the former Yugoslavia in 1993 Urgbon had attained his citizenship in 1998. His parents had been killed in the 1999 NATO bombings. For this, an extensive FBI file was available. It seems they considered him a potential security threat and monitored his actions. Later in the day I called Urgbon, from a secure phone in Borders. Urgbon agreed to sell me the Yugo for $100. He said it had about 100,000 miles on it, but was in otherwise good condition.

When I bought the Yugo, I felt great. My first car. And a convertible at that! The classic Eastern European design and engineering made me feel like a genuine piece of neo-Soviet Euro-trash. I slipped on my pair of “Eagle Eye” (as seen on TV) sunglasses, popped down the top and took off for home. I slept easy that night.

The bitter winter wind whipped through my hair as I cruised the King of Prussia Mall parking lot on the way to work the next day. The roof of the Yugo had broken free when I was taking the top down and I couldn’t find a way to reattach it. It was of no concern; I didn’t plan on putting the top up much at all.

On the way home from work, when black smoke started billowing from the floor of the vehicle, I decided I should probably take the car in for a tune-up. The owner of the Jiffy Lube told me that they didn’t repair Yugos and referred me to a European Motors specialist. When I pulled up in the lot, the repairman met me in the lot.

“Is that a Yugo?” He asked enthusiastically.

“Sure is.” I responded proudly.

“Well son of a bitch.” He said, “I didn’t think any of them were still on the road.”

“This one is.” I responded. “Bet you don�t see too much of these babies around, do you?”

“Sure don’t.”

“It’s got some smoke coming out of it and the roof fell off, can you fix it?”

The mechanic burst into hysterical laughter. This lasted for several minutes. He smacked a monkey wrench on the ground, tears streaming down his leathery grease covered face. He sure did look jolly. Like a grease clown. When he finally gained enough composure to speak, he said to me:

“Boy, these are the most unreliable cars in the history of the world. They go on an break down every 5 miles.”

“But can you fix it?” I asked.

“The country they come from hasn’t existed for na’er on a decade… an even if the sanctions was lifted an parts were allowed shipped, the air force’s bombed the Yugo plant. Yugo’s been blown off the face of the earth.”

“Oh.” I said, feeling a little cheated. “Was that in the NATO bombing?”

“Yup. NATO that was the one.”

“Oh.”

That’s where Urgbon�s parents were killed, I thought. they died in the bombing of the Yugo manufacturing plant. It all started to make sense. I had a piece of junk car from an enemy country that no longer existed.

“What can you do with it?” I asked.

“I can sell it for scrap.”

“Oh”

“Can you put rims on it?”

“No. The wheel size is a standard for Yugo only.”

“Oh. Can�t you just use makeshift parts?”

“Nope. Don�t much care to”

With this final revelation, I left. Driving off in my Yugo, the smoke began to seep from various parts of the car. I hit the fan button to try to cool the engine, but smoke, then flame shot from the vents. I tried to stop the car, but the brakes failed. I pulled the emergency brake clear off. I decided to jump for it. Aiming the car at a brick wall, so as to avoid pedestrian injury, I leapt from the car, covering my face and rolling to a stop. The Yugo drifted slowly into the wall, completely engulfed in flame. It tried to blow up, but even failed at that. The gas cap blew off and a flaccid shot of smoke emerged from the valve. I watched the car smolder slowly, shaking my head in disgust.

I guess I always have my degree in computer programming to fall back on. I’m quitting Borders altogether and getting a job in that field. That way I can buy a fucking Mercedes. As for Cindy, she can go to hell. It’s time I take charge!

Years ago, I wrote fake product reviews for epinions.com. Eventually I was banned from the site, but I stand by my work. This is my review for “Ropel Animal, Rodent and Bird Repellent.”

What excited me most about my new house in suburban Philadelphia was my 3½ acre yard. The yard in fact, sold me on the house. Sure it needed a little work, but it would be a calming activity to cultivate the land to my liking. The overgrown lush greenery and chaotic flowerbeds stretched across the rolling yardscape, before dropping suddenly into a small valley cut by a rushing creek full of crawdads and tiny speckled fish. In the evenings deer would emerge from the nearby woods and graze on my lawn. Occasionally a groundhog would stick his head from an underground den, or go lumbering clumsily across my yard.

The place obviously needed work. Before my new yard could be arranged to a simple state of subtle beauty I found that it would be necessary to repel nature with an abrasive chemical spray. I purchased several industrial drums of Ropel Animal, Rodent and Bird Repellent on the advice of a friend. It advertised a repellent force to nearly every creature disturbing the desired order of my yard. Pesky squirrels, groundhogs, deer, rabbits, cats, dogs, mice, moles, songbirds, doves, raccoons and possums would no longer be a problem. I immediately went to work. I sprayed the trees to repel the birds. I coated every plant and inch of lawn to deal with the larger mammals. Through a homemade siphon, I pumped the chemical liquid into the ground. I even poured some into the babbling brook which ran through my property to see if it would repel fish as well. The fish were not repelled, but instead, died.

I am an admirer of nature and had no intention of killing the local marine life. Instead of continuing with lethal water treatments, I dammed up the river with concrete blocks at the property line and salted the riverbed to rid the earth of worms and parasites. On land, the repellent worked, but was not all and entirely effective. Often I would wake to the sounds of birds in my yard. Still, a squirrel could be spotted scurrying across my lawn, or a rabbit nibbling on a length of grass. High frequency sound machines, air rifle surveillance and even chemical sprays proved only to be a “band-aid solution” to the overall problem of free-roaming nature. Taking the tactics I had learned from the “creek solution” and aesthetic sensibilities drawn from local, suburban commercial districts, I leveled the yard, flattened the land and finished it with the permanence and strength of 6-inch layer of concrete.

The concrete did the trick and I learned a valuable lesson. Nature begets nature. Particular elements of the natural world cannot be removed. To remove nature - as became my ultimate goal - nature must be conquered and obliterated; paved, fenced in and dammed off. As I said, I have nothing against the natural world, in fact I quite enjoy “getting back to nature” from time to time. Just not at home, during the work week. Nature should be allowed to thrive in an allotted space, like in our many great National Parks. Everything has its place. Nature should, like in my yard, be isolated and cordoned into a planned field of existence, while the rest of the world should be allowed to thrive as to the dictation and planning of Earth’s ultimate masters; mankind.

I love my new yard. Ropel Animal, Rodent and Bird Repellant may serve as a temporary and attractive solution, but you will learn, just as I did, that if you wish to control nature, it’s all or nothing. Nature must be obliterated.

It’s time for another trip through the archives. Actually this may be an archive week. But that’s just fine. Grammatical errors aside, my writing used to be funnier. Today’s installment, my review of a 34′ yact I once owned… or pretended to own. For some reason it was the epinions review that earned me the most $. Before I was banned from the site, this little beauty brought in a cool $13.32.

Boston Whaler 34′ Defiance

I was thinking about things the other day and came to a conclusion. I’ve always had some distaste towards hunting. Then I thought, what’s wrong with me? I eat meat. In fact I eat it pretty often. Isn’t it better to eat something you actually slaughter yourself?

I don’t want someone else killing my food for me. The closer I am to the death of my food, the better. I vowed to never again eat store bought meats. If you can’t kill it yourself, you shouldn’t be eating it.

I had never killed a large animal before. In fact I had never even hunted. Once I went fishing, but I had no luck. I’ve always had an aversion to guns. Hunting would require that I purchase one. But lo and behold, all these restrictive gun laws made it impossible for me to purchase a gun. It seems that some liberal made it illegal for a convicted felon with a history of severe mental instability to buy an assault rifle. I’m on parole, I’ve paid my debt and am now quite stable. What the fuck do they want?

After some soul searching, I decided that fishing was my best bet. But how was I going to catch enough to last me through the long winter months? I don’t have a lot of time either, I can’t be out fishing 2 or 3 days a week. What was I to do? I had been planning on killing a medium size U-Haul full of deer in 1 or 2 outings and eating that for a while, but this option was short on feasibility. Then it came to me. Whales.

That very moment I went to my local yacht retailer and plunked down $750,000 for the “Boston Whaler 34′ Defiance.” I named it Tom Selek, smacked it with a bottle of champagne and off I went. The Boston Whaler 34′ Defiance is a fine boat. The cabin ceiling, at 6′4′’ is more than accommodating to the average size man. Everything is state of the art. Digital readouts everywhere. I was about 17 miles off shore when I saw a whale spouting off at 3 o’clock. Setting my boat on a collision course with the hideous beast I pushed the 450 horsepower engine to the max. The Boston Whaler 34′ Defiance is advertised as ‘unsinkable.’ I had no fear. Unfortunately I had no harpoons either. I fashioned one makeshift from the 13′3′’ beam. Attaching the beam to some rope that didn’t seem to be doing anything important, I practiced swinging the thing around my head. It swung pretty good.

Then I saw the mighty beast blow again. It’s sea-filth sprayed high into the afternoon sky. This time my estimates put it at 40′ off my port bow. I slowed the Boston Whaler 34′ Defiance to an idle. “The quiet power of twin inboards, made even quieter by a unique and innovative exhaust system,” was like a dream come true. Suddenly the barbarous sea-hag surfaced along side the boat. I screamed and plunged the harpoon into its turgid blubber. Quickly I fastened the other end of the device to the satellite TV antennae.

The mighty whale responded by tearing the hull in two, breaking free from the harpoon and easily overturning my Boston Whaler 34′ Defiance. I was spilled into the bitter Atlantic. Boy was my face red. As I floated in the sea waiting to be rescued, I decided to become a vegetarian. Some dolphins came by. You always read about how beautiful they are, how deeply spiritual they are etc, etc. When I saw them, the poked me around for a while, bit me, and swam off on their tails. Just like you see them doing at seaworld. They were not friendly at all. Fuck dolphins. I managed to pop one in the eye before they swam off.

Eventually I was rescued. It seems that somehow I violated so many laws on my little excursion that I ended up breaking the terms of my parole. It was back to jail for a few days until I posted bail.

The boat was great, it’s a shame it sank. I am working on a lawsuit, it really did advertise as unsinkable. Here see for yourself. I quote:

“All of it, and you, protected by Whaler’s unsinkable foam core construction.”

http://www.whaler.com/2000Product/Model.asp?ModID=13

Liars.

Occasionally I dig through my old epinions.com archives for material I’m looking to resurrect. I wrote phony product reviews and advice columns for the site before being blacklisted and having my reviews banned from publication. But seriously, how can you NOT write a phony review on the topic “How To Use Utensils?”

Here’s what I wrote:

If you think you know utensils, just try to bust a nut
Jan 18 ‘01

I never grew up with the privilege of class and etiquette. In the helter skelter days of my youth, TV dinners were the fare of most evenings. It was the 80’s and Vietnam was over. Americas various wars had been forced off the airwaves by an overly cautious Regan administration. Instead we would watch reruns of MASH as we ate our gray Salisbury steaks and instant mashed potatoes. My parents, not fans of doing dishes would rarely allow the family the luxury of eating utensils. I grew up eating only with my hands.

School was of no help to my social development either, as my free lunches included only a spork, the strange mate of a plastic spoon and fork. Many public school kids know the frustration of the spork. With all the rage of a despondent and self-knowingly hopeless child I would stab at my tater-tots and yellowed beans, unable to impale them with the puny convex tines of the pathetic and incapable spork. Once I stabbed at my teacher, Mrs Jones in a desperate cry for attention. Instead I was suspended and subsequently beaten by my father with his trusty hickory switch.

As I grew older my manner of utensil use turned from bad to worse. The knife was the only utensil I knew. The fork and spoon, let alone the pickle fork and swizzle stick were virtually unknown to me. With the knife I would rob, steal and occasionally stab. Only years later did I learn that a direct and forceful thrust of the knife was rarely the in the realm of proper etiquette.

I cleaned up my stabbing ways after a close call with the law. I decided that if my life was to turn around, I would need to learn the proper use of utensils. I began at a uptight downtown cafe. The cafe is a simple place full of simple utensils and snotty etiquette. My observations of fellow cafe goers were perceived as harmless flirtation, not the utensil observation that it truly was. I watched a pretty young lady stir cream and sugar into her hot beverage with an elongated spoon. She smiled to me as she tapped it lightly to the side of her mug. I ordered a cup of coffee and aped the procedure. I noticed a man in the corner shaking his head at me in disgust. He was reading a book entitled “Japanese Emperor-Gods” and wearing a Dallas Stars cap.

“What, sir is the matter?” I asked.

“Anyone who puts cream in their coffee is morally questionable.” He responded.

“I was just practicing the employment of this here spoon.” I said. “Was my application of the utensil inappropriate?”

“No, you used it just fine.” Spoke the frightening man as he spread what appeared to be orange marmalade onto a rough piece of a baguette with a wide, flat knife. “I just think anyone who puts cream in their coffee is a despicable human being.”

“Well all right then, duly noted. May I try a piece of bread?”

“Sure.” Spoke the hideous stranger as he daintily passed me the marmalade and bread.

The cafe was a prime place of learning for proper utensil use. I ate salads and soups. I used the tea spoon, to retrieve the tea bag from the steeped tea. I spread jellies, jams and cream cheese on breads, bagels and croissants. What a wonderful place to learn utensil etiquette! The cafe proved to be a big step in the right direction.

But it all came crashing down a short time later. At a dinner party with a friend from the posh cafe I found myself faced with a bowl of assorted nuts. I watched as the goateed fancy boys retrieved the meat from within the nuts with a casual squeeze of the nutcracker utensil. They joked and sipped wine, always holding from the bottom of the stem as to avoid warming the liquid within the bowl of the glass. The nut procedure looked simple enough. I decided to make an attempt.

Strolling over to the nuts, I picked up the nutcracker and turned it in my hands. Powered by the force of a simple lever, I found a space, near the crook of the device grooved so as to hold a nut. Yes, this would be a simple task, I thought to myself. I chose a walnut. It fit awkwardly into the nutcracker. It did not much fit in the grooved ridges at all. I was forced to place the bulk of the walnut somewhat above the ideal center of nutcrushing force. But this was my nut.

I was determined to bust a nut at this party, and bust a nut was what I was to do. Winking to a female partygoer, I squeezed my nut in my palm. I squeezed my nut harder, I could feel my face turning red under the overexertion. I couldn’t believe how hard my nut was. I held my nut in close to my body, squeezing in frustration, anticipating the feeling of release which was sure to wash over me, once I had busted my nut. I needed to master my utensil and I knew I would not be able to do so until I learned to bust a nut when I wanted, where I wanted and how I wanted. But the current situation was becoming quite embarrassing.

My nut slipped from my grip and rolled to the floor. When I looked to find it, I found my nut in the hand of a beautiful woman. She palmed my nut, gently rolling it back and forth across her fingers.

“Do you need some help with this?” She asked while gently stroking my nut with her thumb.

“Sure, I am having a bit of trouble with this.” I spoke timidly.

She grabbed a hold of my hand and held it out, slipping my nut into the nutcracker.

“Now squeeze like this.” She said as she squeezed my hand in hers. I felt my nut giving way under the immense pressure.

And then it happened. I busted my nut. My nut flew everywhere, into the air, into the punch, onto other party goers. I even got some of my nut in the helpful woman’s eye. She held her face, laughing, not angry. She said to me:

“Now there you go, was that so hard?”

Since then, I have learned the whole gambit of utensils. If ever you need to learn how to use a untensil may I suggest going to a cafe or a party. Observation is key. Utensils are easy. Well that’s it.

I used to be a humor writer. One of my main online outlets was over at epinions.com, where I’d write ridiculous product reviews for items I’d never used. Recently, I applied for an unpaid humor writing position and went perusing through some of my old reviews. I just hate to brag and all, but the following review for Body Shop Hemp Soap cracked me up.

It also helped me get the unpaid writing position, which I’ve been neglecting since getting the email confirmation… so David, if you’re reading this I haven’t forgotten, I’ve just been busy.

——-

Recently it came to my attention that some of my everyday activities may in fact be temporarily harming the environment. Although the harmful effects of human activity are infinitesimal in the long run, they may be great enough to cause our extinction. Even Stephen Hawking claims this is so. He fears our planet will soon have an atmosphere similar to that of Venus. Stephen Hawking urges us to colonize space immediately, (Philadelphia Inquirer, 10-9-00). I thought I’d do my part in cleaning up the environment. The first thing I did was buy a bar of “The Body Shop Hemp Soap.”

Hemp soap does not poison our sewers with toxins like other soaps. There’s still the issue of the hundreds of millions of tons of human waste down there, but hey you got to start somewhere. I felt that I was finally doing some good. But while better for the environment, hemp soap proved to be my undoing.

First of all, the stuff makes you stink like a hippie. I scrubbed and scrubbed wondering what the smell was, and then I realized, it was the soap itself. I decided to put up with the stink for the sake of humanity. Boy was that a mistake. A week after I began using the stuff, my boss called me into the office. Taking the liberty provided by a zero tolerance drug policy, I was immediately fired. Apparently my use of hemp soap in the company restrooms was indicative of a dangerously liberal tolerance towards other hemp products, including marijuana. I was officially blacklisted and released from my position.

With nowhere to turn, I found myself on the steps of Greenpeace. The address of the organization I found right on the packaging of The Body Shop Hemp Soap. It was in Greenpeace that I was introduced to harder forms of environmentalism. At first it started as a part time thing. On the weekends and such. But without steady employment, I turned to Greenpeace full time. Seven days a week I was there licking envelopes, (made of recycled paper), standing on the corner, begging strangers for money. In fact, I got so deep into environmentalism that I could no longer function in normal society.

I refused to eat at fast food restaurants. I stopped eating meat. I became unable to drive due to my skewed moral sensibilities. I boycotted countless hundreds of companies, products, corporations and organizations. My new practice of life pushed me to the peripheries of American society. My girlfriend of six years broke up with me after a heated argument about body hair.

My environmentalism then branched out to other areas. I left the Democratic party, joining the Green party instead. Who was I? I had lost my job, my girlfriend, I had given away all my possessions and I had now lost my political voice as well. And all because of hemp soap. It all came to a head soon after.

One day, while protesting the world economy, I was arrested. That was it. I had hit rock bottom. I sat in prison, sobbing quietly into the dirty hemp rags that I wore. If they hadn’t taken my hemp belt, I would have hung myself right then and there. But I struggled on, my commitment to mother earth all that I had to keep me going day in and day out.

And that’s where I am today. Hemp soap led me on a road to extreme environmentalism. I have toned down my rhetoric, but I will never be like I was. I am changed forever. The whole thing was a learning experience. I can’t say whether or not I have any regrets with the path I have chosen. It is not a reasonable or quantifiable thing.

Chances are, hemp soap will lead you down the road to increased environmental activity as well. All I try to do here is warn you where these practices can lead you. It is up to you. I just don’t want you to go into this as blindly as I.

Today John Madden was inducted into the Football Hall of Fame. Today is the Eagles first pre-season game of the 2006-2007 season. In honor of these two events, here’s a review I once wrote about John Madden’s Ultimate Tailgating Book. READ IT TO THE BITTER END!!!

————

Since I was a little kid, I’ve loved football. When I was about 9 years old, my dad started coming to me on Sunday afternoons, sitting me down in front of the TV, explaining to me the rules of the game. Before too long, I began going to my dad on Sundays. It was our day. Week in, week out, we would sit, watch and despair at the Eagles. Moods were raised and more often crushed by the Philadelphia Eagles constant and unyielding ineptitude. I learned a lot about life on those Sunday afternoons. I learned that ideals are foolish, impossible and unattainable, but never, ever, to give up hope. The Eagles have never let me down in that belief and to this day I defy them to prove me wrong.

Football was not just about futile dreams and dashed hopes. My father also initiated me in football culture on those Sunday afternoons. There would be beer, snacks and obscenely large martinis. My father would give me the gin soaked olives. During my childhood I thought olives were supposed to taste like chewy globules of turpentine. But I learned more about football one October day, than I had in all my father-son Sundays.

I was a little older. Me and some friends decided to go down and see the Eagles play the hated Cowboys. We arrived at Veterans stadium at 11am, 2 hours before kick-off. We had a couple hours to tailgate. We had to drink a lot before kickoff, seeing as alcohol had been banned inside the stadium due to several ‘incidents.’ Like the time the fans pelted Santa Claus with iceballs or the time(s) of the rioting in the upper decks.

A friend had gotten the John Madden tailgating book. It told us how to drink, grill up some meat and paint our bodies like true football maniacs. We had a great time. With John Madden as our companion, we were instant pros. The book also told us that tailgating after the game was an effective way to avoid the traffic jams and the post game mayhem.

The Eagles beat the Cowboys that day. Michael Irvin was critically injured in the process. The semi-sober fans cheered as he was carted off the field, strapped to a stretcher. It was a true Philly sports experience. After the game, we all hung out in the parking lot with our beer and our John Madden companion guide. The book told us not to start driving until we weren’t drunk, so we had some time. At about 6pm, we were among the last in the lot.

It was then that we saw a luxury bus pull up a hundred feet from where we stood. Grease from my burger dripped from my lips as I spotted John Madden just outside the bus. I washed down the burger with a few gulps of Yuengling, wiped my mouth with my sleeve and shouted:

“Hey, that’s John Madden over there. Why don’t you go try to get your book signed Greg?”

My friend, Greg, grabbed his book and stumbled towards John Madden. We followed behind, eager to meet the God of football announcers. As we approached, we realized that sure enough, it was none other than John Madden. Up close he is a magnificent beast. His odor is a powerful musk. The wind whipped through his thin strands of white hair. He used no gel, this was the real thing. Stepping into his formidable shadow, Greg held his hand out to him as a greeting. A smile stretched across Maddens face, his yellowed teeth flashing in the sunset, just behind his thin, cracked lips. We introduced ourselves and struck up a conversation about FOOTBALL. We hit it off from the start. In fact we hit it off so well that Madden invited us out for a night on the town. Pointing to his book, he told us that we were obviously too drunk to drive home anyway.

What I remember of that night was great. We went out to a sports bar, drank and watched FOOTBALL with John Madden. When the days games were complete, Madden took us all to a Jersey strip club. I remember very little after that. Bits and pieces of Maddenisms I heard that night still come to me periodically. Madden is the Shakespeare of football. He is a football idealist. He believes in the essence of the game, the abstract and intangible elements of it. Madden balances reason and metaphor, always, always in the context of FOOTBALL. It was no Sunday with my drunken father. It was Sunday with a drunken John Madden at some sleazy Jersey strip club.

The next morning I woke in a dirty motel room. I was alone and could not find my clothes. I stank of cigarettes and liquor. My head throbbed, my eyes felt as if they were filled with lead and my throat was scratched and bleeding. What I saw next was pure terror and will forever be engrained in my mind. As an image, it has been stamped into my very soul, a memory to be carried with me until the end of time.

I stumbled into the motel living room and flicked on the light. Sitting on the torn up brown polyester sofa was Madden. Drenched in sweat, surrounded by empty beer bottles and completely naked. His massive gut covered his genitals although I could smell them. The odor stung my bleeding throat and I gagged a bit, my eyes still fixed on the beast. His wheezing became louder as he became cognizant of my presence. His head, previously slouched into his wet-hairy-man-breasts, moved. Grunts and snorts came from him as gas roared from his massive buttocks. A low groan, rife with the gurgling of saliva and phlem escaped his throat as his massive head turned slowly in my direction. His ice blue eyes pierced into my very being and a single bead of sweat dropped from his lower lip. The ceiling fan spun unsteadily, throwing rippled shadows of the morning sun in slow motion across the room in a steady, unbalanced rhythm. It was too much. My trance was snapped by that drop of sweat and I realized that my Madden was sitting on my clothing.

I ran naked form the motel. I stood somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike screaming for help. Again I blacked out. I don’t know how I got home that Monday afternoon and I don’t care. I learned more about football that weekend than I may have otherwise learned in a lifetime of Sundays. John Madden takes tailgating to a whole other level. In a way, even with the fragmented memory, it all makes perfect sense. I recommend this book to any football fan. John Madden truly is the essence of FOOTBALL.

Never give up hope.

Many years ago, I wrote for epinions.com. Epinions was a site wherein consumers wrote reviews of the products that they consumed. It still exists, although it’s now a little different. Before the dot com bust, reviewers earned cash. The better the review, the more clicks and the more cash earned. There was a comment system, web of trust and pretty much all the other essential pieces of today’s popular blogs and networking sites. The only difference was that it was centered around product review, not  narcissism, gossip or semi-anonymous sexual encounters.

During my ‘career’ at epinions, I became associated with a small group of dissident reviewers. Largely ignoring actual product review, we’d use the platform for creative, satirical and darkly humorous writing. Eventually I lost interest and at some point after that, epinions decided to block all reviews penned by my handle, liberator76. Because these little gems have been lost to the world, I’ve decided to republish some of them here. The other day, after seeing Cirque du Soleil (free tickets) I remembered my review of the video “Be a Clown.” I went back and read it and then decided to share:

Everyone loves a Clown

Back from break and into my chair at work. I was in no mood for the boss. Alcohol makes me surly. Everyday I cap off my lunch with a couple of shots of vodka from the flask I hide in my right-hand desk drawer. Today I had three times as much. It was a bad day. The boss had been grilling me hard about some reports or something.

I hid in the bathroom stall huddled by the toilet drinking. I was damn tired of pushing paper for “the man,” my boss, Howard Elsner. Hands shaking, I crushed two tablets of my prescription valium on the back of the toilet, scooped it up with a fingernail and snorted it straight. Some of the powder stuck to my sweaty hands. I wiped it off on my stomach hair and left the bathroom.

So, there I was back in my chair. Over my shoulder, I heard the boss.

“Liberator!” He yelled. “Where the hell are those reports?”

“I’ll have them ready tomorrow.” I mumbled. The pencil I held snapped for some reason. Bits of wood flew all over my desk. I must have continued squeezing the jagged shard of pencil, because when I looked down, blood was dripping from my hand and all over my desk. I took a few deep breaths and wiped my hand with a towel from my left-hand desk drawer.

“Are you all right?” Asked one of my co-workers. She wasn’t really concerned. I could tell by the tone of her voice. She didn’t really care. They were all phonies. Damn phonies.

“Fine.”

Life Change

That night at the shooting range I decided to quit my job. After leaving, I stuffed my handgun in my jeans, threw my larger guns in my plain black duffel-bag and went straight to happy hour. After a few drinks I continued on to my neighborhood video store. If I was going to quit, I was going to rent movies and watch them all night. Life was going to be good. And there, at the video store I saw it. The movie that changed my life. The Ringley Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus production: Be A Clown

Nobody Hate’s a Clown

I rented the movie and never returned it. The beast wasn’t getting this little gem back. Be a Clown taught me all the basics of clowning. What to wear, what to say, what gags to pull, how to act, how to react and how to entertain.

I’ve always loved clowns and I’ve always loved children. So small, so innocent, uncorrupted and pure, children are God’s gift to the earth. From his hands to our own, God lays into each child an untainted soul. As a clown, I hoped to recapture some of that innocence. To use it to entertain. To convert my anger to innocent joviality. To capture my breath in a long cylinder of rubber and reshape it into a funny animal. It would be my art, my life. What joy I would bring. What hope. What innocence I would seize hold of, never to let it escape. Never.

The next day I bought my clowning gear. Making up my face was very important. Would I be a smiling clown or a frowning clown? I decided to be a dual personality clown. I painted on my face a wide and happy smile. It stretched from ear to ear. Above my eyes though, I painted my eyebrows at an angle downwards in a scowl. The face most captured my own personality. From then on I wore the clown suit everywhere. At home and in the supermarket. At the bar and on the street, I spread joy everywhere. Nobody hates a clown.

A Joyless World

I found little employment as a clown. No one would hire me. I ended up spending most of my time in the bar. From morning to night, I would drink in that place, my clown-suit sagging, my smile hiding my true emotion. Eventually I was evicted from my apartment. Being unemployed, I couldn’t afford my old life.

With nothing but my clown-suit and my duffel-bag full of guns, I found myself on the street. Wandering alone, a desperate drunken clown, I was lost. When I would see a child I would follow them, sometimes for hours. Eventually I would run to them, dancing and singing picking them up and throwing them into the air. I would spray them with water from my plastic flower and pretend to fall down. Usually the children would cry and scream like nothing I’ve ever heard. How could I scare them? Everybody loves a clown.

One day while hanging around the local playground, I was arrested for loitering. It seems that in this joyless world, there’s no place for a clown.

Now I roam the streets at night, under the cover of darkness. I am taunted and spit on by drunken men. I’ve been beaten by mobs of drug-crazed teenagers. I’ve gotten foot-rot under my giant shoes. Clowns are shunned at the free-clinic. Taunted on the mean streets. Robbed by the heartless masses. I feel that my own heart, once full of the hope and joy of being a clown is clouding over with darkness. My heart is now black as the caverns of h*ll. I’ve learned that there’s no room in this bitter world for a happy clown. I am no longer a happy clown.