Shoddy simile speech / Seymour Orless

We've come a long way boys.

I remember at the beginning of the season this team was like a tennis ball machine set up at an odd angle so that the tennis balls flew too high and too far to the right resulting in multiple balls bouncing or rolling into the adjacent court and disrupting a lesson someone paid top dollar for. That time has passed. Over the course of the year this team has grown. Not so much like a tennis ball machine but more like tiny little baby octopuses, or octopi, or whatever you call them. Swimming around in a sea of mystery shooting black ink out of their asses whenever they get scared. And the thing is it's OK to be scared, you see? I'm not going to lie to you. There's a battle waiting for you tonight out on that field. You need to take that fear and use it to your advantage. Use it to both keep your edge and prepare for battle like a poor Burmese man uses a rickshaw to both transport his customers and sometimes eat in when it's too hot to sit and eat his lunch in the sun. This is one of those rickshaws that has a sort of roof type covering, you understand? For protection! Because that's the most important message here fellas. Protection. Protect your quarterback like a tree protects its roots. It grows tall out of the dirt as if to say, "Look up here assholes! There's nothing going on down there. Don't even bother looking towards the ground. It's no use trying to hurt my roots because they're underground anyway!"

Do you understand what I'm saying?

Good!!!

Now our opponent is formidable. It's no secret that Jefferson East is 7-1 and tied for first place in the conference. You know that. I know that. I also know that they can be beaten. Our opponent is like a stack of spiral bound notebooks about to tip over because the jackass who stacked them didn't alternate between metal spiral side and paper side so as the stack got higher it slowly leaned more and more to the one side until the whole thing tipped over. They always have been. They always will be.

So tonight. . . when you step out onto that field. . . and you hear the roar of that crowd. . . I want you to reach deep down into yourselves, past the tennis ball machines and past the octopi and the Burmese man with the covered rickshaws and roots and spiral bound notebooks and grab onto the part of you that's like a toaster when it spits out the toast before it's done and when you try to push the lever back down again it makes that weird buzzing noise as if it's too hot or it doesn't believe that the bread isn't fully toasted or something and I want you to rip that part of yourself out and hold it high for the whole wide world to see!!

Are you ready!?!

I said are you ready!?!?!

Then let's go kick some East Jefferson ass!!!!

Letter to guy on subway reading over my shoulder / Lloyd Nittles

Hi there!

Yep. This time I caught you. Busted. Do not worry. I'm not going to do anything drastic like pivot out of your line of site or annoyingly lean back and cram my umbrella handle into your abdomen. Or stab you. I just wanted to introduce myself. My name is Rich and I like to read the paper on my morning commute.

So let's get one thing out of the way from the get go. I don't have a problem with you reading my paper over my shoulder. I just want you to know that I know. I just wanted you to know that you're not fooling me with you're nonchalant "I'm just looking at that lady sitting in front of us and not reading your paper" move or the whole "I'll read over your shoulder until you turn to look when I'll close my eyes and pretend I'm sleeping while I'm standing" spiel. Not to say that these techniques are amateur or ineffective. I've utilized them on a number of occasions myself until I finally came to the realization that instead of attempting to get the gist of an article from haphazard glances, I could simply pick up a free paper from the guy handing them out by the subway entrance. Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to impose my new method on you. If what you got going works for you then the more power to you. I'm just saying the paper is free is all.

I suppose you are asking yourself why I took the time to tape this piece of paper to the newspaper so that it looks like a regular newspaper until you peek over my shoulder and see this piece of paper taped to it. Great question! Let's just say that I respect you and feel you were entitled to a little something extra today when you shimmied your way through the tightly packed people and peeked over my shoulder for the fourth time in five days. I guess you could say today is your lucky day!

So. . . . What's your name? Actually don't answer that. Because if you're reading this you're actually looking over my shoulder on a crowded subway train and it would be pretty weird if all the sudden you just blurted out "Karl" or "Ronald" or "My name is Steve". That was just my lame way of trying to make small talk. I already know your name is Glen.

By the way Glen, you play your headphones way too loud. the song "You Get What You Give" by the New Radicals, while decent, isn't the type of tune that needs to be blasted in your ear every day between the Dekalb and Canal Street stops. Is that a mix tape from high school? What's the song after that? I want to say it's "Informer" by Snow but I'm not positive. It's either that or "Things that Make you go Hmmm" by C+C Music Factory. Please tell me.

Before I forget - you know that chick with the red bag that gets in on 14th street? She's something else, right?. Did you see that top she had last Thursday? Unbelievable! You think her boobs are real? I'm telling you I waver back and forth. There are some days when I'm certain they're fake - too perky - but other days there appears to be a certain lack of buoyancy that leads me to believe the contrary. And what's up with that older guy she's sometimes with? Cooworker? No way that dude's her boyfriend, right? Interested to hear your thoughts.

Well, that about covers it. I feel much better about things now that we officially know of each other. I sorta feel like shaking your hand right here and now but I suppose that might look awkward. I hope you feel the same. If you do perhaps we could meet after work at the Starbucks on the corner of 53rd and 6th and share a laugh over a coffee and/or scone. My treat. You work right across the street, correct? If you're busy after work maybe we could meet at your place. 435 Lincoln Avenue Apt. 7F if memory serves me correctly. Unless of course your wife Katherine is working late tonight and you're on your own watching little Luke. I imagine he can be quite the handful! Just let me know. I'm totally free and I'll be in the neighborhood.

Oh, and if you're not Glen Habbner and you just happened to glance at my paper this morning and see this note I would've hoped you'd have quit reading this by now seeing as it's obviously not meant for your eyes. But yet here you still are. Reading away. I wonder what I'll do about you. . .

Have a tremendous day.

Rich

Marking the occasion / Piper Jane

Born on 4/23/08 @ 9:34 pm

Hand, knee / Hershel Justice

when I need a spark in my life

something special just for me

I sit on the couch by my wife

and put my hand on her knee

not trying to get lucky

it's all innocent you see

there's no hankey or pankey

just a hand on a knee

she doesn't really get it

though I've been plain as can be

seems like such a good fit

my hand firmly on her knee

hold it there for a minute

maybe two if she agrees

be careful not to push it

just hold that hand on the knee

no words are exchanged

nor a glance from her to me

my fingers carefully arranged

one by one around her knee

a gesture simple and true

like a priest's guarantee

conformity's only cure

a quiet hand on a knee

the moment passes and is gone
back to our lives both we flee
but she knows it won't be long
I'll have my hand back on that knee

Runner / Patty Chelm

There is a woman running straight for you.  Sprinting.  It's not clear whether or not she's aware you are standing there, whether she's looking right at you or right through you.  You could step out of her way but at this point you don't feel it's necessary.  Years of societal norms ingrained in your brain dictate that she will change her course well before your paths cross.  She must.  But still she comes, legs pumping furiously.  The site is so peculiar that you can't help but find it humorous.  In the deepest recesses of your mind a single neuron fires and demands you briefly consider the possibility of colliding.  You oblige and conjure up images from your past of imminent doom: The site of the next door neighbor's mail box fast approaching as you feebly attempt to operate the hand brake of your first bike, the site of the Hilder's doorbell as you ready yourself for Natalie to open the door and respond to your revelation that you'll be taking Becky Parson's to homecoming instead but you'd still very much like to remain friends, the site of Mr. Pashman's angry stare as you realize he's noticed your hurried glances at the cheat sheet concealed under your desk. 

The rhythmic crunch of rubber on cement bring you back to the matter at hand.  This is truly remarkable!  The woman's manic pace is a sharp contrast to the quiet, sparsely populated sidewalk.  Just what exactly could she be running from or to?  There is no impending danger apparent, no raging brush fires or flash floods hot on her tail.  She's several strides closer now and the intensity in her eyes make it apparent that this could not be categorized as exercise.  Perhaps she knows you and this is a miscalculated attempt at a joke.  Perhaps she's crazy.  Any feeling of fascination or humor has now turned to utter confusion.  You're now certain you don't know this person.  What the hell is going on here?  Could she be coming even faster now?  Her head seems impossibly in front of her barreling body, like a sprinter's final lean toward the finish line.  Confusion changes to genuine concern as it doesn't look like she could stop even if she wanted to.  Instincts kick in for the first time and tell you to move.  The muscles fibers in your legs twitch accordingly but your knees remained locked, uncertain of which direction to go.  You stand there, still and dumbfounded, as the final opportunity to get out of the woman's way passes.  In the last tenth of a second before your bodies meet you concede to the unfortunate manner this will end and brace yourself.  You wonder who she is.  You wonder why you didn't move sooner.  You wonder if you remembered to program an 'in case of emergency' contact in your cell phone.  You wonder where the nearest emergency room is.  You wonder all these things as everything goes white, then black.

Tic Tac / Gordon Ringlet

He's eating dinner and his eyes come across a thing of tic tacs sitting on the kitchen table. It barely registers as his mind wonders from whether the small space heater in the nursery might be responsible for the recent uptick in the electric bill to his strategy of portioning the salmon and risotto on his plate so that he's left with neither too much salmon nor too much risotto when he's down to his last few bites. He makes a mental note to switch off the space heater after dinner and has masterfully distributed both fish and side dish so that each may be enjoyed with every bite hence forth and, with nothing left to consider, he reaches for the tic tac container, looking for further material for his mind to digest.

The words "less than 2 calories per mint" roll across the plastic box just underneath the product name and all of the sudden he can't take it anymore. Here he is doing his part, eating his modestly sized fillet of salmon and carefully measured scoop and a half of risotto, trying his damnedest to lead a healthy life by keeping a respectable waist line while balancing the added responsibilities of being a husband, father, dog owner, and all around 'head of household' and this cheap plastic box in his hand declares that breath mints now factor into the fight as well. It seems to him as if nothing can just simply be what it is. Just when you think you have a relative handle on things, however fleeting, more of life squeezes its way through your clenched fists. Like these fucking tic tacs. Don't forget about them! They too must be considered.

The thing is - he thinks he can't take it anymore but he can, he has, and he will. It's not so much an ascension of the white flag as it is an internal melodramatic show of frustration. This frustration leads him to audibly exhale, lean back in his chair, and unconsciously scan the kitchen, making mental notes of each visible deficiency standing in between the life he lives an the life he strives for.

There's the unopened box of coasters that double as picture frames on the pantry shelf that could and should hold genial photographs of his family.
There's the entertainment center that serves as an awkward shelving unit holding the coffee maker, microwave, and toaster.

There's the Christmas themed cloth sack for holding plastic bags for picking up dog shit that hangs near the trash bin year round.

There's the kitchen table itself, rickety and so blatantly dated, purchased for $15 from outside a nursing home.
There's the dishwasher, or lack thereof.

And then there's the box of tic tacs. The fact that a box of tic tacs is even sitting on the kitchen table (along with a pack of handy wipes, a faulty light bulb, a dirty dish rag, and three days worth of junk mail) conveys a certain mismanagement of space and overall lack of organization.

The list mounts and becomes a dull ache in the back of his skull. He takes the final bite of salmon and risotto and drops his fork on his plate with an audible clank. The inevitable question of whether everything is OK now comes from across the table and he briefly considers offering his wife his thoughts regarding the message on the tic tac and the resulting trail of doubts but doesn't, knowing her utter disdain for all things derived and philosophical.

Instead he flicks open the box of tic tacs, shakes two out, and pops them in his mouth.

Never has just under four calories been so refreshing. He says nothing, puts his plate and silverware in the sink, and walks toward the nursery to turn off the space heater.

877-393-4448 / Herman Whole

If you live in the New York tri-state area chances are you've seen the Optimum 'Triple Play' commercial.

Watch it Here

While unremarkable at first viewing, after seeing it a couple dozen times I began to really pay attention and appreciate it. Turns out it's the craziest god-damned thing I've ever seen. Here's what happens:

OPEN WITH

Image of television showing a group of pirates dragging a canon out of the ocean. They fire the canon.

CUT TO

Big dude dressed in all white wearing a stupid hat and sunglasses squirming of the sofa of his minimalist apartment apparently really having to pee. Cannon ball bursts through wall of minimalist apartment and all the walls fall to reveal that dude was actually sitting on the beach with the aforementioned pirates.

CUT TO

Flat screen TV sitting inside large clam or oyster. Pirates on beach approach TV clam/oyster with curiosity.

CUT TO

Image of sand castle built in the shape of $29.95.

CUT TO

Pirates walking down the beach in celebratory fashion with large clam/oyster television held over their collective heads.

CUT TO

Three mermaids lounging on beach reciting phone number of the high speed internet, digital cable TV & digital phone service.

CUT TO

Life guard station on beach manned by beautiful woman (mermaid transformed??) who is watching a laptop that's playing a video of the first dude riding a jet ski in the ocean. He falls off the jet ski while saying something undecipherable, presumably about the high speed internet, digital cable TV & digital phone service.

CUT TO

Three beautiful lifeguards (mermaids transformed??) run down the stairs of the life guard station to the beach to rescue the dude the one lifeguard saw fall off the jet ski on her laptop.

CUT TO

Dude who fell off of jet ski has found refuge on a nearby buoy. The three lifeguards throw three life preservers in his direction. Dude makes a lame attempt to reach for them and clumsily falls off the buoy.

CUT TO

The three lifeguards doing a brief but highly sexual dance on the beach while reciting the number of the high speed internet, digital cable TV & digital phone service.

CUT TO

A bird's eye pan of the beach reveals a row of beautiful women (lifeguards transformed??) laying on towels. The last woman in the row grabs a nearby conch shell that's apparently plugged into the sand somehow and is actually a fully functional telephone. She hands the conch to the dude who's safely made it out of the ocean and is now buried in the sand up to his neck. In the background we can see the pirates in the ocean thrashing in about two feet of water attempting to flee from some sort of aquatic dragon. The women on the towels see the pirates headed their way and they get up and run with them leaving dude behind to get trampled by the fleeing pirates. They pass the $29.95 sandcastle.

CUT TO

Aquatic dragon in the ocean rapping to the camera about international calling features as a lingering pirate attempts to chop off the dragon's tail using a machete.

CUT TO

Women who were on the beach are now dancing with umbrellas among palm tress while reciting the phone number of the high speed internet, digital cable TV & digital phone service.

CUT TO

Dude is now back in his original apartment (which is now reassembled and missing the canon ball hole) along with the three mermaids and an open, glowing, treasure chest.

CUT TO

CLOSE WITH

Close up of treasure chest which contains a lot of gold and three bedazzled logos of Optimum Triple Play.

Lesser known contractions / Bonnelyn Blair

Theyn't - They will not

Dogn't - Dog will not

Catn't - Cat will not

Catn'nt - Cat neutered

M'bass - My bass

I'an - I am Ian

Duc'kies - Duck! Monkeys!

You'ff - You look like a sheriff (or bailiff or bull mastiff or earmuff)

M'ood - Meet me at Planet Hollywood

Can't'hea'non - Cannot hear you. Cannon.

Tim'real - Time for cereal!

G'own - Get up and then lie down (also can mean 'Get down')

Mo'pow'cken'ease - More Kung Pow Chicken, please

Thought'ou'sa'nge - Thought you said 'sponge'

Ignor'bot - Ignore him/her as he/she is a robot

Soun'ike'ing'bob'shou'do - Sounds like something Bob should do

Thi'buck'won'old'mor'alls - This bucket will not hold any more balls

Interview with guy who rides one of those bikes where you're sitting down, almost lying on your back / Gilbert {pronounced: jhel-BEAR} Gilbert

Hi Phil.  Thanks for meeting with me today.

No problem.  It's my pleasure.

So what's the deal with that bike?

It's called a recumbent.  It's more ergonomically friendly and aerodynamic.  On a regular bike all your body weight is focused on the rider's tail bone and hands.  On this bad boy you got optimal distribution.

Right.  But you look like total fag when you ride it.

.  .  . I guess I don't see your point there.  That isn't even a question.

Fair enough.  Allow me to rephrase.  When you're riding down the street in that thing do people ever throw shit at you and call you a fag?

Throw shit at me?

Yeah.  Like beer bottles, trash, or partially deflated volleyballs?

No.

What about broomsticks?

What about them?

Do people ever try to shove broomsticks in your spokes in an effort to flip the bike over so that you fly out and hurt yourself?

No. No one's ever tried to inflict physical injury.  Every once in a while I get a puzzled stare or two but I suppose that comes with the territory.

So they look at you like you're some sort of spaz, right?

On the contrary I prefer to think they look at me with a certain air of curiosity.  They notice that I've made different choices when it comes to getting from place to place on two wheels and, although perhaps momentarily taken aback, they respect it.

Whatever.

The bikes are actually quite popular.  There are a number of enthusiast clubs and communities one can join to learn more about what make them a superior alternative to the standard upright bike.  I mentioned earlier the ergonomic and aerodynamic benefits but recumbents are also safer, more comfortable, and faster.  They've been around for over 100 years, invented around the same time as the bicycle the general public has grown used to.

Are you friends with the guy that walks his dog while riding a unicycle?

I can't say I know who you're referring to.

Oh there's this one jackass who I sometimes see riding around the park on a unicycle while walking his dog.  I assume he's bat shit crazy.  I figured you guys were tight.

.  .  .  .  We're not.  Listen, obviously you're not a fan of my bike or my hobby.  You've made that clear.  Perhaps we could talk about something else.

Sure.  What do you do when you're not riding your wonder wheels there?

I enjoy hiking, watching movies, board games, pretty much any activity where I get to spend time with my family.

So you have a wife and kids?

Yes.  Two boys in fact.

How long have you been married?

Gosh.  I guess it's been 8 years.

And how old are your boys?

Frank is 5 and Dustin turns 7 next month.

You don't say.  And how are they doing?

Pretty great actually.  Frank started kindergarten this year and is doing great.  We we're really worried that he'd have some major separation anxiety but he's adjusted well.  Dustin is really into basketball all the sudden.  I think he may end up to be a heck of an athlete.  He gets that from his mother.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  Your bike is a joke, you know.

I know.

And what are you going to to about it?

I could sell it I suppose.  Use the money to by something a little less embarrassing.

Phil.

What?

Phil.

.  .  .  or I could destroy it.  Take it to the top of the Leffert's Hill, douse it in paint thinner, cover the tires with sandpaper, tie matches to the spokes and ghostride it towards the softball fields where it will erupt in a ball of flames as it takes a sweet jump over the graduated curb before meeting it's demise. 

Phil.

What?

That sounds like a fantastic idea.