“The New Fall Line Up On ABC”

“Good morning, Mr. Cooper. Please take a seat. I’m excited about your presentation. I’ve heard good things.”

“Oh, wow. Mrs. Tarses, let me say that it is an honor to be in the same room as you. Thank you so much for taking the time to hear my thoughts on the new fall line-up.”

“Of course. Please, go ahead.”

“Okay. First off I suggest we move Desperate Housewives to Wednesday, right up against Idol. It’s a tough market, but there’s definitely a spot for some heavyweight counterprogramming, and I think the ladies of Wisteria Lane are a perfect fit.”

“That’s an interesting idea. I think it could work.”

“Great. Next, I’m thinking we re-brand Dancing with the Stars as Beating the Shit Out of Pedestrians. It’ll keep many of the same features as the current Dancing, only now it’s about beating the shit out of pedestrians.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I understand.”

“Contestants get aluminum baseball bats and are unleashed on the streets of Los Angeles, viciously beating the shit out of pedestrians.”

“How do we determine a winner?”

“Blood spilled, bones broken, teeth lost. Anything, really. Have the stat department look into it.”

“That’s a terrible idea. We cannot allow our network to be affiliated with a program that endorses senseless violence and lawbreaking.”

“Seriously? Oh, then forget that one. I was just kidding. Here’s a fresh idea. In an effort to cut costs, let’s replace all of the cast members of Lost with specialty pizzas from Papa John’s. For instance, instead of being played by Matthew Fox, Jack Shephard will now be played by a large Tuscan Six-Cheese pizza.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. We’ll do that. We’ll replace the cast of Lost with pizzas.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

“I’m not.”

“Well okay, then.”

“All right.”

“Okay.”

“Yep.”

“Well…”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“All righty.”

“Hey…”

“Yeah?”

“Wait.”

“Okay.”

“So…”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, then…”

“Hey, want to go to Quizno’s?”

“Yeah, sure.”

While they drove to Quizno’s, deep underground a thousand ants looked at each other and thought the same thing: It’s cold, man. Real cold.

"Immature Romance Novel"

She was vacationing in Italy for the summer. She was alone and she figured if she met a man, she met a man. If not, then there’s always next year. She was eating at a corner restaurant, having some spaghetti, when he walked by. Vincenzo, he said his name was.

“Well hello, Vincenzo,” she said. He had a dirty beard, the sort of European look American women dream about. “Would you like to come to my room?”

They walked back to her hotel holding hands and flirting. As soon as they stepped through the door Vincenzo threw her on the bed and touched her boobies. He gave her a quick purple nurple.

She was more interested in his wiener and nuts. She grabbed his bing-bong.

He exhaled in ecstasy. “I love it when you touch my schlong.”

She played with his ding-a-ling some more. And his balls, too. “Wow,” he said. “You sure are fond of my penis.”

“I won’t lie, Vincenzo. Nothing makes me happier than your dong. I really enjoy it.”

“Same here.”

He fiddled with her nips some more and put a hand on her tush. “Your booty is spectacular.”

“I know. Let me check out your rod again.”

“What?”

“Your rod. Your package. Your gear. Your junk.”

“Oh, right.” He handed over his taliwhacker.

“This is one solid wiener you’ve got here.”

“Cool.”

Vincenzo was gone when she woke up. All she could think about for the rest of her trip was his ballsack.

"Useful Techniques"

When did I know I was a ladies man? I think I was seven, maybe eight. I rode my bicycle up and down my street with a baseball card lodged in the spokes that made me sound like a real tough guy. The first time I rode past the Malley house, Mrs. Malley, Jim’s mom, called me inside and I railed her for twelve hours. That was the turning point.

Since then I’ve developed some techniques, some infallible ways I can get women to sleep with me, and I have decided to share them with you.

Method One: Tell your woman that you own a stable of mules in Peru. This, of course, is a lie. Then tell her that you have a sack of thirteen oranges in the trunk of your car. This is not a lie. Show her your oranges. The combination of these statements will cause the woman to sleep with you.

Method Two: Perform incredible acrobatic stunts for her at a fancy eatery. Book a reservation at her favorite place months in advance. Use the time between now and then to take up an internship at a local circus and learn several aerial maneuvers. Between the second and third courses of your meal, stand up from the table and announce to the restaurant, “Attention, everyone. I am about to blow my lady’s mind. And in return, hopefully she will blow me.” This last statement may seem a bit forward, perhaps in poor taste. But being a ladies man is about taking risks and occasionally offending an entire restaurant or even losing your job. Once you have announced your stunt, take a step back from the table and do a thrilling backflip or three-hundred and sixty degree spin. Upon landing, stare your lady dead in the eyes and whisper, “I am an astounding acrobat.” She will immediately bed you.

Method Three: Learn to speak with animals. This technique may take months, if not years, of training. But it will be worth it, for you will be rewarded with a glorious round of high-octane intercourse. I learned this skill by living in the Cambodian jungle for six years. A mountain man literally took me under his wing and taught me all there is to know about jungle life. How to murder trout, how to convert your own blood into gasoline, and how to speak with animals. Once you learn animal talk, make your way into your lady’s house. Approach her pet (it does not matter if it is a bird or a dog or a fish. All animals are eager to chat) and strike up a conversation in its native tongue. Ask it how its family is doing, what its favorite food is. When the lady says, “Why are you tweeting at my parakeet?” say, “Your parakeet just wanted you to know that it enjoys peaches.” The woman will then unquestionably nail you.

These are just a few of my pointers. If you would like more, ask any of the women in the states of Wisconsin, Michigan, or Connecticut. I have laid them all.

"The Postman Rings Several More Times"

One

I blew into town on a Thursday. Thursday? Or Wednesday? I don’t know. You lose track of the days when you float around the country like I do. I hopped off the jogger I had been riding for the last eight or nine miles.

“Thanks for the lift.”

“My back hurts so bad.”

Just up the road was a big diner, the only building I could see. Looked like I could get a decent meal in there. I walked inside and the place was empty. Dead as the man I killed in Poughkeepsie. Wait, maybe I shouldn’t be saying that. Well, I am a drifter. Who’s gonna find me? So yeah, the place was as dead as the train conductor I murdered.

“Hello? Anyone in here?”

“One sec, darling.”

When she stepped out of the kitchen I passed out for a minute. This woman was gorgeous. As pretty as that woman I met in Pittsburg, the one who slept with me after I told her I was a famous European basketball star.

“Wake up, sweet thing. Come on, wake up.”

“Oh. Thank you. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t you worry. Men like you do that all the time in here. So what can I get you?”

“Whatever’s the house special would be great. I’m sure you’re a hell of a cook.”

“You’re too kind. One deep fried horse heart, coming up.”

“Actually, I’ll just have a coffee.”

She went to pour a cup.

“You work here alone?”

“Today, yes. My husband is in town working up some contracts.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You’re married.”

“Well, technically, yes, but I’ve wanted to murder him for two years now. I just don’t love him. He’s old and dirty and he talks during movies.”

“What do you say me and you kill him? Right when he gets back. We’ll off him and ditch this town. Just me and you. What did you say your name was?”

“Cora.”

“Just me and you, Cora. We’ll see the sights, roam this country like the vagabonds we are.”

“Yes!”

“We’ll have great times. We’ll laugh it up at the Grand Canyon!”

“Yes!”

“We’ll smooch at Mount Rushmore!”

“Yes!”

“We’ll fly through the skies propelled by a trash bag full of bees!”

“What?”

“We’ll dance at Niagara Falls!”

“Wait, did you say something about a trash bag full of bees? Flying with bees? I don’t understand.”

“I love you, Cora.”

“I love you, too.”

“Now let’s kill that husband of yours.”

“Oh yes!”

“Where do you keep the bagels around here?”

“What do you need bagels for?”

“Why, to kill your husband, of course.”

Two

He came back about six that night. He was old, maybe sixty. At least as old as the barber I tricked into giving me a free haircut in Cincinnati. And he was dirty. Dirty like the underside of a car, like the one I stole from President Hoover. He had some Eastern European accent.

“Guess whozhe back?”

“Hi, Gustav.”

“My zhweet Cora. Come! Here! I have new partnership with big farm. We get our eggs very cheap now!”

“That’s great, Gustav.”

I was hiding in a booth. I don’t think he could see me. I was holding a bag of six bagels. They were pretty firm, the kind of bagels you could really use to kill a guy. Gustav turned his back for a second and I leapt from the booth.

“Oh, look at zhis! A customer!”

Before he could protect his face, I smacked him with the bagels. Whap! Right in the nose. It wasn’t as effective as I had hoped. He stared at me.

“Why? Why are you hitting me with bagels?”

I didn’t really have an answer. What was I going to say, ‘To kill you’? I couldn’t do that. So I kept hitting him. A few more in the face, some in the ribs, one or two in the kneecaps. “Thwap, thwap, thwap,” the bagels said. I realized then that maybe a gun or a crowbar or a pipe would have worked better. But I kept at it. I followed him around all day, hitting him while he restocked the kitchen.

“Could you pleazhe shtop that? I am trying to get work done and here you are with the bagels and you hit me! Always hitting me!”

Right. He was pretty much correct there. I had been at it for a couple of hours. So I hit him some more and some more and some more and some more, until two of the bagels were reduced to crumbs. Finally, around midnight, Gustav choked on a piece of steak and died. Was I jealous? A little. That piece of meat had been more effective in three seconds than me and my bag of bagels had been in six hours.

Three

“Cora, get in here. I did it.”

“He’s dead? You killed him?”

“Um, yeah, I totally killed him.”

“He doesn’t look real dead.”

“No, trust me. He’s out like a light.”

“Vhwy am I on zhe floor?”

“See? He’s alive.”

I broke a plate over his forehead.

“Ouch! Whoze gonna pay for zhat plate?”

I broke two Coke glasses on his chest.

“Zhose glasses aren’t free!”

He was right. This murder was getting pretty expensive. And there was a lot of glass to sweep up.

“Christ, Gustav. You’re making this hard on me.”

I picked up the Tommy Gun Gustav kept behind the counter and shot him a hundred and eighty-eight times.

“Zhose are my bullets!”

This whole prefect crime thing was starting to seem tougher than I thought.

“What’s it gonna take for you to die, Gustav?”

Always the businessman, he said, “For five hundred dollars, I die for you.”

Cora and I emptied our pockets. Just barely five hundred.

“You make a great offer I can not refuzhe!”

Gustav died there. I wish I had bargained him lower. I wonder how he spent the money.

Four

We had to clean up the body. It stunk up the place. It smelled like the Hooverville I incinerated.

“What are we gonna do?”

“We have a few options, Cora. We could dig up a big hole and bury him.”

“That’s no fun.”

“We could drive out to the harbor and dump him.”

“That’s not very creative.”

“Or we could turn his carcass into a go-kart and ride him away.”

“That’s it!”

So we emptied the register and bought some parts from the auto shop and got to work. We replaced his heart with an engine, his legs and arms with tires, and his intestines with the transmission. Looking back, it was gory, disgusting, and insane. I don’t know why we did it. It’s the kind of stuff psychotic killers do. But I am glad we did it, because once we got him started up, Gustav got sixty miles to the gallon.

We strapped on our riding goggles.

“Ready to go, Cora?”

“Where are we headed?”

“Wherever the road takes us, darling. New York, Chicago, Dallas, Cuba.”

“Cuba is an island.”

“What?”

“You said Cuba.”

“Wherever the road takes us, darling! Just you and me.”

“Just you and me.”

“Don’t forzhet me!”

“Jesus Christ, Gustav.”

Five

I’ve been holding Gustav’s head underwater for the past eleven hours while I’ve been writing this story.

"The UPS Store Was Closed"

"The New Big Thing"

“Hey, I think that’s him over there.”

“What, that guy? That can’t be him.”

“Look, come on. Hey, are you—“

“Yeah, yeah. I am. Keep quiet, okay? You trying to get us arrested?”

“Oh, no, my bad. I’m new at this whole thing, I just—“

“What do you want?”

“Oh, yeah, right, right. I just want a little weed.”

“Weed?”

“Yeah. Do you have any?”

“Oh, I got some weed. I got a lot of it.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll take some weed. And do you have any, uh…”

“Any what?”

“Do you have any ecstasy?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got some ecstasy. But that stuff’s no good, man. It’s no good.”

“No good?”

“Trust me.”

“Should I get something else?”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Come here man, real close. Is anybody watching?”

“Um…No, no one’s around.”

“Okay, good. Get your friend over here.”

“Hey, Rick. Get over here.”

“Okay, boys. I’m about to show you guys something crazy. It’s insane this stuff, completely off the hook. The hottest new thing on the scene. Everyone’s dying to get some. Are you ready for it?”

“Yeah.”

“Bam! Check em out they’re called strawberries.”

“What?”

“Strawberries. Look at these sweet things. Red as roses and juicier than Biggie. These things, man, these things will blow your mind.”

“You’re talking about strawberries?”

“Have you heard of em? They’re South American. Imports. Pure stuff here. Twelve bucks a pound.”

“Twelve bucks? Strawberries aren’t even illegal. I can get them at the grocery store.”

“Say what? These babies are top of the line, man. Primo stuff. Look, and I’m only doing this cause I like the looks of you two, ten bucks a pound.”

“Ten bucks? They’re like three dollars a pound at the store.”

“What kind of insane discounts are you getting at the store, man? Trust me, this is a steal. These berries, man. Mmm mm.”

“Are they really that good?”

“Try one.”

“Oh man, these are really good. Alright I’ll buy a pound. I’ll take the weed, too-“

“Stop it right there. Lieutenant James Thompson, Hamilton County Police Department. You two are under arrest for the attempted purchase of strawberries.”

“What?”

“Save if for the judge, dirtbags.”

"College Essay"

This was my first draft of a college essay. I decided not to turn it for fairly obvious reasons.

If you were to delay going to college by one year, what would you do with that time? And, what would you hope to gain from that experience?

If I were to delay going to college by one year, I would get to work immediately on setting a list of goals for the next 365 days. “A day wasted is a day wasted,” my one-legged neighbor used to say, and he was a millionaire so I take everything he says as fact. So I would sit down with a pad of paper, a number 2 pencil, and a box of Nilla Wafers and start to think. What do I want to do with my year? I remember a time not long ago when “Play Pokemon” would be a satisfactory answer to that question, but now I’m an adult and if I said that people in the community would probably look down on me and not permit me to see R-rated films.

Here’s the real goal I would sketch up: I will stand on a level surface, 200 meters above sea level, and leap to the moon. To do this will not be easy. I will have to hire a Soviet coach to train me. Not just a Russian coach, but a true Soviet, an obese man with a mustache who honestly believes in the merits of Communism. His name will be Vlad. I will endure excruciating pain during our training sessions. Such pain that women across the world will say they would rather give birth to fifteen sets of twins at once than endure the hardships my muscles had to endure. I will do squats with heavy objects on my back. First I will use barbells and weights. Then I will use cars. Then I will use trains and roads and planes, advancing my way up through an infrastructure until I am finally squatting with an entire civilization resting delicately on my back.

After two months of preparation my legs will resemble Roman columns and I will be ready. I will alert the news media (both wings), and set the date. I will do it on a Wednesday because that is the day of the week new DVDs are released on the moon. The night before I will feast on Oreos and geese. When a crowd of at least one million has gathered, I will await Vlad’s signal. The moment he shouts, in his accent that is as thick as my thighs will be, “Do it now, you moron, before these people leave!” I will jump. With the concentration of a thousand Buddhists I will focus on the jump until I have gathered enough force. Then, in a sonic blast, I will leap to the moon.

My jump will be majestic. The entire world will watch in awe. It will momentarily unite Shiites and Sunnis, the Chinese government and Tibetans, and David Letterman and Jay Leno. The most difficult part of the jump will be holding my breath from the time I leave Earth’s atmosphere until I return to it, but last summer I held my breath at the pool for almost a minute, so I should be okay. When I am on the moon I will do three things: a handstand, a summersault, and a crossword puzzle from the USA Today. An alien may ask me what I’m doing and I will tell him, “It’s a crossword puzzle. We have them on Earth.”

Upon reentering the Earth’s atmosphere I will spend fifteen minutes allowing my ears to readjust to hearing things, because in space I stubbed my toe on a moon rock and I tried to yell, but those rumors about there being no sound in space are true. Once my ears are good to go, I will embark on an around-the-world publicity tour. I will befriend scholars, scientists, writers, and bounty hunters. With them, I will sit in a dark and stuffy Irish pub to discuss my projects for the next eight months.

First, I will plan to volunteer so hard that the definition of volunteer will be changed to “To behave like Matt Burns.” I will then spend months answering life’s most difficult questions: If a tree falls and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? What is the meaning of life? Who shot J.R.? I will devote at least two months to the most important debate of our time: Is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable? With revolutionary research techniques and instruments such as beakers, centrifuges, and guitars, I will find that the tomato is neither; in fact it is a meat.

My discovery will be influential and controversial; it will spawn new debates and cause entire species of dissatisfied birds to leave the continent forever. In the wake of my breakthrough, I will have an intellectual dinner with a colleague of mine named Doctor McGinty.

I will ask him a series of hard-hitting questions, including, “If you were to delay your next clinical study by one year, what would you do?”

Doctor McGinty will finish his mozzarella stick and respond, “What’s the point of that question? Can’t I just make up anything? It’s not like it matters what I say because your situation is completely hypothetical.”

I will look at Doctor McGinty and say, “Oh, now naïve you are, Doctor. If you will excuse me, I have to be going now. I begin college in a month and still have to work at a soup kitchen, hit 75 home runs in a season, and eat one hundred pounds of lettuce.”