My Custom Van
Page 1
MY CUSTOM VAN
SIMON SPOTLIGHT ENTERTAINMENT
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 2008 by Hot Schwartz Productions
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
SIMON SPOTLIGHT ENTERTAINMENT and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Black, Michael Ian.
My custom van / Michael Ian Black.
p. cm.
1. American wit and humor. I. Title.
PN6165.B64 2008
818'.602—dc22 2008006725
ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-6803-0
ISBN-10: 1-4169-6803-2
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
For my mother Jill, who has
always been funny
Contents
Foreword by Abraham Lincoln
What I Would Be Thinking If I Were Billy Joel Driving to a Holiday Party Where I Knew There Was Going to Be a Piano
One Day, I’m Going to Open a Scented Candle Shoppe
Maximus Beer
Why I’ve Decided to Go Blonde
A Series of Letters to a Squirrel
Join Our Club!
Hey, David Sedaris—Why Don’t You Just Go Ahead and Suck It?
Erotic Fiction: The Elevator
A College Application Essay to Harvard That Might Have Been Written by a High School Senior Who Has Absolutely No Chance of Getting Accepted
Taco Party
Vampires—Good for the Economy?
Grasshopper
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Meeting People More Famous Than You
My Custom Van
A Meditation on Salami
Now We Will Join Forces, You and I
Mordeena
Using the Socratic Method to Determine What It Would Take for Me to Voluntarily Eat Dog Shit for the Rest of My Life
Why I Used a Day-Glo Magic Marker to Color My Dick Yellow
Announcing the Imminent Arrival of the Handlebar Mustache Certain People Said I’d Never Be Able to Grow
Erotic Fiction: The Beach
When I Finally Get Around to Building My Robot, This Is What It Will Be Like
A Description of Myself for a Dating Service If I Were a Chicken
A Series of Letters to the First Girl I Ever Fingered
How I Might Address My Players at Halftime If I Were a Self-Loathing High School Football Coach in a Game Where We Were Losing 49–3
How I Might Address My Players at Halftime If I Were a Self-Loathing High School Football Coach in a Game Where We Were Winning 49–3
Testing the Infinite Monkey Probability Theorem
Job Orientation
This Is How I Party
A Suicide Note
Stan the Oracle
Lewis Black Hates Candy Corn: A Rebuttal
I No Longer Love You, Magic Unicorn
Some DJ Names I’ve Been Considering
I Have an Indomitable Spirit
Incident at the Torpedo
Good Skiing Form
An Open Letter to the Hairstylist Who Somehow Convinced Me to Get a Perm When I Was in Sixth Grade
Instructions for the Cleaning Lady
How to Approach the Sensitive Question: Anal?
Do Not Buy Tundra from a Door-to-Door Salesman
DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!!!
Erotic Fiction: The Mad Scientist
A Series of Letters to Celine Dion’s Husband, René Angélil
Icky
A Few Words About My Jug Band
Chapter 19 of My Science Fiction Epic, The Pirates of Dagganon 6, Which I Am Only Able to Write Because of a Generous Grant from the Makers of Barq’s Root Beer
My Top 50 New Year’s Resolutions
In Conclusion: A First Draft of the Acceptance Speech I Plan to Give Upon Receiving Some Kind of Important Literary Prize for Writing This Book
Acknowledgments
Foreword
by Abraham Lincoln
OF all the conflicts in our nation’s history, the Civil War was definitely the shittiest. This terrible war, which was fought sometime in the 1800s, pitted our noble country against itself. North versus South. Brother versus brother. Or a brother and his friend versus a bunch of schoolgirls. I even heard about one instance where a couple of goats fought a set of bagpipes. Dark days indeed.
Most of you probably know that I had the sad honor of being president during that tragic time. As the nation ripped itself apart, I often found myself heavy of heart, and in need of good cheer. In those days we had no television, of course, and so I was forced to take my entertainment from the radio.
This miraculous new invention gave our scarred country much merriment when we needed it most. Many nights, Mary Todd and I would gather our boys around the “talking box,” as we called it, and listen to the jesters of the day: Vanderloo P. Vanderloo and his Talking Spinnaker, Haypenny Pete’s Rascally Band of Rum Runners, Bob Hope, and so many more.
(Mary Todd was always partial to the humourist Mark Twain, but I think she just liked that bushy mustache of his. She often remarked how ticklesome it appeared, but she was incoherent much of the time, so I rarely gave her words much credence.)
One evening as Atlanta happily burned to the ground, I heard a new voice come from that talking box. The announcer introduced him as a “fine young comickster, and a good Union boy, even if he is a Jew.” Then the young fellow spoke into the amplificator, and what followed was several delightful minutes of amusing patter, quips, and japes, the likes of which I’d never heard before, nor since. I especially recall a mirthful story the man told about eating tacos and the various indigestinal difficulties the foul food produced.
My boy Robert found the man irksome, calling him “an egregious specimen” and “a rapscallion,” but one of us was president and one of us was not, so I leave it to the reader to determine who between us had the better sense of humor.
Anyway, by the time this amusing character concluded his tomfoolery, I found myself in such good spirits that I freed the slaves.
Then I grew a beard.
The despondent cloud that hung so heavy upon my countenance was lifted, my merry disposition restored. That night, after I had my way with Mary Todd, I asked her what she thought about inviting this wag to the White House for a command performance. She responded with tears and accusations of the most horrid sort. As I said, though, she was rarely lucid, and in point of fact, several times during our lovemaking called out the name “Jimmy,” which I took to be more nonsensical rantings.
The morning next, I instructed my secretary Jimmy to write the man a note, requesting that he make all possible haste to Washington, for I knew his merrymaking would cheer my cabinet and officers as much as it had cheered me. A good Union man, even a Jewy one, would surely do his part for the American cause.
Alas, the performance never occurred. Shortly after dispatching that missive, I was shot in the head by John Wilkes Booth and so never had the opportunity to meet the man who brought me such joy in my time of need—Michael Ian Black.
It was with profound happiness, then, that I received a request to write the foreword for Mr. Black’s new book. Reading through an early draft of the anthology, I found myself once again chuckling at his ribald badinage. Yes, thought I, upon reading the selection “A Series of Letters to the First Girl I Ever Fingered,” I too have often thought back to the maiden who first felt my manual intrusions
. Yes, thought I, reading his comickal gem “Testing the Infinite Monkey Probability Theorem,” I too have wondered about the quality of literature three chimpanzees and a bonobo monkey would produce if given several typewriters and a pile of Subway sandwiches. Yes followed yes throughout my perusal of this handsome volume.
Wasn’t it me who said, “Without laughter we must cry”? In retrospect that was a foolish thing to say. There are many other things besides crying we might do without laughing: splitting logs, hunting quail, playing Wii, et cetera. Yet the spirit of that humble aphorism holds true. Laughter relieves the tedium of the day; it replenishes the spirit and invigorates the mind. Of course, laughter may also induce the hiccups.
Michael Ian Black’s clever new book will, I hope, give all readers much gaiety and few hiccups. (If, by chance, the reader should contract hiccups, I find the best cure to be a shot of fresh apple cider vinegar applied through the nose.)
The nation may have paid a dear price for her unity, but it is my hope that this book will do for our nation what no war ever could—create everlasting peace, joy, and love. Is that too much to ask for a book containing an essay entitled “Why I Used a Day-Glo Magic Marker to Color My Dick Yellow”? Perhaps. But I don’t think so. And my opinion means more than yours. After all, I was President of the United States of America.
Until I was shot in the head by John Wilkes Booth.
Abraham Lincoln
Springfield, Illinois
2008
What I Would Be Thinking If I Were Billy Joel Driving to a Holiday Party Where I Knew There Was Going to Be a Piano
I’M not doing it. I’m just not. I know I say the same thing every year, but this time I mean it—I am not playing it this year. Seriously, how many times can I possibly be expected to play that stupid song? I bet if you counted the number of times I’ve played it over the years, it probably adds up to, like, a jillion. I’m not even exaggerating. One jillion times. Well, not this year.
This year, I’m just going to say, “Sorry, folks, I’m only playing holiday songs tonight.” Yeah, that’s a good plan. That’s definitely what I’m going to do, and if they don’t like it, tough cookies. It’ll just be tough cookies for them.
But I know exactly what’ll happen. I’ll sit down, play a few holiday songs, and then some drunk jerk will yell out “‘Piano Man,’” and everybody will start clapping, and I’ll look like a real asshole if I don’t play it.
I wonder if they’ll have shrimp cocktail.
Now that I think of it, it’s always Bob Schimke who yells out “‘Piano Man.’” He does it every year. He gets a couple of Scotches in that fat gut of his, and then it’s “Hey, Billy, play ‘Piano Man’!” That guy is such a dick. He thinks he’s such a big shot because he manages that stupid hedge fund. Big deal. He thinks because he used to play quarterback for Amherst that everybody should give a shit. I don’t. Who cares about you and your stupid hedge fund, Bob? That’s what I should say to him this year. I really should. I should just march right up to him and say, “Who cares about your stupid hedge fund?” Let’s just see what Mr. Quarterback has to say about that. And I know he made a pass at Christie that time. She probably liked it too.
I’m such a loser.
Why do I even go to these parties? I mean, honestly, how many times do I need to see Trish and Steve and Lily and that creepy doctor husband of hers and all their rich Long Island friends? Although that Greenstein girl is nice. Maybe she’ll be there. What’s her name—Alison?
What if Alison asks me to play “Piano Man”? Then what? I’ve got to stick to my guns, that’s what. I’ll simply say, “Some other time.” Yeah, that’s good. Kind of like we’re making a date or something. And then at the end of the night when we’re all getting our coats, I’ll turn to her and say something like, “So when do you want to get together and hear ‘Piano Man’?” Oh man, that’s really good. That’s so smooth. After all, how is she going to say no? She’s the one who asked to hear it in the first place! Oh man, Billy, that is just perfect.
Maybe she’ll say something like, “How about right now?” Yeah. And maybe we’ll leave together. I can drive her back to my place and I can play her the stupid song and then maybe we’ll do it. I’d really like to do it with that Greenstein girl. How awesome would that be? Me leaving with Alison on my arm and Bob’s big fat stupid face watching us go. That would be too rich. I’d be real nonchalant about it, too—“See you later, Bob.”
Who am I kidding? She’d never go out with me. She was dating that actor for a while. What’s his name? Benicio? What kind of name is Benicio? A stupid name, that’s what kind. Hi, I’m Benicio. I’m so cool. I’m sooooo cool. I should start going by Billicio. I’m Billicio Del Joelio. I play pianolo.
Sing us a song, you’re the piano man…
Oh great. Now it’s in my head. Perfect. Now I have to walk around that stupid party with that stupid song stuck in my head all night.
Amherst sucks at football.
You know what I should do? I should just turn this car around and go home. Just pick up the phone and call them and tell them I ate some bad fish or something. Yeah, that’s what I should do.
What am I going to do? Go through my entire life avoiding situations where somebody might ask me to play a song? I can’t do that. No, Billy, you’ve just got to grow yourself a sack and take care of business. And if that loudmouth Bob Schimke requests “Piano Man,” I just need to look him in the eye and tell him I’d be happy to play it for him just as soon as he goes ahead and fucks himself.
Who am I kidding? Of course I’m going to play it. I always play it. Probably the only reason half the people at that party even show up is to hear me play “Piano Man.” They probably don’t even like me. Not really. They just want to tell all their friends that Billy came and played “Piano Man.” Again. Like I’m the loser who’s dying to play it. Whatever.
Fine. I’ll do it, but not because they want me to, but because I want me to. I’m not even going to wait for them to ask. I’m going to march right in there and play the song and that’ll be that. I’m not even going to take off my coat first. Yeah. Let’s see what Bob has to say about that. I might even play it twice.
One Day, I’m Going to Open a Scented Candle Shoppe
EVERYBODY loves a good scented candle. Scented candles are to people’s nostrils what friction is to their genitals—in other words, terrific. Nothing relaxes me more after a stressful day than a stroll through a scented candle shoppe, and I often find myself thinking, I wonder what it would be like if this store were mine?
The answer? Wonderful.
One day, I’m going to open a scented candle shoppe. Nothing too fancy. A little gingerbread store just off the beaten path. Someplace travelers will hear about from friends and friends of friends. A special place they’ll have to get off the highway to find. They’ll drive through some scenic part of the country until they happen upon a local walking along the side of the road. They’ll pull their car over and say, “Excuse me, I’ve heard there’s a wonderful scented candle shoppe somewhere around here. Can you point the way?”
The local will give those travelers a little wink and point them in my direction. “Take this road until you come to an old oak tree. Then roll down your windows and just follow the scent of cinnamon until you arrive.”
The travelers will thank the old-timer and drive off. (In this scenario the local is an old-timer, but it could just as easily be a freckle-faced paperboy.)
A lot of people may wonder what the difference is between a “shoppe” and a “shop.” There’s no precise definition, but I’ll try to explain. A shop is a place of business. No more. No less. But a shoppe is different. A shoppe is a place where business is conducted, yes, but it’s also a place where friendships are formed, trust earned, scented candles smelled.
There’s always a dish of free butterscotch candies in a shoppe, and a bowl of milk left out for any stray tabby cats that may wander in. It’s a place where Lite FM is always o
n the radio, except during Christmas, when it’s nothing but Nat King Cole and Bing Crosby. A cheerful little bell tinkles when visitors enter, and tinkles again when they go.
“Come again,” the owner says, and means it.
“We will,” says the customer, and they mean it, too.
A shoppe is a place where if something falls and breaks, the customer offers to pay, but the owner says, “That’s all right. The place was getting a little too crowded anyway.” Then they both chuckle and eat a butterscotch.