That’s the kind of place I’m going to open one day. And it’s going to sell scented candles.
What kind of scents? Every kind. Cinnamon, rain forest, pumpkin spice, Drakkar Noir. A Drakkar Noir candle? Yes. Fuck yes.
Of course, a scented candle shoppe needs a name, and I’ve thought of one for mine. Every good shoppe has a pun in the name, and mine is no exception. I’ll call it the Modern Thymes Scented Candle Shoppe. The sign will be hand-painted in medieval script with a portrait of me dressed as a court jester (a nod to my past as a very famous celebrity), and then underneath there’ll be a little slogan: “Smell the difference.”
Cute, right?
Inside will be candles. Thousands of candles of all shapes and sizes. Paraffin wax, beeswax, ear wax ( just kidding). Votives, tea lights, big candle columns, candles shaped like dragons and wizards. It’s going to be great.
Question: When one owns a scented candle shoppe, what does the store smell like? This is a real problem. In the industry, the problem is referred to as STINK (ScenT IngestioN over Kill). The problem is, if you have too many scents going at once, they cancel one another out; the nose can only process so much information before it stops being able to distinguish anything. The solution is to choose one scent per day. Valentine’s Day might be a chocolate-scented day. Halloween might be a chocolate-scented day. I realize I just gave the same example twice, which was a mistake.
Here’s an idea I’m presenting to the scented candle national conference when it meets next year in Morrison, Illinois: a “sniffing chamber.” This is a separate room within the shoppe for customers who want to sample their scents before purchasing. It’s like a tasting spoon for the nose, and I think it has the potential to revolutionize the industry.
Another idea: an American flag candle that smells like victory. I’ve been to a lot of candle shoppes, and I’ve never seen a wax representation of “Old Glory.” Why not? As I think about it now, I’m realizing it might be because the purpose of candles is to burn them, and some people might object to burning an American flag, even if it is a candle. I still think the smell of victory is a good idea. I don’t know exactly what that would smell like. Maybe a combination of burned hair and marshmallows.
Anyway, it’s really going to be great. Maybe it’ll become a tourist attraction. Maybe I’ll even attach a little restaurant, the Thyme Out Café, where people can buy lunch and souvenirs. Like T-shirts that say, “I had a great ‘thyme’ at the Modern Thymes Scented Candle Shoppe.” Or “We had the ‘thyme’ of our lives at the Modern Thymes Scented Candle Shoppe.” That sort of thing.
I’ve certainly thought enough about it, and I hope one day I will actually get off my duff and do it! Everybody has a dream. Opening an adorable scented candle shoppe is mine.
Of course, the whole thing will be a front for dealing coke.
Maximus Beer
ON behalf of Bob, Donna, and the rest of my team, I want to start this afternoon’s presentation with a word of thanks. So Walter, thank you. When I first came to you several years ago and told you that I believed America was ready for a beer that was both low in calories and tasted like somebody’s ass, you didn’t laugh. Instead, you asked me questions. Good questions, like, “Why would somebody want to drink a beer that tastes like somebody else’s ass?”
I didn’t have all the answers that day, Walter, but I had a feeling. An unshakable feeling that I was right. So rather than BS you with a bunch of corporate gobbledegook, I just looked you in the eye and said two words. Do you remember what those words were?
“Trust me.”
And trust me you did.
We poured millions of dollars into market research. We spent millions more developing the perfect assy taste. And millions more after that, making sure it was the lowest calorie, assiest-tasting beer on the market. And guess what? We did it. It took a hell of a lot of money and a hell of a lot of time, but we did it.
We created “Maximus” beer.
I remember that day when the first focus groups sat down to try it. How nervous we all were. Would they get it? Well, I remember as they took that first drink, they all pretty much said the same thing—those five magic words we’d been waiting years to hear: “It tastes like somebody’s ass.”
Mission accomplished, Walter. Mission accomplished.
We launched the largest advertising and marketing campaign in this company’s history. The ad campaign was brilliant. Supermodels with their backsides facing the camera, all asking the same question: “Does it taste like mine?”
You threw every nickel you had into that campaign. Then you borrowed some more money and threw that in, too. Your Board of Directors said not to do it. They said you were being rash. But you didn’t listen. Instead you said to them what I told you so long before.
“Trust me.”
In the end, we received a 98 percent saturation rate. Almost one hundred percent of the country knew two things about Maximus—that it was low in calories and that it tasted like somebody’s ass.
I’m proud to say that Maximus was the most talked-about product of the year. People talked and talked and talked. Everybody talked about it, from the man on the street to the late-night comics. We were the “butt” of a lot of jokes, Walter, excuse the pun, but we knew who would be having the last laugh, didn’t we? Us.
Finally the product launched. After all the research, the ad campaign, the talk, only one question remained: Would they buy it? Would America buy a premium, low-calorie beer that tastes like somebody’s ass? We got our answer, didn’t we, Walter? We got our answer loud and clear.
No, they would not.
No, they stayed about as far away from a beer that tastes like somebody’s ass as they presumably would from somebody’s actual ass. It seems in our zeal to perfect Maximus, we failed to answer a simple question—the same question you raised with me, Walter, all those years and all those millions of dollars ago. Why would somebody want to drink a beer that tastes like somebody’s ass? We finally learned our answer.
They wouldn’t.
And when you think about it, why would they? Drinking a beer (even a low-calorie one) that tastes like somebody’s ass is essentially the same as just drinking their ass—completely disgusting. Honestly, I’m getting a little nauseated even talking about it.
But you trusted me when I walked into your office, Walter, and for that I am eternally grateful. Especially considering the fact that I was a guy who didn’t even finish the eighth grade. A guy who has been convicted multiple times and on numerous counts of public urination. A guy who didn’t even work at the company.
A guy who has spent the better part of his life addicted to model airplane glue, and who is, in fact, high on glue right now, which also might explain my nausea.
I started today by thanking you, Walter, and I’d like to conclude by apologizing. I’m sorry. Sorry I bankrupted the company. This family brewery survived for more than two hundred and fifty years before I came along, and then with one bad idea it all went to hell. So that sucks. I’m sorry you lost everything, and I’m really sorry that you hanged yourself. Honestly, I don’t even know how your family can afford this nice funeral. All these flowers must have cost a bundle.
Anyway, on behalf of Bob, Donna, and the rest of my team, I’d like to present your wife with this. Sheila, I know this can’t possibly make up for all the pain I’ve caused you and your family, but when you open the envelope, you’ll find a coupon good for one free massage every week for a month. To be administered by Bob, Donna, myself, or the rest of my team. Your choice.
Walter, you were a good man.
Why I’ve Decided to Go Blonde
I’VE been giving this a lot of thought. A LOT of thought. After many sleepless nights, I’ve decided to go blonde. Believe me, this was not an easy decision. I’ve spent a lot of time in consultation with my wife and minister ( just to clarify, my wife is not my minister. They are two different people). We agonized over this decision, we prayed over this decision, and in the end the
y both told me the same thing: “Follow your heart.”
Well, my heart is telling me to give blonde a try.
Is this yet another shallow attempt to save my floundering marriage? Perhaps. After all, my wife always wanted to be married to a blonde man. When we first got together, I led her to believe that I was blonde. Foolishly, she believed me, even though it should have been pretty obvious to her that I was not. For one thing, I have dark hair, which was a real giveaway, but she wanted to believe in me so badly that she allowed herself to be suckered in by my lies. Fourteen-year-old runaways are like that.
Maybe I wanted to believe it, too. For a while there I was even wearing a lot of pastels because I thought they would look good with my blonde hair. But I could only lie to myself for so long. I didn’t have blonde hair and for a long time, for years, I thought maybe I never would.
We got married and settled down. Had a couple of kids. Everything was going great. And then I had a relapse. We were at the mall, and a couple walked by. They were about our age. A nice-looking couple. They had their arms around each other and they looked so happy together. But the thing that struck me wasn’t so much the way they gazed at each other or the way he was (I thought, inappropriately) licking the inside of her ear. It was his hair. Blonde. Blonde hair cascading down his shoulders into a perfectly coiffed mullet. The kind you sometimes see at drag races and carnivals. I looked at him and thought to myself, That could be me.
At first I didn’t tell anybody. I was too scared. What if they laughed? What if they rejected me? What if it looked so unnatural on me that I ended up looking like post–plastic surgery Patrick Swayze? After all, I’m a Sephardic Jew. My people have always been swarthy. Swarthy and cheap. For me to turn my back on five thousand years of tradition and go blonde, the thought was incomprehensible. And so I tried to put it out of my mind.
Tried and failed.
I kept envisioning myself looking like that man in the mall. Carefree. Gaunt. Bleeding a little from a cut on the cheek. Blonde. I didn’t know what to do. I found myself congregating in places where blonde people hang out. Like Abercrombie & Fitch stores. I rented Robert Redford movies, even though I am against saving the environment. It was a very confusing time. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to make a decision about my hair.
That’s when the sleepless nights started. The thought that kept going through my head was, How am I going to tell my kids? I mean, really, how do you look your kids in the eye and tell them that you’re going blonde?
My wife and I took them out for pizza and I carefully explained that Daddy was going to change his hair color. Naturally they had a lot of questions, but overall I think they took the news pretty well. Kids are resilient, and the thing that I tried to stress to them was that just because Daddy was going to dye his hair blonde didn’t mean I loved them any less. At one point, my son asked, “Is this my fault?” I didn’t know whether to cry or smack him across the face. I chose the latter.
Anyway, that’s my decision.
What do I hope to gain from this experience? For starters, I want to find out if blondes really do have more fun. Which is to say, do they play more Scrabble?
Also, I think blonde hair will make my cornrows look even better. Yes, they look incredible now. Yes, my dark hair beautifully offsets the tiny white seashells I weave into them. All of that is true. But blonde “Axl Rose style” cornrows would also be off the hook, and if there’s one thing I’ve always wanted to be even more than blonde, it’s off the hook.
So there you have it. I’ve already made an appointment at SuperCuts and I’m not looking back. What my wife and minister helped me realize (again, two totally different people who happened to make me realize the same thing) is that if I don’t like my new look, I can always go back to being plain old Michael Ian Black.
But for once, just once, I’d like to be Michael Ian Blonde.
A Series of Letters to a Squirrel
Dear Squirrel,
You’re not that cute.
Sincerely,
Michael Ian Black
Dear Squirrel,
Hi, it’s me again. The “you’re not that cute” guy. I feel like I owe you an explanation for that letter I wrote before. You probably felt a little blindsided by it, so I thought I would take a moment to explain what prompted it in the first place.
This morning, I was looking outside my window when I saw you standing on your back legs, nibbling away at a nut you were turning around and around in your two little hands. Turn, turn, turn. Nibble, nibble, nibble. I thought to myself, I bet that squirrel thinks he is so cute.
Unwelcome feelings of resentment and jealousy bubbled up inside me. Before I knew it, I was enraged. (Question to self: Who was I really angry at? You or me?)
I obviously let my anger get the best of me, and before I knew what I was doing, I hastily wrote that letter and left it at the base of your tree, never considering how potentially hurtful it might be.
Now that I’ve calmed down, I feel like a real schmuck, so I decided to sit down and attempt to explain my actions. Hence, this letter of apology.
So I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me, and just know that in the future I will attempt to do a better job controlling my anger rather than letting my anger control me, per my therapist’s suggestion.
Sincerely,
Michael Ian Black
Dear Squirrel,
Sorry to bother you AGAIN, but I feel the need to clarify something. In my last letter, I explained why I wrote to you in the first place, and in doing so I think I may have mistakenly left you with the impression that I, in fact, DO think you’re that cute. I do not. Nothing could be further from the truth. I do not think you’re that cute. I do not think you’re cute at all.
My original error was in writing to you to begin with, not in my opinion of your cuteness or lack thereof. My second letter was simply an attempt to explain WHY I wrote the first letter, and to apologize for writing it without thinking my actions through. Then, as I said, this third letter is to clarify any potential misunderstandings about whether or not I think you are that cute.
Again: I do not.
In fact, I think you look cheap.
Sincerely,
Michael Ian Black
Dear Squirrel,
Now I’ve gone overboard and I know it. I mean, if my original letter caught you off guard, I can only imagine how that last letter hit you—probably like a ton of bricks. (Although because you are a squirrel, I should probably adjust that expression to something like, “It hit you like a single brick,” because the impact of a single brick hitting you would be the rough equivalent of a ton of bricks hitting me.)
Once again, by saying you look cheap, I acted rashly and said something I didn’t really mean. After all, how can a squirrel look cheap, anyway? Ha ha.
I don’t know if squirrels understand Yiddish, but now I not only feel like a schmuck but I also feel like a putz. Oy vey.
Sincerely,
Michael Ian Black
P.S. I am leaving a copy of Michael Chabon’s wonderful novel The Yiddish Policemen’s Union as a small token of my contrition. (Another suggestion from my therapist.) Enjoy!
Dear Squirrel,
In my previous letter to you, I asked the rhetorical question, “How can a squirrel look cheap?” Well, I thought about it and I came up with an answer: if the squirrel were wearing too much makeup.
Admittedly, most squirrels do not wear any makeup, but it seems to me that if a squirrel did, depending on the amount, it could potentially make the squirrel look cheap.
Clearly you do not wear makeup, and I probably should not have said you look cheap, even though you do. In fact, you look like a whore.
Sincerely,
Michael Ian Black
Dear Squirrel,
By now you are no doubt sick to death of receiving these letters, and I promise this will be the last. The truth is I feel bad about calling you a whore. I don’t know anything about your personal
life; my judgment was based on nothing more than a general whorish vibe you give off.
You look like you’d screw any squirrel that came your way. You look like you’d even screw the knothole in that tree where you live. But this is all speculation on my part, based on nothing more than your aforementioned whorish vibe and sleazy demeanor. Maybe I’m wrong about you. If so, I apologize.
But I really don’t think I am.
Sincerely,
Michael Ian Black
P.S. And you’re not that cute.
P.P.S. I notice you haven’t even opened the book I gave you. Fuck my therapist and fuck you.
Join Our Club!
GOOD news! Our club is currently seeking a new member. The club does not have a name. It doesn’t have a clubhouse. It doesn’t even have a permanent address. But it is a real club with an extremely exclusive membership. How exclusive? We presently number three: myself and the two brothers who own the Chevy Malibu in which we meet.
Maybe you are thinking, Hey, a club that meets in a less than mint condition 1993 Chevy Malibu doesn’t sound like my cup of tea. Believe me, I understand. If “comfort” and “fun” are high on your list of priorities when joining a fraternal organization, then this may not be the ideal situation for you.
Further devaluing the experience are the facts that neither the radio nor air-conditioning work. On the plus side, the heat works fine, although we often have to keep the windows rolled down in the winter because Randy (the older of the two brothers) suffers from persistent lactose intolerance.
Despite these small inconveniences, the club is a terrific place to unwind with like-minded friends in an intimate and convivial environment.
My Custom Van Page 2
