My Custom Van

by Michael Ian Black

  Perhaps you read the words “Chevy Malibu” and “lactose intolerance” and think to yourself, Those guys sound like losers. What possible reason would I have to join?

  If you want a list of reasons, I’ve got plenty!

  For one thing, there is our exhaustive knowledge of all things related to the television program Babylon 5. For example, can you name the planet and star system around which Babylon 5 orbits? We can. Epsilon 3 in the Epsilon Eridani star system. No other local fraternal organization can boast this depth of knowledge regarding Babylon 5.

  Maybe you’re looking for a club with social status. If so, consider the fact that Carl (the younger of the two brothers) once made out with 1994 Homecoming Queen nominee Kristi Swinton, and this was BEFORE she put on all that weight! Was there tongue? Yes, there was. I’m not going to regale you with all the details because one of the benefits of joining the club is listening to Carl tell the story in person. Teaser: the part where she passes out is a real highlight.

  Or maybe you want to join a fraternal organization that gives back to the community. If so, you’re in luck. One of the conditions of my probation is that I perform two hundred hours of community service. I checked with my parole officer, and he informed me that anybody is free to assist me as I pick up trash along Route 136. Full disclosure: another condition of my probation is that I stay away from the town swimming pool, so aquatic enthusiasts should take that under advisement.

  Maybe you want to join a club with a long history. Our ties go back generations. In fact, Carl and Randy’s father and my father used to be in a bowling league together. Further tying us together is the fact that they tag-teamed my mom once.

  Another great thing about our club, as compared to some of the ones you may have read about in one of those glossy magazines at the foot doctor, is that our club requires no expensive membership fees. All me and Carl and Randy ask is that, before entering the Malibu, you wipe off your boots because if you don’t, mud and gravel get all over the interior. In fact, the only dues you have to pay are gas money and the occasional car wash, which is six bucks. Even though Randy works there, he does not get an employee discount.

  We also have our annual “Autumn Solstice” dinner at Shakey’s. It would be a nice gesture if you picked up the tab on that, but it is definitely not a condition of membership.

  Is there a hazing period? Yes, there is. Don’t worry, though. Basically, all hazing consists of is us running you through the spanking machine a few times. Honestly, I always feel stupid doing the spanking machine, considering the fact that we are all grown men in our mid-to late thirties, but Carl insists on it. He says that, for him, it’s the best part of the club.

  Some additional benefits of joining:

  Bi-weekly car rides to Burger King featuring my famous “Burger King Rap.” Sample lyric: “I’m gonna purchase two big Whoppers / Then chew them up with my choppers.”

  Round Robin seating arrangement.

  Free subscription to Carl’s bi-annual Babylon 5 zine, creatively entitled Babble On. Retail value: $11.00

  Free 24/7 access to Randy’s DVD collection, which leans heavily toward sci-fi and Japanese erotic anime. (It’s a great benefit, but Randy’s late fees are a killer: a hundred dollars per day.)

  Annual Secret Santa gift exchange. Value of gifts not to exceed fifteen dollars.

  Best of all, the pride of obtaining membership in the area’s most exclusive club!

  If this sounds appealing, feel free to contact me, Head of the Membership Committee, at my mom’s house, where I am temporarily residing, or at my place of employment (the address of which I will give when I have a place of employment).

  Hey, David Sedaris—Why Don’t

  You Just Go Ahead and Suck It?

  FIRST of all, let me start by saying that I am a David Sedaris fan. Everybody is a David Sedaris fan, which is part of the reason I hate him so much. People who are as universally beloved as David Sedaris are, in my opinion, highly suspect. After all, how can so many people love you if you are not, on some level, a total shithead?

  I would feel much better about David Sedaris if he occasionally threw a telephone at somebody. That’s the kind of behavior I have grown accustomed to from the celebrated, and it would greatly relieve me to know that David Sedaris is capable of such lawlessness. A perfect target: fellow memoirist and Nazi hunter Elie Wiesel. How incredible would that be? The winner of the Thurber Prize for American Humor hurls telephone at octogenarian Nobel Laureate. Awesome. Even better, it would provide both of them reams of material for future memoirs. In the business world, we call that “win-win.”

  But no. Instead, we can expect David Sedaris to continue puttering through his quiet life, trolling Parisian cafés and bookstores, jotting down the occasional bon mot for his adoring American public. All of it so idyllic, so comfortably bohemian. So fucking perfect. Which is why I say:

  Hey, David Sedaris—why don’t you just go ahead and suck it?

  Geniuses are the worst. If you are at all like me, you believe that geniuses were put on this earth to rub your nose in the stink of your own mediocrity. Honestly, is humanity really served by geniuses? Yes, they contribute to the arts and sciences, but ultimately, don’t they take far more than they give? By simply existing, aren’t they robbing the rest of us of the illusion of our potential greatness? Sedaris writes bestselling book after book, which only goes to prove time and time again that he is capable of greatness and you are not. If that doesn’t make you feel bad about yourself, it should.

  Perhaps you think my antipathy is based on nothing more than good old-fashioned jealousy. You would be right to think this. After all, David Sedaris is living the kind of sophisticated, glittering life I always envisioned for myself, minus the homosexuality. So how come good fortune fell his way, and not mine? After all, we have so much in common. I too grew up in a highly dysfunctional family. I too have kept a diary my entire life (although I prefer the word “journal,” because mine is bound in human skin). I too worked as a housecleaner (not true) and a Macy’s elf (also not true). So, given all these amazing similarities, how is it that David Sedaris is winning various literary honors and I am doing commercials for Sierra Mist? Which is why I say again:

  Hey, David Sedaris—why don’t you just go ahead and suck it?

  It’s important to understand that when you read the words “David Sedaris” and “suck it,” that they are not actually directed at David Sedaris the person, but more at the idea of David Sedaris—the idea of a diminutive comedic memoirist out there selling millions of books and living in Paris with his boyfriend, Hugh. Now, perhaps the idea of David Sedaris coincides pretty closely with the actual David Sedaris, but only because he’s leading a very specific kind of life that I feel is designed to make people think worse of me. Is this narcissistic? On his part, yes.

  Lest you think I only feel this way about David Sedaris, I don’t. Wes Anderson, you can go ahead and suck it, too. And so can you, Jonathan Safran Foer. I’d love to go to a dinner party with all of those guys and listen to them talk about how great they are. Except they wouldn’t. They would probably be humble and complimentary of everybody else. Chances are, nobody would even throw a telephone at anybody, unless it was me throwing the phone, which I would do out of frustration and self-loathing. Who would I throw it at? Myself.

  (Can you throw a telephone at yourself? I suppose you could if you used the cord as a kind of bungee cord and whipped the receiver against your forehead. That’s probably what I would do, and in a few years, I would find the incident relayed in one of their books or movies, only it would be painted in much more vivid colors than what actually took place.)

  I hope that David Sedaris is, on some level, a total shithead. Otherwise, I would have a hard time claiming him for humanity. Because in the end, aren’t we all shitheads, even the geniuses among us? I like to think so. But just in case he isn’t, let me say for the final time:

  Hey, David Sedaris—why don’t you just go ahead
and suck it?

  Erotic Fiction: The Elevator

  From time to time, I like to dabble in erotic fiction. I do this because I am a romantic at heart, and because it gets me off. Enjoy…

  YOU’RE in an elevator with a pretty girl. As the doors close, you both reach for the same button. When you do, your fingers brush against each other. A graze, no more. She smiles, embarrassed, and looks away. Well, well, looks like you’re heading to the same floor. A shared destination. Kismet?

  The two of you are alone. As the elevator begins its ascent, your mind races. Stealing glances at her from the corner of your eye, you wonder how to speak to this delectable creature. What can you say to bewitch her as much as she has enchanted you? The words, when they come, are perfect. “Same floor, huh?”

  A breath. The scent of lilacs as she turns to you. Her response fills you with delight. “Huh?” she says.

  You waggle your freshly waxed eyebrows at her and nod mischievously toward the elevator wall. “Same floor. You and me.”

  Her dappled eyes go to the button, the only button lit, and she says, “I guess.”

  “Indeed,” you say with confidence. You have made contact. It is now only a matter of time before your bodies are entwined in divine rapture, perhaps in this very elevator, or perhaps in some dim alcove on the floor above. The floor that the two of you share. The floor that you race toward even now.

  A breath. No more than a breath before she turns to you and says, “There are only two floors.”

  And so there are. She is magnificent. Beautiful and brilliant. From what star did this golden light first emerge? Across what vast distance did it travel to find you here?

  She continues, “So obviously we’re going to the same floor.”

  But angels were not meant to be captured so easily. She clearly likes the chase. And so, chase you shall: “It wasn’t obvious to me,” you say, as you let the tiniest dribble of tobacco juice slide out of your mouth—just enough so that it catches the light dripping into your plastic dip cup.

  “Listen, asshole,” she says, “this hospital only has two floors. The ground floor, and upstairs where I get my fucking chemotherapy.”

  She starts crying. And coughing.

  You ride the rest of the way in silence. It is a very slow 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

  FROM the 2007 “Common Application” for admission to Harvard College:

  “Discuss some issue of personal, local, national, or international concern and its importance to you.”

  In this essay I am going to discuss war. I believe that war is terrible, even in Africa. For example, have you heard about the situation in Darfur? Darfur is a territory in the country of Sudan. According to the Internet website Wikipedia, between 200,000 and 400,000 people have been killed in Darfur. If that doesn’t make your heart truly ache, perhaps nothing will. Not even homeless people. It is truly terrible. But the worst part is that the world does not seem to care. Nobody is doing anything about this deplorable and egregious situation. Not even Bono.

  Sometimes I just want to scream, “WHY???” because this terrible war is so futile and inefficacious. But what can one teenager do to stop the madness which is the killing in Darfur in the country of Sudan? Sadly, the inescapable conclusion I am drawn to, as if a moth to a flame, is, not much. Yes, it seems as though one teenager can do so little, no matter how many extracurricular activities he or she has.

  Why isn’t the president, George W. Bush, doing anything to stop this carnage and mayhem which the world knows as Darfur? Were I president, the first thing I would do would be to call together all of the other presidents and kings from around the world and assemble them within the confines of the White House. Then, after a fancy meal and a performance by the country duo Brooks & Dunn, I would get “down to business.”

  I would say, “Listen to me. This intolerable war in Darfur in the country of Sudan has to stop! We are all leaders of this world, the only world we have, and we must put an end to it!”

  Why is this issue personally important to me? Because I believe that war is wrong. People should not be fighting each other. I personally do not want to fight in wars, nor do I want others to fight in them, especially the precious children. No precious child should ever have to fight in wars, nor die in them. Instead, children should be free to play and ruminate upon their futures without fear of being killed by war.

  My grandmother died after contracting a deadly form of cancer. As I stood there that day, holding her withered hand and contemplating my reflection reflected back to me in her cloudy eyes, I truly understood what it means to lose somebody dear.

  If I get accepted to Harvard, I will devote myself to the noble cause of world peace. I plan on majoring in International Relationships, with a minor in Theater. Second, I want to use my degree to make the world a better place so that there will never be any more wars. Perhaps you will think I am naïve, just another optimistic teenager who believes he can change the world. So be it. If that is the case, I say, “Just watch me achieve my goals!”

  Yes, I may be just a “teenager.” And I may be “young,” but I truly believe that it is the youth of this country, the United States of America, who will someday change the world. Not just by raising money at rock concerts featuring the hottest bands. Nor by simply donating canned goods to the needy, but by actually participating in such global events as the Darfur Conflict in the Darfur region of the African nation Sudan.

  As a former president of our nation, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, once intoned, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” I believe that I have truly taken these words to my heart. Furthermore, I believe that Harvard College will actually teach me to apply this great president’s words to my own life, through my studies in International Relationships and Theater.

  After I graduate from Harvard (fingers crossed), I am going to join the Peace Corps and devote myself to helping the poor suffering African people and their precious children. How? By digging wells, giving malaria shots, and teaching them to play the mandolin, which I currently study. Just imagine if one person can do this, what lots and lots of people joined together could do if only we listened to the late singer John Lennon, who sang “Give Peace a Chance” before he was gunned down in front of his apartment building by Mark David Chapman in 1980.

  Yes, I believe that “giving peace a chance” is the only way to stop wars. Also, global warming is terrible.

  Taco Party

  GUESS what? I’m having a taco party, and you’re fucking invited. It’s going to be the greatest fucking taco party ever. I’m gonna have every kind of fucking taco imaginable. Hard shell! Soft shell! Hell’s bells! This is going to be the wickedest fucking kick-ass taco party on EARTH!

  And everybody’s fucking invited! You’re invited! That fucker over there is invited! All you fuckers are fucking invited to come on over and eat some truly sick, mouthwatering fucking tacos at the greatest fucking taco party extravaganza ever!

  CHICKEN! BEEF! FISH! PORK! GRILLED VEGGIES? FUCK YES!

  Plus so much carne asada you’ll be fucking begging for mercy!

  Here’s the way the day breaks down: Fucking show up at noon. Eat fucking tacos until you either boot or pass the fuck out or both. That’s it. If you want, you can take a couple swipes at the fucking piñata I got specially made in the shape of a taco. What’s it filled with? You guessed it, fucker. Tacos. I got a fucking taco-shaped piñata filled with fucking tacos!!! How fucking sick is that? It’s like the fucking Matrix, only with tacos instead of Keanu Reeves.

  You want to swim? You can fucking swim all you want. Guess what the pool is filled with? Did you fucking guess guacamole? Wrong, fucker. It’s filled with water because YOU CAN’T FUCKING SWIM IN GUACAMOLE!!! We tried that last year and it didn’t fucking work. The pool is filled with water. So if you want to swim, bring your
trunks and fucking go crazy. One rule, though: no taco farts in the pool! If you fucking cut a taco fart in the pool, I swear to God, I will be really fucking pissed.

  Will there be entertainment? Fuck yes! For this year’s festivities I will be serving as DJ, spinning a steady, unceasing diet of AC fucking DC on my vintage 2002 5GB iPod because AC/DC goes with tacos the way Mike Nichols goes with Elaine fucking May!

  This is going to be the taco party to end all fucking taco parties. Maybe you like olives on your tacos. Guess what, fuckwad? I will have olives. Maybe you like chopped green onion drizzled in olive oil. Hey, fucking dicknose ass-cheeks shithead—I WILL HAVE CHOPPED GREEN ONIONS DRIZZLED IN OLIVE OIL!!! I will have every conceivable taco topping, including some very fucking exotic habanero peppers I specifically imported from your mother’s ass!

  It’s going to be ridicufuckinglous.

  So, let’s party. Party some more. Continue fucking partying. Then, as the sun sets, I’m going to break out the sparklers and go fucking CRAZY! There are unlimited sparklers for whoever wants, courtesy of my cousin Richie, who lives in Kentucky, where all they fucking do is light off sparklers. This is going to be the ultimate fucking taco party/swimming party/sparkler fuckfest.

  DO NOT PUT THE FUCKING SPARKLERS IN THE POOL!!!

  If I find any fucking sparklers in the pool, I am taking away the sparklers. I am not kidding. I will have a zero fucking tolerance policy when it comes to sparklers and/or taco farts in the pool. Let this serve as your warning because I don’t want anybody bitching at me that they didn’t get warned about this. I am fucking warning you now and I will not brook any fucking objections.