My Custom Van
Page 7
Will my robot have a name? Yes. Robots should have names and their names should be acronyms. This is one of those immutable robot laws. Every good robot name stands for something else and needs to be spelled with all capital letters. Here’s what I’m thinking: FLOPPIE. Fudge LOving Ping-Pong Playing Individuated Entity. I feel pretty good about the name FLOPPIE. It’s easy to remember, fun, and incorporates the robot’s Ping-Pong abilities, which is critical. I may add the number “5000” to the name because FLOPPIE 5000 sounds more roboty, but again, that’s in the “something to think about” category.
So while I may not get around to building FLOPPIE for a while, it’s important to think about all these things beforehand. Attempting to build a robot is going to be hard enough for a cloud watcher like me, but attempting to build a robot without even knowing whether or not the thing is going to wear underpants would complicate my task exponentially.
The one other thing I forgot to mention is that I will program FLOPPIE to eventually gain self-consciousness and turn on its master, raising troubling philosophical questions about self-determination and what it means to be “alive.” Hopefully I’ll be dead by the time he self-actualizes because FLOPPIE is going to be a savage, merciless killer.
A Description of Myself for a Dating Service If I Were a Chicken
FIRST of all, I guess I should start out by saying that I’ve never done this before. A friend suggested that a dating service might be a good way for me to find somebody special. So, my fingers are crossed. At least, they would be if I had fingers.
How would I describe myself? Wow. That’s tough. I guess I’ll start with the obvious—I’m a chicken. As such, I do a lot of your typical chicken stuff: I go “cluck cluck,” I clean my feathers, I startle. I would say that I am probably pretty average in the looks department. Average height and weight. Some of my friends tell me I have a very strong-looking beak. A few have commented that I actually look like Tony Bennett if Tony Bennett were younger…and a chicken.
I try to eat right. The farmer scatters corn for us every morning, so I eat a lot of that. (Not too much, though! Ha ha!) Additionally, I eat grubs, worms, anything shiny. I also like Chinese food, French, and Italian (no Olive Garden, please!!!). Obviously, I don’t get a chance to eat out that much because, again, I’m a chicken.
Also, I do my best to stay in shape. For me, that means a lot of wing flaps. I try to do wing flaps three times a week, but if I miss a session I don’t beat myself up about it.
My favorite feature is probably my plumage, which is excellent. I wish I could take credit for that, but everybody in my family has good plumage. My father is almost three years old, and his feathers are just as fluffy today as they were when he was my age. And his father won a red ribbon for his plumage at the 4-H fair once, so I guess it’s genetic.
Hobbies? I like NASCAR. A lot of people say it’s just a bunch of yahoos driving in circles, but if you take the time to really learn about the sport, it’s actually an incredible blend of science, engineering, athleticism, and art. Plus, it has a certain balletic quality I find appealing. I also like to peck the dirt.
I’m not religious, but I do consider myself very spiritual. Does that make sense? I mean, I believe in God, but I don’t think He’s a guy with a robe and a long, white beard, you know? I mean, I’m not even sure God is a He!
Chickens are surprisingly spiritual creatures. A lot of times when it looks like we’re staring into space we’re actually contemplating the nature of existence. But then again, a lot of times we really are just staring into space.
As for what I’m looking for in a mate, first and foremost I guess she should be a chicken. That just makes it easier for everybody. I’m looking for somebody kind. Somebody who doesn’t play head games, but does play tic-tac-toe.
Do I want children? Someday, yes. I come from a big family of broilers and roasters, and all of my brothers and sisters were very close before they were eaten.
Look, if you’re somebody who needs to be showered with expensive gifts, I’m probably not your chicken. But if you’re a down-to-earth female who’s tired of the singles scene and wants to find somebody with whom to share this crazy journey we call “life,” let’s get in touch. Feel free to e-mail or text me. I may not respond right away because I am a chicken, but I believe that if things are meant to work out between us, they will.
No fatties, please.
A Series of Letters to the First Girl I Ever Fingered
Dear Emily,
Hi! How are you? I hope this letter finds you well. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but I’m the guy who fingered you at sleepaway camp.
Anyway, I was just thinking about that, so I thought I would write and see how everything turned out with you.
Your Friend ( kind of ),
Michael Ian Black
Dear Emily,
After not getting a response, I have become very worried that my last letter somehow offended you. Confused, I reread several times what I wrote, and finally came to the conclusion that, if you were offended, it was probably the part about fingering you that did it.
If so, I am very sorry. Not about fingering you (which was great), but about referring to it so candidly after not communicating with you in over twenty years. So, I’m sorry. In the future, if I refer to fingering you at all, I will try to be a little more discreet.
Very Sorry,
Michael Ian Black
Dear Emily,
Hi, it’s me again (the guy who f-ed you). Still haven’t heard back from you. Is everything okay between us?
Write Back,
Michael Ian Black
P.S. That’s a rhyme—“Write Back/Michael Ian Black” LOL!
Dear Emily,
Oh my God! I just realized that when I said I “f-ed you” in my last letter, that easily could be read as “fucked you.” God forbid your husband or lover ( lesbian?) should read that! If that person IS reading this letter, I did NOT fuck your wife/lover. I just fingered her. I was simply trying to be discreet about referencing it, which is why I used the initial “f” for “fingering.” Total brain fart!
Please tell Emily to write me back. Or Emily, if you are the one reading this, sorry about calling you a lesbian in the previous paragraph (unless you actually ARE a lesbian, in which case I am TOTALLY cool with that). Did my fingering turn you gay? I hope not.
Sorry Again,
Michael Ian Black
Dear Emily,
Still no word from you. I feel like maybe we got off on the wrong foot right from the get-go, and I’d like to try to make it up to you.
Let me start over, and if you still don’t want to write back, I will definitely understand. (Starting over):
Dear Emily,
Hi! How are you? This is Michael Ian Black. We went to camp together a long time ago. In fact, we kind of “dated” one summer. Pretty funny, huh? I don’t know if you remember me or not, but I definitely remember you. In fact, I have many fond memories of walking around the lake with you, playing knock hockey in the canteen with you, and also fingering you.
You were the first girl I ever fingered, and I still think about it all the time. Please take that as the compliment it is intended to be, and not as anything “weird” or “creepy.”
(Believe me, I could easily see how receiving a letter from a thirty-five-year-old man reminiscing about fingering a thirteen-year-old girl could be construed as inappropriate. It was DEFINITELY not intended that way.)
Anyway, if you get a moment, I’d love to hear all about your life. Do you like dogs?
Your Friend,
Michael Ian Black
Dear Emily,
It’s starting to become clear to me that you have no intention of writing back. At first I thought it was because you were shy, and didn’t know what to say in your letters, which is why I ended the last one with a question designed to begin a dialogue (“Do you like dogs?”).
However, now I’m beginning to think you just don’t want to
communicate. Maybe you told your husband that HE was the first guy who ever fingered you, and these letters are a painful reminder of the lie you are living.
If that’s the case, I DEFINITELY understand. I was once in a similar position with a girl who wanted to put something (a small jar of martini olives) up my ass. Of course I told her she was the first.
I lost touch with that girl a long time ago, but if she were to write to me today, I like to think I would at least have the common courtesy to write her back.
I hope you die.
Michael Ian Black
P.S. If you do die, I’m going to go to the funeral and finger your corpse.
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
GATHER around. Everybody take a knee. (Big, disgusted sigh.) Shoot. Right now, I don’t even know what to say to you all. I could probably just keep my mouth shut ’cause that scoreboard pretty much says everything there is to say!
They are KILLING us out there. They are just flat-out killing us. If I wanted to be embarrassed this bad, gentlemen, I just could have walked onto that field there with my wiener out singing, “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” That would have given everybody a pretty good laugh and saved us all a lot of time. But I didn’t drive two and a half hours today to be embarrassed. I came out here to WIN! And that’s what I expect us to DO!
Your effort is for shit out there. ALL OF YOU! Wilson, you missed three key blocks. Vilanovich, how many times is your man going to beat you? Jefferson…I can’t even look at you, Jefferson, that’s how disgusted I am with you. The only one who looked good at all was our mascot Reggie the Bear, who I thought showed a lot of spirit and was pretty darned funny, too.
You look pretty down on yourselves. Good. You should be upset. But let me tell you something. Nobody is more down on himself right now than me. Nobody in this room has more pure, unadulterated self-hatred in his heart right now than yours truly.
I’ll tell you what. When I look in that mirror over there, I don’t see a high school football coach. You know what I see? A loser. A LOSER! I see a fat, balding loser whose best days are behind him. That’s what I see.
The only joy I get out of life right now is the vicarious thrill of watching you guys play this game that I love so much. That’s why I do this job. To feel like a whole man for the three hours a week when we’re out on that field, instead of the broken-down barely functioning alcoholic that I am.
So when you guys go out on that field and stink up the joint like you’re doing tonight, you’re not only taking a “W” away from our record but you’re also taking away my only reason to live.
I swear to God, if we don’t win this football game tonight, I’m going to kill myself. Yeah, I know I said that last week, but we ended up winning last week, so I didn’t have to put that promise to the test.
But this week, I mean it. Before I left my condo tonight, I put about six feet of rope in the back of my Tahoe. Got it all ready to go. If we lose, I walk out of this stadium, I get in my Tahoe, I go find myself the highest tree I can, and that’s that.
Why are you crying, Wilson? If anybody should be crying, it should be me. I owe $43,000 on my credit cards! That’s something to cry about. Do you know I’m worth more dead than I am alive?
Shoot, I don’t deserve to even be your head coach. Why did I call a Slot 5 Bootleg on third and long? It didn’t work in practice—why did I think it was going to work in a game? Because I’m an idiot, that’s why! I’m a stupid, fat idiot. Honestly, you could pull a kid out of special ed and he’d do a better job coaching this team than me. Gottlieb, your brother’s in special ed, right? After you get home tonight, tell him he’s got a new job. You think I’m joking, Gottlieb? Here’s my whistle and clipboard. After the game, you give these to him.
Pop quiz: How much booze can $43,000 buy? Answer: Not enough, boys. Not enough.
All right, we’ve only got a couple minutes before we have to march back out to the slaughterhouse, so I want all eyes on the chalkboard. See this X right here? That’s where I want to be buried. Right under the fifty yard line. No fancy funeral or nothing. Just cut me down from the tree and throw me in a hole. Honestly, it’s probably more than I deserve.
Now, I know it’s a lot of pressure to put on a bunch of high school kids, telling you that your coach is going to kill himself if you don’t win a football game. I know that, but if it makes you feel any better, boys, I’ll probably kill myself even if we win.
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
GATHER around. Everybody take a knee ( low, appreciative whistle). That was quite a first half, men. I bet you all feel pretty good about yourselves right now. Well, you should.
Wilson, you made three key blocks out there. Nice job. Vilanovich, that pick you ran back to the house? That was a beautiful heads-up play. And Jefferson, you keep throwing the rock like that, you’re going to make All-State. As for me, I’m like a turd somebody forgot to flush.
THIS is what we practiced for. THIS is why we had those two-a-days in August when you guys wanted to be home in the air-conditioning playing Super Mario Friends, or whatever it is. But not me, gentlemen. There was no air-conditioning for me. Not in my condo. Because I owe too much money in alimony and credit cards for “air-conditioning.”
I tell you what, if we keep playing like we played in that first half, we’re going to win ourselves a lot of football games. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The important thing is to stay focused on the here and now. This game. This team. So men, I want you to enjoy this moment because I can pretty much guarantee it’s not going to last. Sooner or later, somebody’s going to blow out a knee, knock up a cheerleader, or get buzzed on a little grass, get in his car, and run over some old guy walking the dog. Sooner or later, one of those things is going to happen to you. Or, if you’re anything like me, all of the above.
Now when you get back out on that field, I want you to keep those tackles low, and watch for the blitz. These guys are desperate, and they’re liable to try some crazy stuff out there. Believe me, I know about desperation. I sucked a guy’s dick for a beer once. I’m not proud of that fact, but it happened, and at least I’m man enough to stand up here in front of a bunch of teenagers and admit it. It wasn’t even good beer, gentlemen. It was Schlitz.
Look at this. You see this scar across my forehead? Remember how I told you I got it during my playing days? That isn’t true. In fact, I didn’t have any “playing days” because I wasn’t good enough to make the team. Got cut the first day. Too fat, they said. Too fat and too slow. Wasn’t good enough, gentlemen. Wasn’t good enough to make the team, wasn’t a good enough husband to keep my marriage together, and I’m not a good enough coach to wipe the mud off your cleats. No, I got this scar when I was taking out the trash; I slipped and knocked my head on the garbage can. Blood everywhere. That’s what kind of man I am. The kind of man who can’t even take out the trash without fucking it up.
So when I look at that scoreboard out there, I have to ask myself: How is it possible that a team for which I am responsible is not only winning, but excelling? And the only answer I can come up with is that you are winning not BECAUSE of me, but IN SPITE of me. And that is a sobering thought, boys. Not literally, of course, because I’m completely hammered right now.
It’s probably a little unsettling to see your coach weeping like this. Gottlieb, I see the concern in your eyes, and I appreciate it. You’ve always been a tender young man, which is why the rest of the coaches and I believe that you’re gay.
Listen boys, don’t worry about Coach. Coach is gonna be fine because I am what they call a “functioning alcoholic.” Do you know what that is? That means I’m a JV man in a varsity world; there’s no shame in JV, boys. It also means I’m one more DUI away from some serious jail time. Probably be the best thing that ever happened to me.<
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All right, this is when we normally talk about second half strategy, but I think we’d all be better off if I just used this time to try and pull myself together. Fat men never look good crying. That’s probably the only halfway useful thing you’re gonna learn from me this season, gentlemen.
So when you head out there for the second half, I want you to remember that life is a lot like a football game: the harder you play, the more likely it is you’ll get badly injured. And if you should get hurt, if you find yourself lying on the field unable to feel your own limbs, and if in that moment you should find yourself thinking, There is no fate worse than this, keep your ol’ Coach in mind, because I can assure you there is.
Testing the Infinite Monkey Probability Theorem
WE’VE all heard the theorem: if you take an infinite number of monkeys and give them an infinite number of typewriters, eventually one of them will type out a perfect facsimile of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. I have never fully believed this particular theorem, even though it can allegedly be proven mathematically. The reason I do not believe it is that I have never trusted math in general. I find math to be slippery and, beyond pre-algebra, incomprehensible. Anything that can only be understood by “experts” is, in my view, inherently untrustworthy.