My Custom Van
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32. Stop saying “zygote” when I mean “fetus.”
33. Sell some military secrets to the Chinese. This one’s going to be tough as I do not have access to any military secrets, and I don’t know any Chinese people. But on the plus side, I recently saw Patton.
34. Try harder to remember that tomatoes aren’t the enemy.
35. Remake my wardrobe to be more “fashion forward.” That means more scuba flippers, light-up bow ties, and oversize hockey jerseys and less Boba Fett costumes, wax lips, and compression hose.
36. If I’m going to burn rubber tires, I need to do it when the wind is blowing away from the nursing home next door.
37. Stop making jokes in the security line at the airport. There’s no need to impress the TSA guys so that they’ll come away from our encounters thinking, That guy is hilarious.
38. Don’t use charitable giving as a way to feel smug. This one’s going to be hard for me because charitable giving is one of my primary ways of feeling smug, both toward the people to whom I am donating and toward the people who did not give. It’s two-for-one smugness and it has to stop.
39. Clean out my high school locker. It’s been almost twenty years, and I imagine things are getting a little rank in there.
40. Cut down on my carbon footprint by making everybody come to me instead of the other way around. Let the dead Earth be on their consciences for once.
41. Learn and use cool handshakes.
42. Learn and use my children’s names.
43. Pitch my idea for the television show World’s Strongest Rock Star. When an executive asks, “Will anybody care how far Hootie can shot-put?” answer, “Yes.”
44. Give serious consideration to adopting a baby, but don’t.
45. Quit disparaging wallpaper. There’s a lot of great wallpaper out there and when I make generalizations about “all wallpaper,” it makes me look ignorant. I’m better than that.
46. Give up the pseudonym I use when writing my radical feminist poetry. At a certain point, I have to trust that my comedy audience will embrace my radical feminist poetry and my radical feminist poetry audience will embrace my comedy. The two do not have to be mutually exclusive.
47. Write more thank-you cards, but draw fewer swastikas on them.
48. Develop a taste for fine port, talk about it a lot, and then snicker when people are ignorant about the drink. Could be a good replacement for feeling smug (see resolution #38).
49. Taste and rank every Jelly Belly flavor according to how much it tastes like what it is supposed to taste like. Compile results into a definitive list. Sell each copy for a hundred dollars. Sit back and watch the money roll in.
50. Put up that birdhouse.
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
Greetings losers fellow writers,
When I first sat down to write My Custom Van, I totally knew had no idea the profound effect it would have—not just on stoners young people, but on society as a whole. How could I know essays such as “This Is How I Party” and “Why I Used a Day-Glo Magic Marker to Color My Dick Yellow” would strike such a resonant chord with so many? Answer: focus groups I couldn’t.
Throughout those leisurely, booze-filled afternoons torturous days when I was playing Tetris struggling to put pen to paper, I sometimes wondered if I would ever complete this anthology. Perhaps I was being too hard on myself; analyzing the text, I insisted that each word be written perfect. The effort almost killed me!!!!!!!!!
(NOTE: Possibly insert joke about how the food at the awards dinner almost killed me, too.)
But then I Googled stumbled across a speech that I didn’t understand changed my perception of what it means to be a writer.
Upon accepting his Nobel Prize for Literature in 1962, John Steinbeck, who I am told wrote some excellent books, said the following:
The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement.
How right that guy was, losers friends. How right he was. To repeat: how truly right he was.
When I discovered Steinbeck’s words, I realized that I was doing the same exact thing as him only better. I too was using man’s “grievous faults and failures” to illuminate his “dark and dangerous dreams” (See: “How to Approach the Sensitive Question: Anal?”). Steinbeck and I are like two kittens playing with the same ball of yarn kindred spirits. How wonderful to discover that my dream of improving mankind was shared by none other than one of England’s America’s greatest Elizabethan modern writers.
For all my missed deadlines difficulties, however, this book was a joy for me to write. But more importantly, it was a joy for you to read. You love this book. How do I know? Because you’re giving me this cool literary prize.
When I first received the news that I had won, I wondered aloud, “Who did my publisher have to blow to make this happen?” “Am I truly worthy of such an honor?” Hell to the yeah! Humility prevents me from answering in the affirmative; I only hope to prove myself worthy of this esteemed award.
Of course, a prize such as this also carries with it a responsibility to use my newfound notoriety for the public good. As such, I have decided to dedicate myself to stopping the war in Iraq raising autism awareness overthrowing the government making horsemeat “the other red meat” teaching Chinese kids to bowl figuring out a way to befriend Leonardo Dicaprio buying a Labradoodle because they don’t shed and because I like the word “Labradoodle” important causes.
My wife is here tonight and I want to use this opportunity to say to her, “I’m leaving you.” “I love you.” Without her constant bitching support, this book could never have been written. So, to you Marsha Martha (NOTE: double-check wife’s name), “Thank you.”
And to my children, Suri and Maddox, I hope this award helps you understand why Daddy spent so much time drinking working in his office when you wanted me to play. Do you remember what I used to tell you? “Daddy can’t play right now because he’s a genius.” Now you have proof. So while it’s true that other kids’ daddies volunteer to coach Little League and help with ballet recitals, I want you two to always remember that those daddies didn’t win important literary prizes—I did. Plus, a lot of important writers were horrible to their children. Look it up.
In conclusion, I want to thank all of my friends, colleagues, and lovers acquaintances here tonight. Each of you, in some small way, contributed to the creation of this super awesome humble little book. Each of you shares this prize with me. Not literally, of course, because that would necessitate me cutting up the award into tiny little pieces.
In your face, losers!
Thank you and good night.
Acknowledgments
FIRST of all, I would like to acknowledge that I have a terrible sense of direction. Whether I am on the road or on the couch, I rarely know where I am, and never know where I am going. Special thanks to the people who try to point me in the right direction: my editor Tricia Boczkowski, Ted Schachter, Kevin Stolper, Jay Gassner, Mike Mori, everybody in the New Group, Elijah, Ruth, and of course, Martha.
*I confined this essay to the heterosexual community, as I don’t know the protocol for the other half, although I suspect the conversation usually goes something like this:
“Wanna ass fuck?”
“Yes, I do.”