Tag Archives: fiction

Mailbag 5. Yea.

28 Oct

 

Hey everybody. Kyle here. If you’re a regular reader, you can skip this and jump right into the article. If you aren’t a regular, that’s OK, nobody’s going to hit you. I’d just like to explain what I’m doing here.

I get a lot of reader e-mails, fan mail, and I’m-going-to-kill-you mail. Every now and then, a reader will ask for my insight on a specific issue. I compile the best of these questions and answer them in a “Mailbag” column. Enjoy.

————

“U.G.L.Y., you ain’t got no alibi you ugly!” Why do ugly people need an alibi? -Lerin, San Marcos, TX

Lerin, let me show you some pictures.

Adolf Hitler.

Adolf Hitler.

Theodore Kaczynski, the Unabomber

Theodore Kaczynski, the Unabomber

Timothy McVeigh

Timothy McVeigh

Osama Bin Laden

Osama Bin Laden

Phil Spector

Phil Spector

See a pattern? They’re all ugly. Practically all of history’s greatest villains are ugly. When police carry out an investigation, they always try to find the ugliest people first. Ugly people commit the most crimes, and are almost always the prime suspect. Thus, ugly people are always asked to provide an alibi when there is a crime nearby.

What historical figure would you be if you could be any figure from history? -Sam, Denton, TX

I’d be myself from the 90’s when I was banging Tiffany Amber Thiesen as well as playing “Wilson” on television’s Home Improvement.

I’ve recently become obsessed with the facebook sim-sensation, Farmville. What advice would you have for a lowely farmer such as myself? Especially in such a turbulent economy. -Jack, Oklahoma City, OK

I’m going to be honest with you, Jack. When I first read this question I wasn’t 100% sure what exactly FarmVille was, so I decided to do some research. I got my own farm. I was one of the 56.1 million FarmVille users. I chose a pre-existing strawberry patch–it was faster and I needed only a cursory understanding of the game. Soon I gained enough experience and neighbors to grow more and more and more.

Soon, I found that I had too many crops to maintain. I wasn’t making as much money as I could. I’d forget to water a crop here or there and I’d come back the next day to find a pile of death. How to solve this problem? Friends. I sent out several gifts to a number of my best friends. When they came to visit me, to thank me, I sent an associate of mine to their home and burned it to the ground. Where were they to go? They were homeless–and I, the only friend they had with crops vast enough to offer them gainful employment. I think you can see where things go from here.

Enslave everyone you know.

What year is this? -Angela, Denton, TX

1996. Act accordingly.

How in the world did Jimmy Fallon get his own TV show? I mean the guy literally got paid to laugh at Will Ferrell on Satuday Night Live for a few years and now he has his own late night show? I just don’t get it. I’m great at laughing at Will Ferrell. Why don’t I get a show? -Nolan, Flowermound, TX

See, Fallon was in Almost Famous. Didn’t remember that, did you? No, you didn’t. I can tell by that stupid look on your face. After Fallon was on Almost Famous, everybody laughed and thought “Wow, he is almost famous. Let’s make him totally famous,” and gave him a gig on late night television.

Either that, or NBC was trying to hold on to the 18-25 demographic for late nights and was attempting to do so by grabbing the most-easily identified young NBC comic they could find.

The Mayan calendar predicts the end of the world to come in 2012. Would now be a good time to start stockpiling food and supplies? Other than the obvious, what should I stock up on? -Lanny, Denton, TX

The Mayan calendar predicts that the world will end on December 21, 2012. Well, it kind of predicts it. The central texts of the Mayan culture are mainly historical and don’t offer a whole lot of prophecy. However, in the ruins of Tortugero, there are inscriptions that reference the year 2012 as the end of the age. Scary shit.

Although there is a staggeringly high amount of scientific evidence that bunks this theory, there’s nothing wrong with being prepared. In a way, Lanny, you’re launching a pre-emptive strike on the end of the world. That’s huge. Here’s a list of things (other than food, water, and shelter) that you’ll need:

  1. Guns: Although ultimately guns are a finite source of security and food procurement, they’ll come in handy big time in the early years when there are still all those pesky humans still running around. People are bat shit crazy when they think their lives are in danger, and they are way, way less likely to stab/shoot/steal from you if they’re dead.
  2. Ammunition: Crap, I forgot. Guns suck without this.
  3. An abundance of non-perishable food items: Like the guns, these are also finite, but they’ll buy you enough time to utilize the next item on the list.
  4. Seeds: Grow your own vegetables. Learn how to do it first. That’s important, because nothing stinks more than watering a portion of dirt for weeks on end to no avail. Ah, wait. Yea, something does suck more: being one of the only survivors of a devastating apocalypse. Being a lone survivor  of something like that can be really stressful. That’s why some of those seeds should be used to grow:
  5. Weed. Lots and lots of weed.

Enjoy oblivion, you poor motherfucker.

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The News As It SHOULD Be.

22 Oct

Don’t you hate the news? Isn’t it depressing/infuriating/boner-deflating? I try to stay away from it as much as possible–I know this isn’t helping me be an informed citizen, but damn it, how does me knowing that three people died in a Detroit marathon improve my life at all? It only reminds me to stay the hell out of Detroit, because nothing good has happened there since Home Improvement, and that was in fictional Detroit.

Every now and then I’ll scan over the Drudge Report and read the headlines, just to keep up. I read what is probably equivalent to a short paragraph of text and the next hour or so of my life is ruined. Today’s entry is in two parts; In the first section I will re-write some headlines to make them more “scanner” friendly, and in the second, I will re-write some news stories so that they don’t make me want to go out and destroy something beautiful.

God do I want to blow you up.

God I want to blow you up.

———————————————————–

—-Section 1—-

From

“Suicide Bomber kills 29 in Assault on Iran Guards.”

to

“Shit sucks.”

From

“Brown Warns of Climate ‘Catastrophe’; ’50 Days to Save the World.'”

to

“There Probably Isn’t Anything to Worry About, but This Story Would Make a Great Michael Bay Film.”

From

“FBI Adds Gang Member to Most Wanted List.”

to

“FBI Adds Another non-Joker Criminal to Most Wanted List. (Boooring.)”

From

“7 Months After Stimulus 49 out of 50 States Have Fewer Jobs.”

to

“Congratulations! You Now Have 49 States Worth of Unemployed Americans to Compete With. Go to hell, Liberal Arts Grad!”

——————————————————–

—-Section 2—-

Feds [thank] Mass. man for alleged [bargains!] in U.S. malls

BY Beverly Ford In Boston and Helen Kennedy In New York
DAILY NEWS WRITERS

Updated Wednesday, October 21st 2009, 3:03 PM

happynews

AP/WHDH-TV

This Feb. 11, 2009 image from video shows Tarek Mehanna outside federal court in Boston.

Sudbury Police Dept.

Tarek Mehanna, 27, of Sudbury, Massachusetts, is seen in this Sudbury Police Department photograph released to Reuters on October 21, 2009. Mehanna was [thanked] at his home on Wednesday morning [with breakfast in bed].

A wealthy Massachusetts college professor’s son was [thanked] Wednesday for plotting to shoot up [sales at] a mall after he was rejected by all the foreign [bargain] groups he contacted for training.

Tarek Mehanna, 27, who lives with his parents and writes a blog about [fun hats], was [thanked] for conspiring to detonate [prices] and [save] Americans [a ton of money!].

His laptop contained photos of himself pointing at the sky and grinning gleefully at [clouds], according to [buddies!].

He also allegedly distributed video files of [rabbits] being [petted] in Iraq.

At his [birthday party] in Boston, the judge [of fun] had to repeatedly ordered him to [stop tickling everyone] to hear the [nice things everybody thought] about him.

Under prodding from his father, Ahmed Mehanna, he finally stood, tossing his [confetti] loudly to the floor. Mehanna had been out on [parade] since he was [thanked] at Logan Airport a year ago on charges of [brushing his teeth] [after] a [candy] [bonanza!].

He had been about to board a plane to Saudi Arabia, where he had a job lined up. His father called the charges [awesome!].

“This really, really is a [boobs],” Ahmed Mehanna told reporters.

The FBI said Mehanna and his [BFF for like, forever] Daniel Maldonado, who is [helping] ten [people] [cross the street], talked in code of “making peanut butter and jelly” – meaning waging holy war [on rainy days].

“They were willing to participate anywhere they would be accepted by groups who were engaging in [mark downs], for example [Kohl’s] or [Ross], but their desire was to be able to fight in [America] against [high prices],” the FBI said.

A 2004 trip to hook up with [bargain hunters] in Yemen was [awesome], too. Mehanna, who was [Jacked up on Red Bull], but inspired by the success of the 2002 Beltway [dancers], who [entertained] Washington DC for three weeks by [doing the foxtrot with] random people at gas stations, the men allegedly then planned to [choreograph a big dance off] at an American mall.

“The three men discussed logistics of a mall [dance off], including the types of [shoes] needed, the number of [vests] that would be involved, and how to coordinate the [power slides] from different entrances,” the FBI stated.

The plan was abandoned because they couldn’t get their hands on any automatic [strobe lights].

Online, Mehanna allegedly translated and distributed [Tony Robbins] propaganda, including a 65-page book called “39 Ways to Serve and Participate in [Bargains and Dance-offs.]”

In a February 2006 online chat, he allegedly discussed his desire to become the “[giant metal] wing” for [the Megazord].

The FBI also found a poem he wrote about the joys of [bargains], that includes the lines:

“You turn and behold/The voices are singing/ Coming from Maidens so fair and enchanting/These are the [happy people] with round and firm [wallets]/Pure untouched [sandwiches], they’re better than the [moldy ones]/Seventy-two in all, with large [meats] of dark hue/Each one created especially for you [at an affordable price].”

The Loss and Reclamation of My Boat Shoes

14 Oct
kyleboatshoe

The miracle of birth.

Yep. That’s me. That’s me giving birth to my boat shoes. My boat shoes, I’d privy to say, are perhaps the single most important article of clothing I have ever owned. They class me up. They stud me out. They make me look like different things to different people. To some, they make me look like a wily youth. To some, an ardent, yet unpretentious intellectual. To others, a hobo. No matter who you are, though, you cannot underestimate their power and beauty.

Recently, I had the scare of my life.

I lost my boat shoes.

You have to understand, wearing my boat shoes in public can easily be likened to wearing two, tiny, foot-size Aston-Martins that can also become two full-size Aston-Martins if you want them to be.

Different Ashton-Martin

Ashton-Martin

The point is that I couldn’t completely rule out the possibility that someone had stolen my boat shoes. It’s a distinct possibility. I went to the Waxahachie Police Department to file a report.

—-

The offices are in downtown Waxahachie across from some trees and stuff. I walk in. There’s one central desk, closest to the front door. Behind it is a bullpen with probably a dozen more desks separated by small partitions. I wonder where they keep the box of guns. I’ll ask in a little bit.

“Hello, sir.”

“Hello.”

“I’d like to report a missing person–well, persons.”

“Persons? Hm. Well all right, have the persons been missing more than forty-eight hours?”

“Probably. I just started looking for them this morning, but I’ve been wearing my other shoes for the past three or four days, so they could have been missing for like…a hundred hours.” I stand with my hands clasped together, nervous. The officer looks slightly confused.

“I’m sorry, what does your choice in footwear have to do with these missing people?”

“I can only wear one pair of shoes at a time. Listen, all I’m saying is that maybe they got their feelings hurt that I was wearing my Nikes all the time, maybe they’ve run away or something. You j–”

“Wait.” He holds his hand up. “Let me stop you right there. Are these people that are missing, or shoes?”

“Neither.”

“Neither.”

“Yea, they’re boat shoes, so they’re more than shoes, but less than people. But also more than people because they don’t judge you.”

“Get out.”

—-

I wear these shoes all the time. If I lost those boat shoes, I don’t know where I’d put my feet. I have other pair(s) of shoes, but they’re just not the same. See, my Nikes are like Marion Barber and my boat shoes are like Felix J…no, that doesn’t work. See, I’m like Doc Holiday, and my Nikes are like my one gun and my boat shoes are like my other gun that I like a little more.

—-

I looked under my couch, under my love seat, under every single cat, and under my bed. I stood in my living room thinking, Where the Hell are those sh… Oh God. Could my shoes be in Hell? I would travel to Hell to find see if my shoes are there.

How does one get to hell? Since I asked Jesus to live in my right ventricle while I was in High School, I knew I’d have to really find some divine-loop hole if I wanted to go to Hell when I died. The gospel says that when you ask Jesus into your heart, he’s there forever, no matter what you do or say. I decided that if I wanted to go to hell, I’d have to remove my heart, then die.

I sit in my bathroom with a large steak knife and a heart shaped outline around the left side of my chest.

“Here I come, Phinnaes and Daxaus (the names for my boat shoes), here comes mama.” I put the blade to my chest. “Ow,” I said. “God, that hurts. I’m not doing this anymore.” I got up and made a sandwich.

I went to creeks, overpasses, boat stores. I even went to a dock and roughed up a couple of the guys I found there. I thought maybe my boat shoes felt jipped because they had never really been on a boat. Maybe they hated me. Oh god…*shiver*

I burst out into the night, screaming, weeping for my shoes.

“WHAT HAVE I DONE?! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO BETRAY YOU?!”

At this moment a sharp crack, deeper than any thunder I had ever heard, resonated in the heavens. It was immediately followed by a high-pitched “HOO!” then what sounded like an exasperated sigh. I looked up and saw Truth.

“My god. It’s you. You are real!” When Wesley and I were children, we would often lay on the grass at night, trying our best to avoid all the syringes, and talk about the universe and the stars. One night I asked Wesley what the stars were. He said that they were all the great shoes of the past. I told him he was an idiot and threw a dirty needle at him. Then we shared a bottle of Nyquil and fell asleep on my roof.

What was looking down on me was the great Boat Shoe Mother–and Michael Jackson’s head. Apparently he lives in space, too.

“I Am the great Boat Shoe Mother. Hello.”

God, it's full of stars.

My God, it's full of stars.

“Hello, I said. Do you know where m–”

“I’m Michael,” Michael Jackson interrupted, almost whispering.

“Hello, Michael. I went to your viewing. It was very nice.”

“Oh, did you? That’s sweet, that’s sweet. Do you know if they put my head in a jar or not? Because I j–”

“Michael? I’d really like to solve one problem at a time. I’ll solve your head thing next. Let me get my shoes back.”

“Oh, OK,” he said, sounding slightly dejected.

“KYLE,” Shoe Mother said.

“Yes?” I fell to my knees.

“You have forgotten who you are, and therefore forgotten me. Until you remember, your shoes are all but lost.”

“But, but how will I discover who I am? How will I know?

“You will know.”

“Please! Please you don’t know what it’s like! PLEASE!” I step forward on my knees, reaching my hands into the heavens. “I need you! I need your help! I’m…I’m lost.”

“Remember.”

“I’m so…”

“Remember,” then Shoe Mother vanished. I sat on my front yard, weeping in silence, my hands resting limply on my thighs.

“My turn now?” Michael Jackson’s ethereal head asked. I looked up.

“Michael, I’m pretty sure they just buried your head.”

“How can you be sure?” He sounded afraid. I sighed, glanced to the ground, and then back to the sky.

“Because I was at your viewing. Your head was clearly in the coffin. Nobody stole your head.”

“That makes me feel so much better. Thank you, Kyle. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Jackson. Have a good afterlife.”

“You too,” he said, nodding toward me.

“I’m still alive, though.”

“Oh, well. I feel like I need to repay you.”

“No, really, it isn’t necessary.”

“No, it is. Please. Would you like me to sing you a song?”

“To be honest, a floating, disembodied pop-star singing to me from beyond the grave would probably just frighten me.”

“How ’bout this? I can tell you where yo shoes are! I saw them with my GHOST EYES!” His eyes turned a ghastly white. “WOOOOOH!” He giggled in ecstasy. I’m pretty sure I peed myself a little bit.

“Where are they?”

“Your closet! Your GHOST closet!” I was fairly positive he just meant my regular closet.

“Thanks, Michael!”

“You’re welcome. Goodbye!”

“Bye!”

I ran into my house, threw open my door, dug under some towels and old clothes and there they were. My boat shoes. We were reunited.

Best friends.

Best friends.

Sick Days.

9 Oct

So here’s the thing. For years, I’ve operated under the assumption that I had some kind of “Mutant Healing Ability” that kept me from ever getting sick or seriously injured. So, when Derek dared me to eat a handful of ACL mud in exchange for a sip from his water bottle, I didn’t hesitate for a second.

Today, I am sick. I have what the medical world refers to as “Strep throat.” At least that’s what I believe. My throat hurts like hell and looks like what I’d imagine Zombie Kyle’s throat would. I promptly made an appointment to see my doctor.

kylesick

Pain. Biological torment.

“Hello, Dr. Trammel’s office, how may I help you?” A youthful receptionist asks.

I sigh deeply. “I got the strep.” There’s a few seconds of silence.

“All right, would you like to make an appointment?”

I sigh deeply again. “Yea,” exhale, “Yea, we should go ahead and do that, I think.” I’m so depressed. I hate being sick–it really breaks my spirits. I just try to remember that even the greatest among us fall to illness from time to time. I think of that episode of Happy Days when Fonzie gets sick right before he does a jump or has sex with a girl or punches something–I can’t remember exactly.

“OK, well, we have a 2:45 time slot,” she says. “Will that work?”

“Turn that engine off,” I say. I’m hallucinating.

“What?”

“Get back to the cattle, son,” I say, then hang up. I sit back in my living room chair, look to the ceiling, exhausted. After a moment I force myself up out of the chair and into my bedroom. I disrobe and lay down in my bed to get a few hours of sleep before my appointment.

My cat lays next to me the whole time–most likely waiting for me to die so she can begin the slow process of eating my remains and stealing my identity. Cats are like the vultures of the home.

Four hours later, at around noon, I wake up and watch a film called Candy starring Heath Ledger and Abbie Cornish. Candy is about a pair of star-crossed lovers who, after years of drug abuse, begin to grow further and further away from each other and, in a way, further and further from themselves. Abbie Cornish’s character, Heath Ledger’s wife, gets in deep with the mob, and one night they take a knife to her and cut her face up. She feels ugly, so Heath cuts his mouth on either side, to show her that looks don’t matter. She rejects him and he goes crazy, starts wearing face paint and blowing things up.

I’m sorry, that’s not what really happens. To be honest, I don’t know what happened at the end because halfway through I took Candy out and put in The Dark Knight. God, I love that movie.

I get dressed and go to the doctor’s office in DeSoto. My grandmother lives in DeSoto. How fun.

I walk into the office and go to sign in. In the box marked “What are you here for?” I write “The doctor.”

The waiting room is crowded. I find a seat as far away from the other diseased humans and start to read the book I brought. A kind elderly woman leans towards me and saallw;jlshsaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiio Sorry. I blacked out for a second.

After a few minutes, a nurse calls out my name. Years of public schooling have taught me that she’s taking attendance.

“Here,” I say. She stands at the doorway, looking at me. “I’m here.”

“No, Mr. Irion, it’s your turn.”

“Oh, yipee!” I flip all those waiting the double-bird and walk through the door to the treatment area.

I’m taken to an examination room, where the nurse asks me a few questions, takes my temperature and then my blood pressure. The nurse leaves and later the real doctor comes in.

“Hello,” she looks at my chart, “Robert.” Robert is my first name. It’s what “the man” knows me as.

“Hello.”

“What seems to be the problem today?”

“Strep, I think,” I make a sad face and point to my throat.

“Hm,” she looks down my throat.

“I’ve been strep-ed of all my dignity,” I say.

“Oh, now, that’s not true.” She’s not getting it.

“I hope this examination doesn’t require a strep search,” I say, winking. She stops what she’s doing and looks at me.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” She turns and continues writing in my file.

“Oh, OK. I’m just trying to be honest, you know, strep-resent,” I raise my fist feebly.

She gives me a brief checkup and writes me a prescription for some antibiotics–something called a “Z-pack.” This sounds like poison, but I really don’t care. Death would be a welcome relief from my current state of health.

“Could this kill me?” I ask.

“N…no, that’s just about impossible.”

“Damn,” I say softly, looking down at the prescription. “Well, OK, thanks for everything.”

“Hope you get to feeling better, Robert.”

“Me too,” I say, looking back at her. A single tear rolls down my cheek. “Me too.” I get up off the observation table, walk past the doctor  and into the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind me. As I walk toward the reception desk to pay, I see the door start to open and I walk back and shut it again. “Don’t come out until I leave,” I say to the doctor on the other side. “You’re going to ruin the moment.” I walk back to reception. “She’s trying to ruin the moment,” I say. “How much will this be?”

The drive home is easy. I go to HEB to pick up my prescription. I go home. I prepare a glass of water. I take my pill. My pill is taken. I walk into the living room. I sit down. I begin to read a Stephen King novel. I fall asleep. When I wake up, Stephen King is in my living room.

“Stephen, I didn’t expect you, where–”

“Shut up, maggot. You shut your damn mouth. What’s going on here?”

“What? I’m sick, I–”

“HOW COULD YOU FALL ASLEEP WHILE READING ONE OF MY NOVELS?! You think I don’t know when that happens? I’m Stephen King! I’m more than a man. You know that book It? Totally autobiographical.”

“Wait, are you the clown or the kids, or–”

“I’m the STEPHEN KING!”

“Wait, what? This is getting stupid. That book is not autobiographical. I also don’t think you’re the real Stephen King, I think you’re just a hallucination.”

“Maybe I am…or maybe you are…” Stephen lifts his left hand and points at me. Then he slowly walks forward making “OoOo” ghost sounds.

“St..Stephen, stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself.” Stephen lowers his hand, jumps on Mr. T’s back (who had come in during me and Stephen’s initial interaction), and flies away. This is what happens when you mix horror-suspense novels, antibiotics, and a lot of artificial sweeteners.

“Who was that?” the Easter Bunny asks, entering with a bowl of soup and a glass of orange juice.

“Wait, what was what?” I turn to look at the giant, pink, festive rabbit.

“Stephen King just rode away on Mr. T’s back.”

“That was…real?”

“Oh hell no. I’m just messing with you,” the Easter Bunny says, “None of this is real, in fact. Hallucinations and all. You drank a whole bottle of cough syrup.”

I wake up hours later in my room feeling slightly better but totally strung out. I hate being sick.

The End.

My 100th Post! Century Mark: ATTAINED!

7 Oct

When I saw that this would be my 100th post, I was excited and a bit daunted. I really wanted to do something special for the 100th post, but I had no idea what. After a while I decided that first, no matter what I route I took with the entry, I’d start with a special thank you to my friend Jules Litke, who talked me into starting a blog in the first place. Although she once described the blog as “like an episode of the Simpsons–the end addressing an impossibly different subject than the beginning,” there was still an obvious support. Thanks, Jules.

I’d also like to thank Dr. JP Internet–inventor of the internet. Without you, none of this would possible, and so many 13 year old men would have retained their innocence so much longer.

In preparation for this stupendous occasion, Editor and I took a walk through some of our favorite blogs. At first, we were going to do a retrospective, but that felt so tired and a little cliche. We want to move forward, think forward, write forward. We want change. Who better to see about change than President Barack Obama? So, after many, many phone calls, e-mails, and background checks, the White House decided to let us come by for an interview.

Editor and I arrive by way of police escort to the White House. We pass through the iron gates. It isn’t until now that it really hits me–I’m at the White House. I mean, Mike Tyson has been here. I wonder if he’s hiding somewhere inside. At this moment of recognizing where I am, I cannot help but recognize the inverse–where I have been. I think back to my childhood, dressed as Spiderman, running around in the driveway with my sister, holding a large piece of paper that read “AUTOGRAPHS FROM THE SON OF SPIDERMAN!” I think back the sixth grade, kissing a girl for the first time when she wanted it too. I think back to high school, and all the time I spent at Whataburger with my friends. Then I think to just last week, when I woke up at noon, watched a movie that I hated because I couldn’t reach the remote, put on pants at four o clock in the afternoon, watched a three hours of The Hills, drank a couple of glasses of wine and fell asleep under my desk. I shiver.

We pull into to the guest entry area of the White House.

“Mr. Irion?” a security guard asks as he opens the door.

“This is he.” What? Why am I talking like that?

“Welcome to the White House,” the guard says.

I hold out my hand like I saw that girl on Princess Diaries do when she was being led from her car. The security guard merely stands and looks at my hand, and then to me.

“Welcome to the White House, sir.”

“Get out of the car, Kyle,” Editor says from behind me.

“Shut the FUCK up, Editor.” I turn so Editor can see me. “I’m serious. Do not ruin this for me.” He sits back a bit and I get out of the car. I approach the guard and lean in, speaking at just above a whisper. “On the way in, that guy looked really nervous. He was sweating bullets and looking around a lot. Then he showed me a gun and winked at me.”

“Please continue into the building, sir,” the guard said. “Welcome,” the guard says to Editor. Editor smiles and thanks the guard.

To calm my nerves, I had roughly six of seven shots from my flask on the drive in. As we approach the front door it seems as if they all hit at once. I enter the White House drunk as hell.

Our first meeting in front of local media.

Our first meeting in front of local media. He's apologizing for me profusely.

We’re immediately met by a White House Aide.

“Mr. Irion, right this way, please,” He says.

The White House is immaculate–perhaps one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. There are plush couches without any cat hair, beautiful vaulted ceilings and paneled walls, also without any cat hair. For a moment I consider trying to start a new White House tradition of signing the walls just inside the entrance, walking toward one of the panels with a red crayon in my hand (I carry crayons everywhere for just such an occasion) but reconsider this notion as a guard places himself (and a clearly visible taser) between the wall and I.

Editor and I pass through several hallways before reaching the President’s meeting area.

“Can you believe where we are?!” Editor asks.

“It’s pretty incredible. I’m glad you haven’t ruined this for me yet.” I put my hand on his shoulder and he gives me a slight smile and a knowing nod. “Let’s go rape this interview,” I say. His smile fades and it seems like he’s about to say something when I turn away and walk into the meeting area.

I put a suit on for a quick photo op. This one's for mom.

This one's for mom.

“All right. Just wait in here. President Obama will be with you in just a moment.” The aide turns and leaves. For a moment, Editor and I stand in the meeting room, still awestruck by the grandness of it all.

“You know how many famous dignitaries have sat in that chair?” Editor asks, referring to the chair across from the President’s.

“You know how many famous dictionaries have shat in that hair? Stop getting emotional, Editor. We have to stay focused for this. This is the biggest interview of our lives–well, your life at least. I still plan to interview God one day. After that, I want to interview the color red.”

“Kyle, you–” Editor starts, but just at this moment, the door at the north wall of the room opens and in steps President Barack Obama.

“Mr. Iron Kyle, it’s nice to finally meet you.” Obama extends his hand to me and I take it, shaking it as firmly as I can without making him think I’m trying to assert any form of dominance. I consider giving him the “wriggler” handshake, but decide against it since that sort of thing hasn’t been funny since the Truman administration. “And you must be the infamous ‘Editor,'” Barack says. “Hello.” The President motions for me to take a seat across from him. “Can I get you anything? Water?” He points to Editor and then to me. We both shake our heads no. “All right. Well then, let’s get started, shall we?”

“Shall we,” I say. Barack looks confused. “We shall–we shall,” I correct myself. I’m incredibly nervous. “So, Mr. Obama. You’re almost a year into your first term. How do you think things are going?”

I'm telling Barack about my dating history.

I'm telling Barack about my dating history.

Barack shifts in his seat. “Coming out with guns blazing,” he says, smiling wryly. “Well, as I expected, it hasn’t been easy, but to say that the past eight or nine months have been according to plan would be a,” he pauses, “would be grossly inaccurate.”

“Blazing out with guns coming,” I say. I fucked it up again. This time, however, I just plow through. “What has gone your way, in your opinion, and what hasn’t?”

“Well certainly I would like to have been further on this health care issue–that’s one thing I wish there was more progress in. I also would have been so, so proud to get the Olympics in Chicago.”

“More like Shit-taco,” I say. I hear Editor choke out the word “no!” under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Barack asks.

“Stupid Chicago couldn’t win the Olympics for you. I’m sorry, Mr. President.”

“That word you just used to describe Chicago, that’s highly inappropriate. Chicago is a beautiful city and I won’t see it disrespected.”

“Sorry. I’m really nervous. Cracking jokes is how I calm down–well, that and shot after shot of whiskey,” I say. Barack lightens a bit.

“A whiskey man? Would you like to have a glass? I have a great eighteen year vintage of Jameson’s. You like Jameson’s?”

“Absolutely!”

“Well all right then. Tammy,” He gestures toward a woman standing behind the couch Editor is sitting on. “Would you please get us three tumblers and my bottle of Jameson’s?”

“Yes sir,” she says and goes with haste to retrieve the bottle and glasses.  While she is out getting the drinks, I decide to continue with some lighter questions.

“What’s the biggest perk of being president? I mean, not like ‘bestowing freedom to the world,’ or anything like that–although that is good, but what I’m talking about is like, presidential socks, or how instead of reading about a foreign reader’s stance you actually get to hear it straight from him or her.”

“Well,” Barack begins, holding his chin and smiling wryly,  “I do get a lot of free stuff.” We both chuckle a bit.

“Like missiles? I bet you get a shitload of free missiles,” I say, sitting at the edge of my seat looking for all the free missiles.

“No, actually, no missiles. I did get this bottle of whiskey we’re about to drink for free, though. In fact, when you leave, you can take it with you.”

“Barack, I’m so glad I voted for you.” Just then Tammy walks in with the whiskey. “Now let’s get royally shit faced.”

“No,” Barack said, “Let’s get Presidentially shit faced.” We raise our glasses and drink.

Thanks for reading.

Thanks for reading. Here's to 100 more.

School Daze With Captain Cool

1 Oct

Today I went to my sister’s school and taught a few classes a brief lesson on creative writing.

All the students file into the room. All the chairs and desks have been pushed to the corners of the room, so all the kids just sit on the ground in front of me. It’s 8:30 am. I’m kind of hung over. My head is pounding and my stomach feels like there’s somebody throwing up in it.

“All right. Well, my name is Kyle Irion. You can call me Kyle, Mr. Irion, or Captain Cool. You can also call me Mr. Cool.”

One little boy says “Yes sir, Captain Cool.” This boy has gained my favor. In the event of a zombie outbreak, I will save him first.

“OK. Now. I’m going to teach you guys a lesson about writing, because one day, you’re going to need to learn to put your thoughts onto paper. When you get older there are things called ‘essays,’ which are pretty much long answers on tests. It’s important because even if you don’t really know 100% what you’re talking about, you can still seem like you do if you know how to write. One day, you may even go to college and major in writing essays. That’s what I did as an English major.

“There are a couple of really important things to remember when you’re writing a story. First, you need characters. You need people to do the things in your story. Some times, the people in your story will have sex.” I make an “o” shape with one hand and poke my pointer finger through it. I nod at a boy in the front. He looks scared. Why the fuck does he look like that? “Why the fuck do you look like that?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer. He just cries or some shit. I can’t remember. “Your characters may also kill each other. Your characters should be realistic and believable. For instance, if you were to put me in a story you might say ‘Kyle is thinking about killing this crying child in the front.’ –That’s believable. You’d be damn right. I want to push this kid into a river. But you know what? I don’t know where there are any rivers around here and I don’t want this kid in my car, so how do you explain this to your readers?” I look around, waiting for an answer. A little girl raises her hand.

“You tell them all that stuff?” She asks.

“Yes. that’s exactly right. That’s exactly right.” I hand her the crying kid’s wallet, which I had taken moments prior. She slowly reaches over and hands the child his wallet back.

“OK. We’re running short on time, so I think it’s time for you guys to get started writing. Here’s the prompt: you’re on your way to complete a quest. Your goal is in sight. Then, as if out of nowhere, an obstacle presents itself–and the only person that can help you is your neighbor. So pick someone around you to help you succeed. Give your story a title and write ‘The End’ at the end. If you have enough time after you finish, you can draw the art for the cover.” These instructions seem pretty clear. “Any questions?” I survey the children. An Asian boy in the back raises his hand. “Hit me with it,” I say.

“Well, can we be on a mountain?”

“Yes. You can be anywhere you want. Anybody else?” A little girl in a purple shirt raises her hand. “Yes ma’am?”

“Can we have swords?”

“You can have whatever you want and be wherever you want. It’s all up to you.” A portly Hispanic boy raises his hand. “What’s up?”

“Well, does it have to be today?”

“It can be with anyone, anywhere, and anywhen.” This is not a word. “You could make your story set in 1998 or 3008.”

“So 2000 is OK?”

I sigh deeply. “No. Don’t set your story in the year 2000. Don’t do that. If you do that, you fail. You will be the only student in the room who gets their story graded and you will fail.” The class lets out an “Ah” of understanding and hurriedly gets to work.

——

When they get done they all read their stories aloud. Here’s what I gathered from the stories I heard. All children’s stories follow four simple rules:

  1. Everybody has powers.
  2. Everything can talk.
  3. Ninjas, monsters, and other characters can appear out of anywhere by simply writing “And then ____ showed up.”
  4. No character ever questions anything, no matter how bizarre or nonsensical.

——

Here are some of my favorite (real) moments from the children’s stories:

Dylon could shoot doo doo out of his hands.

Then Kerry got eaten and I was disappointed.

The British soldiers were chasing me, trying to take the crystal cheese.

The Booger monster was attacking. I went to the kitchen and got some tissues and some scissors.

I was building a mountain of candy and then I found out that I didn’t have any chocolate bricks.

Me, Cameron, Ashley, and David were walking to school. Then a ninja jumped out. Everybody died except me.

Kids are badass.

Celebritweets 2: The Tweequel

21 Sep

So, hey! Twitter is still up. Good. Good for them. Also, good for us because there are still plenty of celebrities tweeting away facts that are, for the most part, just as mundane as the ones us regular folks post, but hey! These are CELEBRITIES! Now, there are even more celebrities for me to tweet at than last time. That’s also good for us.

For those unfamiliar with the twitter format, here’s a quick summary: in twitter, you can send updates describing what you’re doing throughout the day to your twitter account. It looks like a big message board. When you want to respond to something on somebody’s twitter, you simply type “@(username)” and then your message. So, if somebody wanted to message me they’d type “@IronKyle.” You can also “retweet” what someone else tweeted by simply typing “RT @(username of person you’re retweeting).” Twitter also allows you to send pictures through tiny links called “twitpics.”

If you’re still confused, don’t worry. You’ll catch on.

————

levarburton @IronKyle: I don’t do that show anymore. It’s been canceled for 4 years.

IronKyle @levarburton: What? Did people stop reading or something? Did you reach the end of the rainbow and find that everything had already been adapted into a movie?

levarburton @IronKyle: Lol, No, I didn’t ever try to find the “rainbow.” It was just a graphic, really.

IronKyle @levarburton: You know what, Levar Burton? You’re kind of an ass hole.

—-

AlYankovic: I’m going to be on the Jimmy Fallon Show!

IronKyle @AlYankovic: Are you rolling the dice that by some miracle Jimmie Fallon has found the only 100 or so people left in the world who haven’t heard “Amish Paradise“?

AlYankovic @IronKyle: Haha, real funny. When will you be on Jimmy Fallon?

IronKyle @AlYankovic: After I beat your ass for making a mockery of Don Mclean’s “American Pie.” What you did to that song is like me putting a giant copper mustache on the Statue of Liberty.

AlYankovic @IronKyle: Kyle, I’m sorry if my parody offended you.They’re meant as kind of “comedic parodies.” There’s no call for you to threaten me.

IronKyle @AlYankovic: I’m going to turn your face into a “comedic parody” of your ass.

AlYankovic@IronKyle: That’s enough. This conversation is over.

IronKyle @AlYankovic: Later, Yankadick.

—-

IronKyle @JeremyPiven: Would you say you’re kind of like the Fonzie of “Entourage”?

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: Haha, I wish. I can only hope to be compared to a character like that.

IronKyle @JeremyPiven: Yea, here. http://twitpic.com/imj4

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: What is that?

IronKyle @JeremyPiven: It’s me peeing on Fonzie’s house holding the season 1 DVD’s of “Entourage.”

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: God. You’ve got to be kidding me. First of all, his name is Henry Winkler, not “Fonzie.” Second of all, I don’t condone any of this just because you’re holding “Entourage” DVD’s.

IronKyle RT@JeremyPiven: God? You’ve got to be kidding me.

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: That is NOT what I said! Take that down!

@JeremyPiven: Hey, right now, are you wearing a really nice suit, clutching your cell phone and half-yelling?

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: Are you asking if I resemble my character on “Entourage”? Well, no. I’m sitting quietly at my computer talking to a child.

IronKyle @JeremyPiven: When you go pee, do you call yourself “Jeremy Pissin’.”?

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: Stop it. Go away.

—-

IronKyle @johncmayer: So, you have a new album coming out?

johncmayer @IronKyle: Yea man, I absolutely do. It should be coming out pretty soon.

IronKyle @johncmayer: Did you do another song about trying to halt Earth’s orbit around the sun? That was epic.

johncmayer @IronKyle: What song?

IronKyle @johncmayer: “Waiting on the World to Change.”

johncmayer @IronKyle: Dude, come on. Do you ever listen to these songs? Or do you just read the title and make the rest up in your head?

IronKyle @johncmayer: Play a guitar solo.

johncmayer @IronKyle: Did you even read my response?

IronKyle @johncmayer: I can’t remember. Did you date skinny Jessica Simpson or fat Jessica Simpson?

johncmayer @IronKyle: Go to hell, man.

IronKyle @johncmayer: Hey, do you feel weird that you Jessica dated you to round out her “high school archetype” list?

johncmayer @IronKyle: What?

IronKyle @johncmayer: She dated “the jock,” Tony, the “sensitive guy,” Nick Lachey, and then you, the “musician with a stupid face.”

johncmayer @IronKyle: Remind me why I talk to you, you fuck.

IronKyle RT @johncmayer: Remind me why I fuck you, you talk.

johncmayer @IronKyle: You are such a beating, dude. I’m out.

IronKyle @johncmayer: John Mayer, you’re more of an asshole than Levar Burton. You know that?

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