Roger Crankshankle got kicked out of pirate school on the first day of class because he couldn't keep himself from laughing every time the captain said, "poop deck."
In those days (of yore), you couldn't get an official commission as a pirate without the proper credentials from an officially licensed pirate school, so his parents--both full-time pirates themselves--were very disappointed when they heard the news. They'd had such high hopes for Roger to carry on the family business.
Roger's father, Redbeard Crankshankle called a family meeting to talk about Roger's options; unfortunately, they were as limited as they were unappealing: pulling strings to get an unpaid internship as a cabin boy, waiting until next year to apply to another pirate school, or working part-time at a public house serving grog and venison.
Like many other 15-year-old would be pirates, Roger didn't care much about such serious matters like careers and commissions; his parents, however, wanted a bright future for their son. And (like any set of parents) they knew he was capable of great things. He just needed to apply himself. But how?
Thinking it would give Roger the guidance he needed, his parents enrolled him in Krakenbile, the combination Viking academy, vocational school, and floating juvenile detention center renowned for its harsh disciplinary standards. Although Redbeard's wife Agnes wasn't 100% behind the idea (especially the juvenile detention center aspect), Redbeard was confident it was the right move.
"Roger just needs a swift kick in the pants," he said, and not for the first time.
As for Roger, he wasn't so thrilled about the juvenile detention center aspect of his new school either, but he loved the idea of living on a boat. He told his parents he would do his best, and off he went.
His days at Krakenbile were busy: cleaning and boat maintenance in the mornings; sailing and vocational classes in the afternoon (Roger majored in the culinary arts); swashbuckling practice at night.
Swashbuckling practice was his favorite activity by far because it reminded him of playing pirates when he was a kid. Everyone else at Krakenbile was ultra serious and competitive, but Roger treated it--like everything else in his life--like a game. And it frustrated the others to no end that Roger was one of the best swordsmen at Krakenbile--seemingly without trying.
Roger's roommate Mustapha, a sword fighting prodigy from Tunisia, recognized in Roger an almost innately preternatural talent with swords--a talent he took it upon himself to develop through nightly one on one swordsmanship clinics. Although Roger usually wasn't one for self improvement, he enjoyed sword fighting with Mustapha because he was such a good and challenging opponent. He looked forward to their sessions every day.
Very soon, an unconventional--and one-sided--rivalry developed. Mustapha would tutor Roger in tactics and strategies, and then get frustrated when Roger's mastery of the tactics and strategies he'd just been taught exceeded those of his teacher. This drove Mustapha to work harder and harder, which had the indirect result of Roger's skill improving even faster.
The irony was that Roger wasn't even aware that a rivalry existed. He merely engaged in sword fighting with relish and glee, oblivious to the fact that his regular thrashings of Mustapha were driving him crazy with jealousy.
Meanwhile, the teachers at Krakenbile also noticed Roger's accelerated development in sword fighting and began to see potential for him in other areas. Following his culinary arts teacher's encouragement, Roger put his sword skills to work in his cooking classes with impressive results. He excelled in butchery. He finished his prep work with a speed and panache rarely seen in the kitchen. And he discovered he had a knack for combining different ingredients in new and exotic ways to come up with amazing dishes to share with everyone else at Krakenbile. With cooking, he had found something he enjoyed as much as sword fighting.
And throughout this time, his sword fighting skills continued to be honed and sharpened (so to speak) by Mustapha, who never let him let his guard down. He was constantly jumping out at Roger from every hidden corner of the kitchen and attacking him with everything he had. Roger never knew when a normal meal prep would turn into a harrowing culinary death match, and he was always ready for a duel.
He loved it.
In fact, he managed to incorporate the sword fights into the cooking process, eluding Mustapha's lunges and then chopping up vegetables and meat on the side; parrying Mustapha's blows and then pulling a hot dish off the fire; ducking and then hopping over Mustapha's sword and then garnishing his completed dishes.
Before long, students and teachers began crowding into the kitchen every time Roger was there, hoping that yet another thrilling display of swordsmanship and the culinary arts would break out between Roger and Mustapha.
They were never disappointed.
In time, Mustapha also began to incorporate food prep into his attacks, and their one-sided rivalry developed into a two-sided partnership. They formalized their nightly food fights into a revolutionary new cooking technique called Abu Shakrah. Drawing equally from the thrills and danger of Tunisian sword fighting and more than 500 years of Viking food history, Abu Shakrah changed the way seafarers and landlubbers alike saw food preparation. Whereas cooking used to be what you had to do to make something (barely) edible, Abu Shakrah turned it into theater, excitement, showmanship.
Upon graduation from Krakenbile, Roger and Mustapha opened their own floating restaurant called Crankshankle and Mustapha, where they dazzled customers with their dangerous, death-defying, swashbuckling cooking duels and amazing Viking dishes.
They were incredibly successful. Within ten years, their empire had expanded to five floating restaurants, and by the time they retired 17 floating restaurants were flying the Crankshankle and Mustapha flag: the tragedy and comedy theater masks, with two crossed scimitars beneath them on a black background.
Without the contributions of Roger, Mustapha, and Abu Shakrah, dining today would be considerably different. There would be no dinner theater, no floating restaurants, no Benihana, no celebrity chefs, and no franchises. It all came from them.
And none of it would have happened if Roger had been able to keep a straight face when his pirate school captain said "poop deck."
(Co-written with Misako Goto)
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
August 21 - Just This One Thing
Is it really that much to ask? Is it? All I want out of this world--all I want--is to have a cup of coffee and read the new Sport's Guy column in peace. Seriously, that's it. Just this one thing.
I work hard. I take care of this family. I never complain about anything. Could I please just have this one thing? Could I? Just five minutes. That's all it'll take. Five minutes for me to read today's Sport's Guy, have this coffee, and maybe--maybe? possibly?--eat a damn donut in peace for once in my life.
I'm not asking for riches. Not asking for fame, fortune, any of that other crap. I just want a few minutes where everyone leaves me alone so I can read my favorite sports columnist. What on earth is so hard to comprehend about that? It's simple. Every so often, a man needs a few minutes of his own to get his fix of sport commentary mixed with pop culture references he can understand. He needs coffee. He needs donuts. And after a long week busting his ass at the office and at home, he needs to soak his barking dogs in that bubbling foot bath he got from Sharper Image. It's not rocket surgery, people. It's just basic decency. I don't ask for much. But can I just have this?
Why in the hell does this always have to be such a monumental undertaking? Is there anything I don't do for this family? The ratio of what I do and what I ask is freaking ridiculous. If I'm being conservative, I'd put it at 1,000 : .05.
I'm not asking for anything other than a bit of me time. Just me, the Sports Guy, coffee, donuts, my Sharper Image foot bath, and a few extra minutes to put the final touches on my oh so close to being finished Navy F14 Tomcat model airplane--only the baddest assest, best reviewed fully licensed military hardware replica ever produced. Perfect--perfect!--in every way but one: It can't assemble itself. Damn thing's been sitting on my bookshelves--taunting me!--for more than three years. Could I please, for the love of God and all things holy, could I please just have 20 minutes on my own to finish putting it together?
Thank you.
And then when I'm done, I promise I'll help you take your mother to the hospital.
I work hard. I take care of this family. I never complain about anything. Could I please just have this one thing? Could I? Just five minutes. That's all it'll take. Five minutes for me to read today's Sport's Guy, have this coffee, and maybe--maybe? possibly?--eat a damn donut in peace for once in my life.
I'm not asking for riches. Not asking for fame, fortune, any of that other crap. I just want a few minutes where everyone leaves me alone so I can read my favorite sports columnist. What on earth is so hard to comprehend about that? It's simple. Every so often, a man needs a few minutes of his own to get his fix of sport commentary mixed with pop culture references he can understand. He needs coffee. He needs donuts. And after a long week busting his ass at the office and at home, he needs to soak his barking dogs in that bubbling foot bath he got from Sharper Image. It's not rocket surgery, people. It's just basic decency. I don't ask for much. But can I just have this?
Why in the hell does this always have to be such a monumental undertaking? Is there anything I don't do for this family? The ratio of what I do and what I ask is freaking ridiculous. If I'm being conservative, I'd put it at 1,000 : .05.
I'm not asking for anything other than a bit of me time. Just me, the Sports Guy, coffee, donuts, my Sharper Image foot bath, and a few extra minutes to put the final touches on my oh so close to being finished Navy F14 Tomcat model airplane--only the baddest assest, best reviewed fully licensed military hardware replica ever produced. Perfect--perfect!--in every way but one: It can't assemble itself. Damn thing's been sitting on my bookshelves--taunting me!--for more than three years. Could I please, for the love of God and all things holy, could I please just have 20 minutes on my own to finish putting it together?
Thank you.
And then when I'm done, I promise I'll help you take your mother to the hospital.
Friday, August 20, 2010
August 20 - The Interfaith Meeting
John, Aaron, and Yusef sat quietly in the lobby until a young man dressed in khakis and a blue oxford came in and invited them into his office. After they sat down across from his desk, the man smiled at them briefly.
"So. Do you know where you are?"
None of the men said anything, and the man smiled again. He looked at John and read from a file.
"John Bishop. Lawyer from Washington, DC. Married to Stephanie Bishop. Three children. In addition to the work you do for UNICEF, you take on several pro bono cases every year, most of them dealing with refugees' rights. Also, you and your wife started a recycling program in your neighborhood, and you are actively involved at your children's schools."
He looked at Aaron and read from a different file.
"Aaron Goldberg. Pediatrician from New York City. Married to Rebecca Goldberg. Father of two. You spend your vacations doing short term projects for Doctors Without Borders. In addition, you and your wife created a foundation that raises money and awareness for tuberculosis in developing countries, and you are also actively involved at your children's schools."
He looked at Yusef and read from a third file.
"Yusef Abdullah. High school teacher turned assistant principal from Philadelphia. Sponsored three orphaned children from Rwanda and started a scholarship fund that enabled all three of them to get college educations. You regularly volunteer at least five hours a week at Big Brothers/Big Sisters, you developed an incentive program to get other teachers from your school district to participate in Big Brothers/Big Sisters, and you are also actively involved at your children's schools."
He addressed all three of them.
"As you can see, you are all devoted to furthering good and righteous causes. In addition to the works I have just described, you are all excellent role models within your communities, respected and looked up to by all you know, and actively involved in your church, synagogue, and mosque respectively. In short, you are all good men."
He paused for effect.
"And I regret to inform you that you have all been killed in a car accident."
The men shifted in their seats, frowned, murmured disbelief, looked at each other, looked at themselves, looked at the man.
"I'm sure this comes as a shock, to say the least," the man said patiently. "You probably don't remember it happening. Most people don't. You just found yourself first in a lobby and then in this office. You don't remember actually coming here, though, right?"
John, Aaron, and Yusef said nothing. They waited for the man to explain himself.
"Well, as long as I'm filling your heads with notions you probably find to be literally unbelievable, let me add one more. Since you are dead, that would make this place . . . heaven or paradise or the world to come or whatever you choose to call it."
The men looked around themselves.
"Don't worry. It's not all like this. It's actually--," he quickly became more animated and then just as quickly calmed down. "--Well, you'll see."
"Anyway, we usually have our first meetings with new arrivals in settings like these so as not to blow their minds too much too soon. It's important to ease you into the concept of, I'll call it the afterlife, by starting you off someplace familiar. Like an office. Like I said, don't worry. It gets more impressive than this. Trust me."
"I'm giving you a lot very quickly, and I know it's a lot to wrap your heads around, but I'm going to keep on plowing through, if you don't mind."
The men sat quietly, waiting for the man to continue.
"OK. So. Given your respective beliefs, I'm sure on some secondary level, you're probably at least somewhat shocked to see two men from faiths other than your own in the afterlife. According to our records, each of you subscribes to the notion of exclusivity of faiths. That is, that your particular religion is the "right" one, the only one. And all others are false."
The men didn't disagree with him.
"And included within that belief is the idea that only followers of your faith will be able to enter the kingdom of God.
"And by the way, when I use the word 'God', I'm doing so for the same reason why we're having this meeting in an office. You're familiar with it and using it allows us to have this conversation. If I tried to describe 'God' more accurately, we'd be in here forever. So to speak. Suffice to say that the actual 'God' is nothing like you imagine Him to be and also everything like you imagine Him to be. He is unfathomably mysterious and also innately familiar. By the way, when I use the pronoun "He" it's not because He's actually a he, but because that's also what you're familiar with. Sorry to be so parenthetical, but I want to make sure we're all on the same page. Are we OK so far?"
The men indicated that they were.
"John, you're a Christian. Aaron, you're a Jew. Yusef, you're a Muslim. Three different religions, and yet you all adhere to this notion of exclusivity. You believe that only people from your faith will enter," he motioned around himself, "the afterlife."
"I've called all of you in here together to save myself the trouble of having the same conversation three times. Gentlemen, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. As it turns out, all three of you are wrong. 'God' is not Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. 'God' as you conceive of Him is actually a Hindu."
The men looked at each other in disbelief.
"Yeah," he continued. "Hinduism is the horse you should have been betting on. It's a shame, too, because you're all really good guys. Too bad you're going to be spending eternity in," he spoke out of the side of his mouth, "that other place."
He paused again for effect.
"Nah, I'm just messing with you. Sorry, bad joke. But honestly, anyone that would believe in a God that could be so arbitrarily cruel deserves to have his chain yanked at least a little bit."
The men weren't sure how to feel. It was all very overwhelming.
"Look, to put it simply, God--again, I'm using that word for simplicity's sake--is non-denominational. He's not going to exclude someone from the afterlife just because he or she happened to have followed the "wrong" religion for reasons that almost certainly had more to do with his or her circumstances at birth than anything else. He's not some sort of cruel accountant who's going to zing you over which book you followed or which building you worshipped in. He's a bit more reasonable than that. You should give Him more credit. He's more interested in your actions than in what you profess to believe. To put it simply, do you do good things? The other stuff--the symbols, the books, the buildings? I'm not going to say that they're unimportant. Instead, I'll just say that it's what you do that's more important, not which version of the narrative you adhere to. Does this all make sense to you? I understand it's a lot to absorb."
The men nodded.
"And please don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that any one of your religions is wrong or that you should turn your backs on them or what not. Quite the contrary. I think your respective religions are a big reason why you are the good people you are today. Not the only reason, of course, but a big part of it. No, we want you to stay active in your religions."
"Wait," said John. "Stay active?"
"Yeah," Yusef said. "I thought you said we were dead."
"You are," he said. "But you're going to be revived."
"But we've been dead too long," said Aaron.
"Actually, no, you haven't. It only feels that way to you. During the time we've been talking here, less than one second has passed on earth. Time moves much slower there."
He let that sink in and then continued.
"Anyway, when you go back--and you're all going back--don't change anything about who you are or what you do. The world needs more people like you. The only thing we ask is that you urge other people within your faith to abandon this idea of exclusivity. By the way, I hope that this meeting has disabused you of that idea yourselves. Has it?"
The men looked at each other and nodded.
"You're well-respected within your communities. Leaders. People will listen to you. Help them see that people aren't given or denied access to the afterlife based on which faith they follow. Help them see that good people from outside their faiths are going to be welcome here, too. We think your time on earth might go better if you can look at things that way."
"Anyway, that's about it from me. I'm sure you all have plenty of questions, but we can get into all of that the next time you're here. And yes, you will be back. That is, unless you suddenly start doing a bunch of really bad stuff, which I have no reason to believe will be the case."
The men looked at each other and then back at the man.
"Instead, let me just ask you if you 'get' what I've told you today."
The men said that they did.
"OK, then. Well, we're done here. It's about time for you to go back. Thanks for your time. I'll see you again."
The men got up and opened the door to leave.
"Oh yeah, and one more thing, gentlemen."
They turned around.
"Keep up the Good work."
"So. Do you know where you are?"
None of the men said anything, and the man smiled again. He looked at John and read from a file.
"John Bishop. Lawyer from Washington, DC. Married to Stephanie Bishop. Three children. In addition to the work you do for UNICEF, you take on several pro bono cases every year, most of them dealing with refugees' rights. Also, you and your wife started a recycling program in your neighborhood, and you are actively involved at your children's schools."
He looked at Aaron and read from a different file.
"Aaron Goldberg. Pediatrician from New York City. Married to Rebecca Goldberg. Father of two. You spend your vacations doing short term projects for Doctors Without Borders. In addition, you and your wife created a foundation that raises money and awareness for tuberculosis in developing countries, and you are also actively involved at your children's schools."
He looked at Yusef and read from a third file.
"Yusef Abdullah. High school teacher turned assistant principal from Philadelphia. Sponsored three orphaned children from Rwanda and started a scholarship fund that enabled all three of them to get college educations. You regularly volunteer at least five hours a week at Big Brothers/Big Sisters, you developed an incentive program to get other teachers from your school district to participate in Big Brothers/Big Sisters, and you are also actively involved at your children's schools."
He addressed all three of them.
"As you can see, you are all devoted to furthering good and righteous causes. In addition to the works I have just described, you are all excellent role models within your communities, respected and looked up to by all you know, and actively involved in your church, synagogue, and mosque respectively. In short, you are all good men."
He paused for effect.
"And I regret to inform you that you have all been killed in a car accident."
The men shifted in their seats, frowned, murmured disbelief, looked at each other, looked at themselves, looked at the man.
"I'm sure this comes as a shock, to say the least," the man said patiently. "You probably don't remember it happening. Most people don't. You just found yourself first in a lobby and then in this office. You don't remember actually coming here, though, right?"
John, Aaron, and Yusef said nothing. They waited for the man to explain himself.
"Well, as long as I'm filling your heads with notions you probably find to be literally unbelievable, let me add one more. Since you are dead, that would make this place . . . heaven or paradise or the world to come or whatever you choose to call it."
The men looked around themselves.
"Don't worry. It's not all like this. It's actually--," he quickly became more animated and then just as quickly calmed down. "--Well, you'll see."
"Anyway, we usually have our first meetings with new arrivals in settings like these so as not to blow their minds too much too soon. It's important to ease you into the concept of, I'll call it the afterlife, by starting you off someplace familiar. Like an office. Like I said, don't worry. It gets more impressive than this. Trust me."
"I'm giving you a lot very quickly, and I know it's a lot to wrap your heads around, but I'm going to keep on plowing through, if you don't mind."
The men sat quietly, waiting for the man to continue.
"OK. So. Given your respective beliefs, I'm sure on some secondary level, you're probably at least somewhat shocked to see two men from faiths other than your own in the afterlife. According to our records, each of you subscribes to the notion of exclusivity of faiths. That is, that your particular religion is the "right" one, the only one. And all others are false."
The men didn't disagree with him.
"And included within that belief is the idea that only followers of your faith will be able to enter the kingdom of God.
"And by the way, when I use the word 'God', I'm doing so for the same reason why we're having this meeting in an office. You're familiar with it and using it allows us to have this conversation. If I tried to describe 'God' more accurately, we'd be in here forever. So to speak. Suffice to say that the actual 'God' is nothing like you imagine Him to be and also everything like you imagine Him to be. He is unfathomably mysterious and also innately familiar. By the way, when I use the pronoun "He" it's not because He's actually a he, but because that's also what you're familiar with. Sorry to be so parenthetical, but I want to make sure we're all on the same page. Are we OK so far?"
The men indicated that they were.
"John, you're a Christian. Aaron, you're a Jew. Yusef, you're a Muslim. Three different religions, and yet you all adhere to this notion of exclusivity. You believe that only people from your faith will enter," he motioned around himself, "the afterlife."
"I've called all of you in here together to save myself the trouble of having the same conversation three times. Gentlemen, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. As it turns out, all three of you are wrong. 'God' is not Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. 'God' as you conceive of Him is actually a Hindu."
The men looked at each other in disbelief.
"Yeah," he continued. "Hinduism is the horse you should have been betting on. It's a shame, too, because you're all really good guys. Too bad you're going to be spending eternity in," he spoke out of the side of his mouth, "that other place."
He paused again for effect.
"Nah, I'm just messing with you. Sorry, bad joke. But honestly, anyone that would believe in a God that could be so arbitrarily cruel deserves to have his chain yanked at least a little bit."
The men weren't sure how to feel. It was all very overwhelming.
"Look, to put it simply, God--again, I'm using that word for simplicity's sake--is non-denominational. He's not going to exclude someone from the afterlife just because he or she happened to have followed the "wrong" religion for reasons that almost certainly had more to do with his or her circumstances at birth than anything else. He's not some sort of cruel accountant who's going to zing you over which book you followed or which building you worshipped in. He's a bit more reasonable than that. You should give Him more credit. He's more interested in your actions than in what you profess to believe. To put it simply, do you do good things? The other stuff--the symbols, the books, the buildings? I'm not going to say that they're unimportant. Instead, I'll just say that it's what you do that's more important, not which version of the narrative you adhere to. Does this all make sense to you? I understand it's a lot to absorb."
The men nodded.
"And please don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that any one of your religions is wrong or that you should turn your backs on them or what not. Quite the contrary. I think your respective religions are a big reason why you are the good people you are today. Not the only reason, of course, but a big part of it. No, we want you to stay active in your religions."
"Wait," said John. "Stay active?"
"Yeah," Yusef said. "I thought you said we were dead."
"You are," he said. "But you're going to be revived."
"But we've been dead too long," said Aaron.
"Actually, no, you haven't. It only feels that way to you. During the time we've been talking here, less than one second has passed on earth. Time moves much slower there."
He let that sink in and then continued.
"Anyway, when you go back--and you're all going back--don't change anything about who you are or what you do. The world needs more people like you. The only thing we ask is that you urge other people within your faith to abandon this idea of exclusivity. By the way, I hope that this meeting has disabused you of that idea yourselves. Has it?"
The men looked at each other and nodded.
"You're well-respected within your communities. Leaders. People will listen to you. Help them see that people aren't given or denied access to the afterlife based on which faith they follow. Help them see that good people from outside their faiths are going to be welcome here, too. We think your time on earth might go better if you can look at things that way."
"Anyway, that's about it from me. I'm sure you all have plenty of questions, but we can get into all of that the next time you're here. And yes, you will be back. That is, unless you suddenly start doing a bunch of really bad stuff, which I have no reason to believe will be the case."
The men looked at each other and then back at the man.
"Instead, let me just ask you if you 'get' what I've told you today."
The men said that they did.
"OK, then. Well, we're done here. It's about time for you to go back. Thanks for your time. I'll see you again."
The men got up and opened the door to leave.
"Oh yeah, and one more thing, gentlemen."
They turned around.
"Keep up the Good work."
Thursday, August 19, 2010
August 19 - Gentlemen of the Afternoon
Two men in their early 20s sat on a park bench near a pond where couples were paddling around on swan boats.
"Is this where you normally set up?" the younger one asked.
"If the weather's nice, yeah," the older one answered without looking. His eyes were casually scanning the park.
"Where else do you go?"
"On a nice day? Parks are good. I also go to farmers markets, any sort of ethnic festival. If it's cold or rainy? Museums, bookstores, galleries."
"And who talks first?"
"Well, that's kind of tricky. Neither of you, really."
The younger one waited for the older one to explain.
"See, it's kind of a delicate situation. To help save face, you have to be able to maintain an air of plausible deniability. Neither of you can come out and talk openly about what's really happening--at any time, by the way. Not just the beginning."
"So how does it work?"
"Well yeah, you're by yourself and she's by herself, and you both kind of glance at each other and then look away a couple of times. And then maybe she pretends like she recognizes you and asks you something, like if you're meeting someone or if you're so and so's friend or sometimes she has a name for you. And whatever it is, you go along with it."
"OK?"
"And the beginning is the hardest part because you have to figure out who you're supposed to be to this woman, like instantly, and then be that person. Maybe it's a 'blind date', maybe you're a friend of a friend, whatever. But you have to stay in character. The whole time. You can never openly say or even hint that you're a companionship gun for hire. That would ruin the illusion. And the afternoon. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, I guess," he said, mulling it over. "And then you, like, just hang out?"
"Pretty much. Like here, we'd do the swan boats. Maybe grab some ice cream afterwards. Check out some street performers. If it's a museum, we check out the exhibits, get coffee afterwards. Basically, anything a couple would do for a Saturday afternoon date, that's what you do."
"What about, um, sex?"
The older guy shook his head. "Nah. Most women that hire guys like us aren't interested in sex. They just want to do couple type things for an afternoon and then go back to their normal routines afterwards."
"Do they ever try to get anything more, you know, real going?"
"What, this isn't real?" He pretended to be shocked.
"You know what I mean. Like, uncompensated. Real names. Not role playing."
"No, I know. Um, surprisingly, no."
"So what the hell?"
"My guess is that they're just busy. And single. And maybe mostly OK with it or too busy to get a full on relationship going, but every once in a while, they still miss doing couple type things. They just don't have time to have a 'real' relationship. So they get their fix with guys like us for a few hours, get the monkey off their back, and go back to their regular lives. Without feeling like they have to call someone. And definitely without stressing out about the guy not calling them."
The younger one sat quietly, digesting it.
The older one began speaking again. "You think it's weird, don't you?"
"No, not really. If anything, what I feel strange about is that it doesn't feel strange, if that makes any sense. Like, I get it. It's just--what are they paying for? It's not love. It's not sex. I don't know how to explain it."
"I've had it described to me as the commodification of companionship."
He shrugged. "Yeah, that works."
"The idea takes some getting used to. As does maintaining the illusion of it. It's like, both of you know that you're role playing. And you know that the other person knows, and on and on and on. But there's this tacit agreement to keep it going and not openly acknowledge it. It's kind of exciting in a way. Like the next level of improv without a net. And by the way, speaking of which, if you're in the business, this gig is great practice. You can really develop your own basic character type--or character types, you know, since you've got to be tuned in to what your client is into."
"Yeah, that reminds me. How do you get paid?"
"Ah, that. Usually, I do it as a loan type situation."
"What do you mean?"
"Like at the end of our time together--by the way, she pays for everything, of course--I'll apologize profusely and tell her I'm super embarrassed and I would usually never ask her for such a favor, blah, blah, blah, but I need to borrow some money to . . . whatever. Pay a vet bill, get this sweater for my mom I just saw on sale, whatever."
"Do you negotiate the price?"
"Almost never. Most women know the going rate is a buck fifty for three hours."
"Really?"
The older one shrugged. "It's all pretty straightforward. She gives you the money, you both conveniently forget to agree on how you'll pay the money back, and then you go your separate ways."
The younger one raised his eyebrows and nodded. He understood.
"So," the older one said. "You ready to give it a shot?"
"Is this where you normally set up?" the younger one asked.
"If the weather's nice, yeah," the older one answered without looking. His eyes were casually scanning the park.
"Where else do you go?"
"On a nice day? Parks are good. I also go to farmers markets, any sort of ethnic festival. If it's cold or rainy? Museums, bookstores, galleries."
"And who talks first?"
"Well, that's kind of tricky. Neither of you, really."
The younger one waited for the older one to explain.
"See, it's kind of a delicate situation. To help save face, you have to be able to maintain an air of plausible deniability. Neither of you can come out and talk openly about what's really happening--at any time, by the way. Not just the beginning."
"So how does it work?"
"Well yeah, you're by yourself and she's by herself, and you both kind of glance at each other and then look away a couple of times. And then maybe she pretends like she recognizes you and asks you something, like if you're meeting someone or if you're so and so's friend or sometimes she has a name for you. And whatever it is, you go along with it."
"OK?"
"And the beginning is the hardest part because you have to figure out who you're supposed to be to this woman, like instantly, and then be that person. Maybe it's a 'blind date', maybe you're a friend of a friend, whatever. But you have to stay in character. The whole time. You can never openly say or even hint that you're a companionship gun for hire. That would ruin the illusion. And the afternoon. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, I guess," he said, mulling it over. "And then you, like, just hang out?"
"Pretty much. Like here, we'd do the swan boats. Maybe grab some ice cream afterwards. Check out some street performers. If it's a museum, we check out the exhibits, get coffee afterwards. Basically, anything a couple would do for a Saturday afternoon date, that's what you do."
"What about, um, sex?"
The older guy shook his head. "Nah. Most women that hire guys like us aren't interested in sex. They just want to do couple type things for an afternoon and then go back to their normal routines afterwards."
"Do they ever try to get anything more, you know, real going?"
"What, this isn't real?" He pretended to be shocked.
"You know what I mean. Like, uncompensated. Real names. Not role playing."
"No, I know. Um, surprisingly, no."
"So what the hell?"
"My guess is that they're just busy. And single. And maybe mostly OK with it or too busy to get a full on relationship going, but every once in a while, they still miss doing couple type things. They just don't have time to have a 'real' relationship. So they get their fix with guys like us for a few hours, get the monkey off their back, and go back to their regular lives. Without feeling like they have to call someone. And definitely without stressing out about the guy not calling them."
The younger one sat quietly, digesting it.
The older one began speaking again. "You think it's weird, don't you?"
"No, not really. If anything, what I feel strange about is that it doesn't feel strange, if that makes any sense. Like, I get it. It's just--what are they paying for? It's not love. It's not sex. I don't know how to explain it."
"I've had it described to me as the commodification of companionship."
He shrugged. "Yeah, that works."
"The idea takes some getting used to. As does maintaining the illusion of it. It's like, both of you know that you're role playing. And you know that the other person knows, and on and on and on. But there's this tacit agreement to keep it going and not openly acknowledge it. It's kind of exciting in a way. Like the next level of improv without a net. And by the way, speaking of which, if you're in the business, this gig is great practice. You can really develop your own basic character type--or character types, you know, since you've got to be tuned in to what your client is into."
"Yeah, that reminds me. How do you get paid?"
"Ah, that. Usually, I do it as a loan type situation."
"What do you mean?"
"Like at the end of our time together--by the way, she pays for everything, of course--I'll apologize profusely and tell her I'm super embarrassed and I would usually never ask her for such a favor, blah, blah, blah, but I need to borrow some money to . . . whatever. Pay a vet bill, get this sweater for my mom I just saw on sale, whatever."
"Do you negotiate the price?"
"Almost never. Most women know the going rate is a buck fifty for three hours."
"Really?"
The older one shrugged. "It's all pretty straightforward. She gives you the money, you both conveniently forget to agree on how you'll pay the money back, and then you go your separate ways."
The younger one raised his eyebrows and nodded. He understood.
"So," the older one said. "You ready to give it a shot?"
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
August 18 - Jaws
The dental hygienist came in to clean Mary's teeth and she visibly recoiled from the stench of her breath. It hit her as soon as she opened the door.
"How long has it been since your last check-up?"
Mary chuckled sheepishly and pretended to think. "Um, 15 years?"
"Wow," the hygienist said before she could stop herself. Then she told Mary to open wide, took a deep breath, and went to work with the scraper.
The situation was bad from across the room, but so much worse up close. Mary's teeth were the color of milk tea and covered with, well, the hygienist wasn't sure what it was. Cleaning her teeth was like scraping bark off a dead tree with a screwdriver. Every time she took the scraper out of Mary's mouth, it was covered with black gunk. And every time Mary rinsed and spit, there were different chunks of food mixed in with it: broccoli, gristle, popcorn kernels, corn, chipped bits of seashell.
And blood. Thick gobs of blood suspended in spit.
The hygienist was sure that not only had Mary not been to the dentist in 15 years, but it was unlikely that she'd even brushed during that time, much less flossed.
The cleaning took just over two hours, and by the time it was finished the examining room, especially near the sink, smelled like a trash dumpster filled with festering roadkill. The hygienist told Mary the dentist would be right in. Then she left the room to throw up and begin planning a career change.
The hygienist had given the dentist, Dr. Spengler, a heads up about the smell, but it still made him stumble a bit when he came in. He cursed his career choice, told Mary to open wide, and went in for the exam, breathing through his mouth under his mask.
It was like Mary's mouth had been the scene of a shootout using the world's tiniest machine guns. There were holes everywhere. Cavities inside cavities. Her teeth were completely rotted out. There wasn't one tooth in her mouth that was cavity free. Not one.
But it went further than the teeth and even further than the gums, which were rotted beyond hope. The decay extended well into her mandible, and it was clear to Dr. Spengler that it wouldn't be enough to merely pull all her teeth. Her lower jaw would have to go too.
As grim as the realization was, Dr. Spengler was also quite excited. He had been working on an idea for a jaw replacement procedure, and he was confident it would work. The only problem was he had never been able to find a willing volunteer.
Until then.
Mary didn't have dental insurance, so he made an arrangement with her in which he would replace her entire jaw and all her teeth free of charge. All she had to do was agree to go along with it with the understanding that it was an experimental procedure.
She agreed and two weeks later, she left Dr. Spengler's clinic with a new lower jaw made of ceramic and gold, synthetic gums, and a whole mouth full of ceramic teeth. The only remaining member from the original cast of her mouth was her tongue.
Her body rejected all of it less than a month later.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Spengler tried again, this time with a solid gold jaw, and Mary's body rejected it even more quickly.
And that's when Dr. Spengler decided that his worst suspicions about the procedure were probably well grounded. He would need to use a human jaw.
Not exactly an easy thing to come by, but Dr. Spengler was nothing if not resourceful. Earlier in his career, he had helped pay off his dental school loans by serving as the dentist for a number of state correctional facilities. Some serious behind the scenes, off the record, and below the radar negotiations were carried out with the net result of Dr. Spengler getting one correctional facility he had a particularly close relationship with to add jawbone to the list of transplantable organs and tissues to be harvested the next time an inmate was executed.
As it turned out, said inmate was Tom Hopkins.
Also known as the Butcher, Mr. Hopkins was a serial killer from downstate who also dabbled in cannibalism. Not quite Dr. Spengler's first choice for a jaw donor, but he wasn't a superstitious man, he was a man of science. It didn't matter where the jaw had come from and what it had been used for in the past. The important thing was that it was human and it would work. Even still, he opted not to tell Mary about the jaw's past.
The time came, the jaw was harvested and then transplanted, and this time it took. Mary's body accepted it, and all was well.
Following Dr. Spengler's urging, Mary took good care of her new teeth and jaw, and they took good care of her. Dr. Spengler stayed in close contact with Mary over the next several months and monitored her progress, which was good. She was delighted with her new dental works, and he was pleased that the procedure had been a success.
He also had to admit to himself that he was more than a little relieved that she never suddenly developed a taste for cannibalism.
However, after Mary had had the new jaw for close to a year, the whole issue started to gnaw at Dr. Spengler a bit, and he decided he at least needed to give her the option of learning the truth about the previous life of her jaw.
She thought about his offer for a moment and then said OK.
He asked her if the name Tom Hopkins meant anything to her.
"The serial killer," she said almost immediately. "The Butcher."
And he knew the moment she said it that it had been a huge mistake, all of it. The transplant, the donor, telling her about it now.
"Is this--?" She touched her jaw.
What had I been thinking? Of course it wasn't OK. Nothing about it was OK. The teeth that are in her mouth now were the same teeth--He couldn't finish the thought. In the rush to become the first oral surgeon to successfully complete a jaw transplant procedure, he'd lost all sense of ethics and morality. How could I not have told her?
"Oh my God."
"Mary, now listen--"
"Oh my God."
"I--"
Mary grabbed his hands. "Tom Hopkins killed my sister. He--and now I--"
"Oh my God."
"His teeth--" She grabbed at her teeth and started crying.
He started to comfort her, but instead he put his face in his hands and kept it there until he noticed that Mary wasn't crying, she was laughing. He looked up at her.
"Got ya!" she said and then laughed hysterically.
Dr. Spengler's jaw dropped.
"You should have seen your face."
"Jesus, Mary."
"And Joseph. Ha ha ha!"
He shook his head.
"Come on, doc. Don't be mad."
"Right. Good one. I guess now's as good a time as any to tell you that I've decided I'll be charging you for the transplant after all."
"Good one, yourself, doc. You go pulling that kind of stunt on me I just might have to bring the Butcher's jaw out of retirement."
Then she faked like she was going to bite his arm, and they both laughed.
"How long has it been since your last check-up?"
Mary chuckled sheepishly and pretended to think. "Um, 15 years?"
"Wow," the hygienist said before she could stop herself. Then she told Mary to open wide, took a deep breath, and went to work with the scraper.
The situation was bad from across the room, but so much worse up close. Mary's teeth were the color of milk tea and covered with, well, the hygienist wasn't sure what it was. Cleaning her teeth was like scraping bark off a dead tree with a screwdriver. Every time she took the scraper out of Mary's mouth, it was covered with black gunk. And every time Mary rinsed and spit, there were different chunks of food mixed in with it: broccoli, gristle, popcorn kernels, corn, chipped bits of seashell.
And blood. Thick gobs of blood suspended in spit.
The hygienist was sure that not only had Mary not been to the dentist in 15 years, but it was unlikely that she'd even brushed during that time, much less flossed.
The cleaning took just over two hours, and by the time it was finished the examining room, especially near the sink, smelled like a trash dumpster filled with festering roadkill. The hygienist told Mary the dentist would be right in. Then she left the room to throw up and begin planning a career change.
The hygienist had given the dentist, Dr. Spengler, a heads up about the smell, but it still made him stumble a bit when he came in. He cursed his career choice, told Mary to open wide, and went in for the exam, breathing through his mouth under his mask.
It was like Mary's mouth had been the scene of a shootout using the world's tiniest machine guns. There were holes everywhere. Cavities inside cavities. Her teeth were completely rotted out. There wasn't one tooth in her mouth that was cavity free. Not one.
But it went further than the teeth and even further than the gums, which were rotted beyond hope. The decay extended well into her mandible, and it was clear to Dr. Spengler that it wouldn't be enough to merely pull all her teeth. Her lower jaw would have to go too.
As grim as the realization was, Dr. Spengler was also quite excited. He had been working on an idea for a jaw replacement procedure, and he was confident it would work. The only problem was he had never been able to find a willing volunteer.
Until then.
Mary didn't have dental insurance, so he made an arrangement with her in which he would replace her entire jaw and all her teeth free of charge. All she had to do was agree to go along with it with the understanding that it was an experimental procedure.
She agreed and two weeks later, she left Dr. Spengler's clinic with a new lower jaw made of ceramic and gold, synthetic gums, and a whole mouth full of ceramic teeth. The only remaining member from the original cast of her mouth was her tongue.
Her body rejected all of it less than a month later.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Spengler tried again, this time with a solid gold jaw, and Mary's body rejected it even more quickly.
And that's when Dr. Spengler decided that his worst suspicions about the procedure were probably well grounded. He would need to use a human jaw.
Not exactly an easy thing to come by, but Dr. Spengler was nothing if not resourceful. Earlier in his career, he had helped pay off his dental school loans by serving as the dentist for a number of state correctional facilities. Some serious behind the scenes, off the record, and below the radar negotiations were carried out with the net result of Dr. Spengler getting one correctional facility he had a particularly close relationship with to add jawbone to the list of transplantable organs and tissues to be harvested the next time an inmate was executed.
As it turned out, said inmate was Tom Hopkins.
Also known as the Butcher, Mr. Hopkins was a serial killer from downstate who also dabbled in cannibalism. Not quite Dr. Spengler's first choice for a jaw donor, but he wasn't a superstitious man, he was a man of science. It didn't matter where the jaw had come from and what it had been used for in the past. The important thing was that it was human and it would work. Even still, he opted not to tell Mary about the jaw's past.
The time came, the jaw was harvested and then transplanted, and this time it took. Mary's body accepted it, and all was well.
Following Dr. Spengler's urging, Mary took good care of her new teeth and jaw, and they took good care of her. Dr. Spengler stayed in close contact with Mary over the next several months and monitored her progress, which was good. She was delighted with her new dental works, and he was pleased that the procedure had been a success.
He also had to admit to himself that he was more than a little relieved that she never suddenly developed a taste for cannibalism.
However, after Mary had had the new jaw for close to a year, the whole issue started to gnaw at Dr. Spengler a bit, and he decided he at least needed to give her the option of learning the truth about the previous life of her jaw.
She thought about his offer for a moment and then said OK.
He asked her if the name Tom Hopkins meant anything to her.
"The serial killer," she said almost immediately. "The Butcher."
And he knew the moment she said it that it had been a huge mistake, all of it. The transplant, the donor, telling her about it now.
"Is this--?" She touched her jaw.
What had I been thinking? Of course it wasn't OK. Nothing about it was OK. The teeth that are in her mouth now were the same teeth--He couldn't finish the thought. In the rush to become the first oral surgeon to successfully complete a jaw transplant procedure, he'd lost all sense of ethics and morality. How could I not have told her?
"Oh my God."
"Mary, now listen--"
"Oh my God."
"I--"
Mary grabbed his hands. "Tom Hopkins killed my sister. He--and now I--"
"Oh my God."
"His teeth--" She grabbed at her teeth and started crying.
He started to comfort her, but instead he put his face in his hands and kept it there until he noticed that Mary wasn't crying, she was laughing. He looked up at her.
"Got ya!" she said and then laughed hysterically.
Dr. Spengler's jaw dropped.
"You should have seen your face."
"Jesus, Mary."
"And Joseph. Ha ha ha!"
He shook his head.
"Come on, doc. Don't be mad."
"Right. Good one. I guess now's as good a time as any to tell you that I've decided I'll be charging you for the transplant after all."
"Good one, yourself, doc. You go pulling that kind of stunt on me I just might have to bring the Butcher's jaw out of retirement."
Then she faked like she was going to bite his arm, and they both laughed.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
August 17 - The Heckler
There it was again, that crazy monosyllabic laugh.
"HAW!"
And then a few seconds later, "HAW!"
It was almost more of a yell than a laugh: deep-throated, emphatic, and mean. The kind of laugh you'd use if you had to make someone feel really bad and you only had time for one syllable. "HAW!"
Without breaking stride, I looked around but saw no one. Just trees, parked cars, and an empty park. Then I slowed my jog down, turned around, and ran backwards. Nobody behind me either. Just more trees.
A few blocks later it was the same guy. "HAW! HAW!" I stopped immediately and did a complete 360.
Nobody.
I put my hands on my hips and looked around and it was quiet. There wasn't anybody else around.
I got going again.
The next block, I heard him again. "HAW!" He was right behind me.
I stopped and turned around. "OK, whoever that is, could you please knock it off? I'm trying to run here."
I couldn't see him, but I felt his presence.
"Look, I know you're there. Just cut it out."
"HAW!"
I looked up. A crow was perched on a swing set in the park. He looked at me. "HAW!"
"Something funny there, crow?"
"HAW!"
"Shut up!"
"HAW!"
I picked up a rock. "OK, fine. Say it again."
He looked at me and opened his beak.
"Come on, birdy. Let's hear what you got to say."
He held his beak open. Then closed it.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Not laughing now, are you? Are you, birdy?"
He ruffled his feathers a bit, but otherwise didn't move.
I pretended like I was going to drop the rock, and he perched up, ready to cackle. But I didn't drop the rock. Instead I faked a throw, and he flapped away from the swing set and swooped out of sight.
"Yeah, just remember that, Mr. Crow! Just remember that shit next time you come around laughing at me! Just remember I've got this rock and I'm not afraid to use it!" I shouted into the trees.
Then I turned around to run back home and there she was, that really good looking woman with the braids I sometimes see when I go running.
Crap.
From her expression I could tell she'd seen my whole little conversation with the crow. I tried to salvage it with a little laugh and shrug, but she just flashed a split second appease-the-weirdo smile and continued on her way. And after another couple of seconds, so did I.
"HAW!"
I just kept on running. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
"HAW!"
"HAW!"
And then a few seconds later, "HAW!"
It was almost more of a yell than a laugh: deep-throated, emphatic, and mean. The kind of laugh you'd use if you had to make someone feel really bad and you only had time for one syllable. "HAW!"
Without breaking stride, I looked around but saw no one. Just trees, parked cars, and an empty park. Then I slowed my jog down, turned around, and ran backwards. Nobody behind me either. Just more trees.
A few blocks later it was the same guy. "HAW! HAW!" I stopped immediately and did a complete 360.
Nobody.
I put my hands on my hips and looked around and it was quiet. There wasn't anybody else around.
I got going again.
The next block, I heard him again. "HAW!" He was right behind me.
I stopped and turned around. "OK, whoever that is, could you please knock it off? I'm trying to run here."
I couldn't see him, but I felt his presence.
"Look, I know you're there. Just cut it out."
"HAW!"
I looked up. A crow was perched on a swing set in the park. He looked at me. "HAW!"
"Something funny there, crow?"
"HAW!"
"Shut up!"
"HAW!"
I picked up a rock. "OK, fine. Say it again."
He looked at me and opened his beak.
"Come on, birdy. Let's hear what you got to say."
He held his beak open. Then closed it.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Not laughing now, are you? Are you, birdy?"
He ruffled his feathers a bit, but otherwise didn't move.
I pretended like I was going to drop the rock, and he perched up, ready to cackle. But I didn't drop the rock. Instead I faked a throw, and he flapped away from the swing set and swooped out of sight.
"Yeah, just remember that, Mr. Crow! Just remember that shit next time you come around laughing at me! Just remember I've got this rock and I'm not afraid to use it!" I shouted into the trees.
Then I turned around to run back home and there she was, that really good looking woman with the braids I sometimes see when I go running.
Crap.
From her expression I could tell she'd seen my whole little conversation with the crow. I tried to salvage it with a little laugh and shrug, but she just flashed a split second appease-the-weirdo smile and continued on her way. And after another couple of seconds, so did I.
"HAW!"
I just kept on running. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
"HAW!"
Monday, August 16, 2010
August 16 - Abusing Yourself To Death
The worst thing about accidentally killing yourself while masturbating is that you have to talk about it every time you meet someone new in the afterlife. Seriously, man. Every time. "How'd you die?" is pretty much the "What's your major?" or "What do you do?" of the afterlife, and I can't even begin to tell you how bad it sucks having to tell people the same story again and again and again, especially since the story will never change. You can switch majors or change careers, but you only ever die once.
Here's how the conversation usually goes: I was in Atlanta on business. By myself (duh). And after dinner I felt like having a wank, but not just any wank. I wanted it to be extra intense, so I got myself set up in the closet for the old autoerotic asphyxiation thing . . . right, just like the guy from INXS . . . and anyway things got carried away and I didn't stop in time and . . . What's that? No, surprisingly, I had not been drinking . . . No, I'd done it before . . . A couple of times . . . Yeah, it actually is--was--very intense . . . Yeah, you're right. I probably should have had a spotter . . . No, I'm single--was single . . . What's that? Oh, Angelina Jolie. Tomb Raider was on Skinemax.
The worst is when someone asks you how you died, and you tell them autoerotic asphyxiation, thinking that will be the end of it, but then they don't know what that is and then you have to explain it to them.
The first time that happened was during one of the orientation sessions when I first arrived here. They had about 20 of us in a circle, and we had to take turns saying our names, where we were from, how we'd died, and one of our proudest accomplishments from our time on earth. Anyway, it got to me and I said autoerotic asphyxiation and tried to move on to my proudest accomplishment, but then a bunch of other people in the circle didn't know what I was talking about. And then after I explained it they just kind of looked at me with sympathy. It would've been better if they'd made fun of me or something, but instead they just looked down at the floor awkwardly. I'm pretty sure I heard one of them say something like, "His poor mother."
Yeah, no kidding his poor mother. Speaking of which, I'm guessing that a parent seeing his or her kid in the afterlife is pretty much the definition of bittersweet. Of course it's great to see them again, but, well, they're dead, you know? And of course when I saw my mom we didn't talk about that, but I know she knew.
They've tried to start support groups for guys like me who have died in stupid and embarrassing ways, but nobody ever goes to them. I guess they're all OK with it, the guys who died stupid deaths. There are a lot of them, by the way. You know the Darwin Awards for people that died in the most idiotic ways imaginable? Apparently, those must be really competitive awards, because there are some total morons here. And this is coming from the guy who choked to death while masturbating to (a not even naked) Angelina Jolie.
By the way, I'm pretty sure that's my identity here, because how you died totally defines how people look at you here. Like, I know this one guy who was a fireman. Dude bought it while saving a baby from a fire in some apartment building. Can you believe that? It's like the ultimate hero cliche. And that's the first impression everyone has of him is: hero. The first impression everyone has of me? Incompetent wanker.
Here's how the conversation usually goes: I was in Atlanta on business. By myself (duh). And after dinner I felt like having a wank, but not just any wank. I wanted it to be extra intense, so I got myself set up in the closet for the old autoerotic asphyxiation thing . . . right, just like the guy from INXS . . . and anyway things got carried away and I didn't stop in time and . . . What's that? No, surprisingly, I had not been drinking . . . No, I'd done it before . . . A couple of times . . . Yeah, it actually is--was--very intense . . . Yeah, you're right. I probably should have had a spotter . . . No, I'm single--was single . . . What's that? Oh, Angelina Jolie. Tomb Raider was on Skinemax.
The worst is when someone asks you how you died, and you tell them autoerotic asphyxiation, thinking that will be the end of it, but then they don't know what that is and then you have to explain it to them.
The first time that happened was during one of the orientation sessions when I first arrived here. They had about 20 of us in a circle, and we had to take turns saying our names, where we were from, how we'd died, and one of our proudest accomplishments from our time on earth. Anyway, it got to me and I said autoerotic asphyxiation and tried to move on to my proudest accomplishment, but then a bunch of other people in the circle didn't know what I was talking about. And then after I explained it they just kind of looked at me with sympathy. It would've been better if they'd made fun of me or something, but instead they just looked down at the floor awkwardly. I'm pretty sure I heard one of them say something like, "His poor mother."
Yeah, no kidding his poor mother. Speaking of which, I'm guessing that a parent seeing his or her kid in the afterlife is pretty much the definition of bittersweet. Of course it's great to see them again, but, well, they're dead, you know? And of course when I saw my mom we didn't talk about that, but I know she knew.
They've tried to start support groups for guys like me who have died in stupid and embarrassing ways, but nobody ever goes to them. I guess they're all OK with it, the guys who died stupid deaths. There are a lot of them, by the way. You know the Darwin Awards for people that died in the most idiotic ways imaginable? Apparently, those must be really competitive awards, because there are some total morons here. And this is coming from the guy who choked to death while masturbating to (a not even naked) Angelina Jolie.
By the way, I'm pretty sure that's my identity here, because how you died totally defines how people look at you here. Like, I know this one guy who was a fireman. Dude bought it while saving a baby from a fire in some apartment building. Can you believe that? It's like the ultimate hero cliche. And that's the first impression everyone has of him is: hero. The first impression everyone has of me? Incompetent wanker.
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