Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Introduction

  A Brief Parody of a Talk Show That Falls Apart about Halfway through Tim Carvell

  The Spirit of Christmas Kurt Luchs

  The Briefing: A Play in One Act Stuart Wade

  On the Implausibility of the Death Star’s Trash Compactor J. M. Tyree

  Preview of Summer Camps Jeff Johnson

  Comments Written on Evaluations of My Speech on Needle-Exchange Programs Andy Rathbun

  The Newest from Jokeland Brodie H. Brockie and R. J. White

  Excerpts from My Speech on Forest-Fire Prevention Arthur Bradford

  As a Porn Movie Titler, I May Lack Promise John Moe

  I Know What You Did Two Moons Ago (The Revenge) Brian Kennedy

  Words That Would Make Nice Names for Babies, If It Weren’t for Their Unsuitable Meanings Stephany Aulenback

  Reviews of My Daydreams T. G. Gibbon

  Insomniacs! I Bring Words of Hope and Wisdom Jason Roeder

  The Ten Worst Films of All Time, as Reviewed by Ezra Pound over Italian Radio Greg Purcell

  Group Mobilization as a Desperate Cry for Help Christopher Monks

  Fire: The Next Sharp Stick? John Hodgman

  Not Very Scary Movies Joshua Watson

  Candle Party Alysia Gray Painter

  It’s Not Actually a Small World Tom Ruprecht

  Unused Audio Commentary by Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky, Recorded Summer 2002, for The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring DVD (Platinum Series Extended Edition), Part One Jeff Alexander and Tom Bissell

  Canceled Regional Morning TV Shows John Moe

  A Letter from Ezra Pound to Billy Wilder, 1963 Greg Purcell

  Journal of a New COBRA Recruit Keith Pille

  A Logic Puzzle and Hangover Cure John Hodgman

  Some People Don’t Like Celebrities Michael Ian Black

  Tips from Jokes and How to Tell Them, Published in 1963 R. J. White

  How Important Moments in My Life Would Have Been Different If I Was Shot in the Stomach Jake Swearingen

  No Justice, No Foul Jim Stallard

  Actual Academic Journals Which Could Be Broadway Shows If They Had Exclamation Points Added! T. G. Gibbon

  My Beard, Reviewed Chris Bachelder

  The Name Game Stephany Aulenback and Sean Carman

  Circumstances under Which I Would Have Sex with Some of My Fellow Jurors Peter Ferland

  The Bet Arthur Bradford

  The Dance Lesson Tim Carvell

  Attack of the Fabulons! Mark O’Donnell

  Pirate Riddles for Sophisticates Kevin Shay

  A Short Fictional Passage Entitled “Drift Nets,” in Which Several Enterprising Characters Troll the High Seas, Exploring Abandoned Trade Vessels for “Pirated” Goods, and Learn to Cope with Distinct Personalities in a Close-Knit, High-Stress Environment Todd Pruzan

  Ineffective Lines Deleted from Final Revisions of Violent Box-Office Hits Dan Kennedy

  A Graceland for Adolf Zev Borow

  Trinity Neal Pollack

  Pop Quiz Sean Condon

  Bad Names for Professional Wrestlers Jeff Johnson

  Evidently, It Was Live Then Dan Kennedy

  Upcoming Titles from Gavin Menzies, Author of 1421: The Year the Chinese Discovered America Paul Tullis

  Good Westerns, Not Porn Ross Barnes

  Norse Legends Reference Pages Kevin Guilfoile

  Goofus, Gallant, Rashomon Jim Stallard

  Not-Good Titles for Romantic Films Tim Blair

  Black, Gray, Green, Red, Blue: A Letter from a Famous Painter on the Moon Ben Greenman

  Lists

  Alternate Titles Proposed for This Book

  Endnotes

  Contributors

  Also from McSweeney’s

  Copyright Page

  FOREWORD

  “WE ALL KNOW that there’s a specific piece of information in question here. And with regard to it, let me first state that I know you all would like for me to say what we all think I’m coming before you to say. I would like to make it very clear, however, that I do not intend to say it. In addition, I will neither confirm nor deny it. So now that we all understand each other, are there any questions?”

  The spokesperson in “The Briefing,” a one-act play featured in this collection, refuses to supply the usual clichés; I hope in this foreword to avoid the same calamity. I was asked to write this foreword by a group of openhearted and truly funny people who believe humor and charity go hand in hand. The Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks was formed by actors with just such values. Those values are proudly displayed at San Francisco Lodge #3, the oldest continuously operating lodge in Elkdom.

  ´ ´ ´

  Just as this book is a collection of short, funny vignettes, San Francisco Lodge #3 is a rich panoply of individuals supporting a wide array of charities. Among the outside charities and groups supported by San Francisco Lodge #3 are San Francisco Youth Employment Coalition, Big Brothers/Big Sisters, Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, Cub Scouts, Mission Children, Adolescent and Family Service Center, Rebuilding Together, Edgewood Center for Children and Families, San Francisco Girl’s Chorus, and the Rose Resnick Lighthouse for the Blind and Visually Impaired. Additionally, the lodge also awards scholarships for a high school art contest and two essay contests. An equal variety of written humor awaits you in this tome, including plays, mock interviews, pseudo-advertising, and stories all designed to gently poke fun at the American experience while providing a little levity.

  Erma Bombeck observed, “Where humor goes, there goes civilization.” Each of us provides small activities that increase the livability of our city. This book is one example of a small action that drives us to wink, smile, and chuckle, a short, small respite that brings warmth and belonging to our lives and the lives of those around us. On behalf of San Francisco Lodge #3, of the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, congratulations on a wonderful book, and many thanks for the opportunity to pen the foreword.

  Harry Magnan

  President, San Francisco Lodge #3

  Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks

  INTRODUCTION

  FROM THE BEGINNING, McSweeney’s has brokered an awkward alliance between two opposing forces. On the one hand, the journal sought to publish experimental fiction and journalism; on the other hand, we hoped to make a home for stories that were funny without being humorous. Though our dream was that these two forces could act as one, as allies and not combatants, this dream was made of stone, or something like petrified wood. Then it turned to ashes. Yet before it turned to ashes it became embers, burning dimly, like a dying fire. Then, once it was ashes, we had no more hope for our dreams, for they were now ashen. Our dreams were no more. We had woken up from our dream, which was a flightless bird.

  You have no doubt heard of the many battles, squabbles, fights, and slap-sessions between these two camps. Always this animosity was fueled by those who said that any possibility of peace between two opposites—serious fiction and less serious humor-type writing—was not only impossible, but perhaps not even possible. They said that humor writing should be on the back pages of magazines, and never over 800 words. They said that fiction should never allow one to laugh. And what did we say to that, after thinking about it for a few days and wishing we had had a quicker comeback? We said Nay! We said Nay, these things could coexist, and length need not be an object. Then we hedged a bit, and said, Length is an object, if said pieces are published on the Web, where reading at great length can cause eye strain. And thus was born the idea that sometimes McSweene
y’s would publish funny things—sometimes in the journal, more often on the website—and that said publishing would not mean that McSweeney’s was always this thing or always that thing. We could publish both sorts of things, sometimes side by side, and often near articles about goats producing spider silk in their milk. But, we said, with heavy heart and fists of fury, we shall never publish poetry.

  So then why, you ask—if our goal was to put these things together, less-serious and serious, to dignify one and undignify the other—have we made a collection only of the funny bits? Why remove the stars from the stripes, the Wynonna from the Ashley? The fault is theirs, the people of Denmark. And for this last insult we pledge eternal damnation upon the smug suckholes who call themselves Danes.

  What you see here, friends, is some of the best writing our contributors have created while trying to be less serious and being paid very little or nothing. It will fill you with such joy that you may want to beat your head on a rock in the garden. We encourage you to do this, and to never stop dreaming, even if your dreams turn to birds which cannot fly, or which burn up in flight, as if hit by buckshot. Hunting is awesome.

  Dave Eggers

  Editor, McSweeney’s

  A BRIEF PARODY OF A TALK SHOW THAT FALLS APART ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH

  Tim Carvell

  [BUSY MUSIC AND a kaleidoscope of colorful graphics, which ultimately part to reveal an ecstatic audience consisting largely of middle-aged women, with some middle-aged men and college students thrown in.]

  HOST

  [standing in the audience, holding a fuzzy-headed, slightly oversized microphone]

  Hello, and welcome back to our show. Our topic today is: “People Who Enjoy Being Verbally Abused by Talk-Show Audiences.” Now, before we went to the break, we were talking to Steve.

  [Cut to Steve. He is around thirty-five, about forty pounds overweight, and wearing an unflattering sweater.]

  HOST

  Now, Steve: Since you were a teenager, you’ve fantasized about being told off by a sassy woman holding a microphone. Is that right?

  STEVE

  [ashamed]

  Yes. That’s right. It’s ruined many of my relationships: I can’t relate to women unless they have a microphone in their hand and are making disparaging comments about me, preferably in front of a large crowd. Some women tried to accommodate me for a while—we’d attend open-mic nights, high-school football games, companies’ annual meetings—any place where there was an audience and a mic, but after a while, none of them would be able to take it anymore.

  HOST

  Well, we have someone here who wants to comment on that.

  SASSY LADY

  Yeah, I just wanted to say that you’re sick. [Audience cheers.] What kind of a man does that to a woman? You need to get yourself some help.

  HOST

  Steve?

  STEVE

  [Looks pleased. Then ashamed. Then pleased.]

  HOST

  We have someone else here who’d like to make a comment. Yes, sir?

  AUTHORIAL VOICE

  Yeah, I think that this is pretty much a one-joke story.

  HOST

  True enough.

  AUTHORIAL VOICE

  So, you know, perhaps it could end now.

  HOST

  Seems fair enough to me.

  [STEVE, HOST, SASSY LADY begin filing toward the exits of the studio, along with the rest of the audience.]

  AUTHORIAL VOICE

  You know, we don’t all have to get up and leave. The illusion that any of us actually exists—which was pretty shaky to begin with—has by now been fairly well destroyed. The story can now just end abruptly at any moment.

  HOST

  True enough. It could just end, cutting either one of us off in mid sen—

  —tence.

  AUTHORIAL VOICE

  Hm. That’s odd. I thought it was going to end just then.

  HOST

  Yeah. Me too.

  [They stand together, uncomfortably, awaiting the end of the story. A few minutes pass. Then centuries pass. Then a few more minutes. They turn into marvelous fire-breathing dragons, then into baby chicks. They turn one another inside out. They invent time travel, and prevent the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, only to discover that World War I was inevitable, and that nothing in the present day has changed. They introduce the unicorn to the rainforest. A few more centuries pass. They share a hard-boiled egg. Centuries, centuries. Millennia. The story, at long last, ends. No, wait—they also dive for undersea treasure!]

  THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS

  Kurt Luchs

  My dear Mr. Vanderwoude,

  Thank you for your recent gift. Now once again as the holidays approach we ask you to remember the plight of the Bosnian and Serbian orphans. For many of these children there will be no Christmas—no presents, no toys, and worst of all no parents to love and protect them. We thank you for your past generosity and hope you will not forget these little ones as you enjoy the comfort and affluence of your safe, warm home during this joyous season.

  Yours sincerely,

  Kurt Luchs

  P.S. Please accept the enclosed paper Christmas wreath, hand-constructed by seven-year-old burn victim Susie, and hang it on your tree. I trust you’ll think of the orphans whenever you look at it.

  Dear Mr. Vanderwoude,

  If this letter happens to cross yours in the mail, please forgive me; I know the post office is slow and unreliable during the Christmas rush. I’m sure you received my last letter and that your generous gift is already on its way to help the homeless orphans of war-torn Bosnia-Herzegovina. But just in case our letter—or even yours, God forbid—might have gone astray, I’m sending this reminder to thank you for what you have already done and to ask if you can find it in your heart to do just a little bit more this Christmas.

  Yours sincerely,

  Kurt Luchs

  P.S. The attached miniature pinecone, painted holiday green and dipped in glitter, was brought back from the former war zone in the tattered coat pocket of a little boy we call Buster. Enjoy.

  ´ ´ ´

  Dear Mr. Vanderwoude,

  I’ll admit I’m puzzled. Surely you must have received my previous letters asking you to add just a little holiday cheer to the lives of our orphaned Bosnian and Serbian boys and girls. And surely you cannot be unmoved by their tragic plight—after all, you made a significant contribution to our cause only a few months ago. Perhaps you yourself have faced unfortunate circumstances recently—a long illness, the loss of a job, or even the loss of a loved one. If so, I offer you my deepest, most heartfelt sympathy, and I look forward to hearing from you in the near future when things are going better for you.

  But if you are not facing hard times, Mr. Vanderwoude, if what you suffer from is merely a hard heart ... God help you, Mr. Vanderwoude.

  Yours,

  Kurt Luchs

  P.S. The enclosed sketch of the dove of peace was done by little Amalric, a paraplegic war orphan who has learned to draw by holding a piece of charcoal between his teeth. I hope it fills you with the generous spirit of Christmas.

  ´ ´ ´

  Mr. Vanderwoude,

  As I write this, the orphans are weeping. I had to tell them that there would be no toys this Christmas, that they might not even have a roof over their heads come December 25th. “Why?” they cried. “Because a man named Richard Vanderwoude has apparently decided that your unimaginable pain doesn’t matter,” I said. “Because he has put his own selfish whims and desires above your basic needs. Because he thinks you are not worth saving.” At that point I had to restrain one of the children, Tedescu, from leaping through a plate-glass window.

  How can I be so sure of your lack of charity? You see, Mr. Vanderwoude, I did a little checking around. I found that you are not sick, that none of your friends or loved ones have died recently, and that you have not only not been fired but have received a substantial raise and promotion in the past few
months.

  I am not enclosing a postpaid return envelope with this letter because if you do decide to melt your icy heart and send a donation (which I doubt), I think it appropriate that you should pick up the tab.

  Yours,

  Kurt Luchs

  P.S. The enclosed finger painting portrait of you (you’re the one with the fangs) is by Lisel, an eight-year-old deaf-mute. The bright object underneath you is either a holiday candle or the flames of Hell. Of course, we can’t ask Lisel, can we?

  Mr. Vanderwoude,

  If you think you can escape the consequences of your evil actions (or rather, inactions) you are wrong. You will pay. I will see to it personally. And I’ll have lots of help. You forget, Mr. Vanderwoude, that these are Bosnian and Serbian orphans. They have been handling firearms and explosives since they were two. They are really pissed off at the world and don’t know who to blame, but you make a very plausible target. We know where you live.

  Kurt Luchs

  P.S. The fiery red composition I’ve attached to this letter is the joint effort of Tommy and Tony, identical twins who have sworn a sacred blood oath (that’s their blood on the paper) not to rest until they have taken vengeance upon you. The artwork depicts your head as it would look after a losing encounter with a fragmentation grenade—a picture I hope to see someday in real life.

  ´ ´ ´

  O Ricky boy,

  You’ve really done it now, mister. I heard the cops coming up the stairs and managed to hide in an air vent while they ransacked my office. After they left I took the few weapons they had missed, stuffed my remaining files into a briefcase, and then torched the place.

  So now you know there are no orphans—Bosnian, Serbian, or Martian. But that doesn’t let you off the hook, Rick. Not by a long shot. If there had been any orphans, they would have been just as hungry and hopeless as my letters made out, and you’d be just as guilty. Oh no, Vanderwoude, you aren’t out of the woods yet. Because no matter where you go or how much police protection they give your worthless ass, I’ll find you, I’ll hunt you down like a dog and show you ethnic cleansing like you’ve never seen before.

  If I were you I’d start drinking gallon jugs of double espresso right now and make plans to never, ever go to sleep again. Better install rearview mirrors on your glasses, too. Wherever you are, I’ll be right behind you.