Chase looked at his phone. If he left now, he could make it to his first class just before the bell rung. He took a deep breath, got out his car, and headed for the entrance of Rutherford B. Hayes High School.
Once inside, Chase walked at medium speed: if he walked either too fast or too slow, he’d attract attention and he wanted to go at least one day without being hassled by anyone. Well, if he was being honest, the person he really wanted to avoid was Dexter. Dexter was relentless with his teasing and mocking. Chase knew that the word “bully” was really controversial now and he, along with the rest of the school, had been warned about throwing the word around frivolously, but he felt that it applied to Dexter. Why Dexter chose him over anyone else to torment, Chase didn’t know. Whatever the reason, Dexter made Chase’s time at school miserable.
As he walked at the most inconspicuous pace he could, he suddenly heard his name called.
“Hey, meathead!” It was Dexter.
Chase looked up as he walked. Dexter and his cronies had come out of nowhere and were now following behind him, matching his speed.
“Come on, Dexter,” Chase said without slowing down. “I need to get to class.”
“What?” Dexter asked, feigning shock. “Why we would never stop you from making it to Algebra One,” emphasizing the last words.
“Man, you know I’m in Geometry.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Dexter said condescendingly, “I forgot that you’re a cheater.”
“I just studied,” Chase said, wanting to put the topic behind him.
“Yeah?” Dexter said, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “At this rate you’ll reach my level by the time you’re thirty.”
“Not everyone has to be good at that stuff,” Chase mumbled.
“That’s right,” Dexter said, mockingly, “because you’re going to just work at the local steel plant whereas I’m going to be designing robots to put you out of a job. Really astute observation, Chasey!”
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Chase asked, getting fed up, though not raising his voice. Dexter stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Chase was nearly a foot taller than Dexter and almost a hundred pounds heavier, mostly in muscle. If Chase used his size in any way to get past Dexter, he could be expelled. The school had a zero tolerance policy when it came to physical intimidation and it was so strict that students who violated it were immediately expelled without any lesser punishment first, like detention or suspension. This had changed the power dynamic among students and nerds really took advantage of it: being weaker meant being control of any situation and few were weaker than Dexter.
“What’s the matter, jock?” Dexter said, spitting out the insult. “Can’t handle a little conversation? I guess that’s why I’m the captain of the debate team and you’re just on the football team.”
“You know that playing sports used to be cool,” Chase said, looking at his shoes.
“And smoking used to be cool, but now we know better and look how much better the world is.”
“Dexter,” Chase said, “I just want to get to class. Will you please move?”
“Of course!” Dexter said, arching his fingers, “but you know the rules: if we don’t get our payment, you must answer our riddles three.”
“I’ve told you before: I don’t have time after practice to pick up any comic books or Magic cards or whatever.”
“Do you at least have some Mountain Dew?” Herbert, one of Dexter’s cronies, asked.
“No,” Chase said.
“Riddle the first,” Dexter said ominously. “Gertrude, you’re up.” A chubby girl with turquoise colored hair and a septum ring hanging from her nose stepped forward. “Go easy on him—he’ll still get it wrong.”
“Finish this line from The Holy Grail: ‘None shall blank.’” Gertrude said.
“I said to go easy on him, not giftwrap it!” Dexter said, annoyed.
“I don’t know, ‘live’?” Chase offered lamely.
“’None shall pass!’” Gertrude said proudly.
“Ha!” Dexter laughed. “You just keep surprising me with how little you know. Riddle the second. Alvin, go.” A boy with dark hair, a wispy moustache, and thick glasses took a step forward.
“How hard should I make it?” Alvin asked his leader in a nasally voice.
“You know what?” Dexter said. “I’m feeling generous, so keep it at n00b level.”
Alvin cleared his throat. “Name at least two of the original Fantastic Four’s secret identities.”
Chase perked up. He actually knew this one!
“Jessica Alba and Chris Evans!” he said with confidence.
“Those are the actors who played them in that dumb movie,” Alvin said, shaking his head. “Reed Richards is Mr. Fantastic, Sue Storm is the Invisible Girl, Johnny Storm is the Human Torch, and Ben Grimm is the Ever Lovin’, Blue-eyed Thing.”
“Actually,” Herbert piped in, “Sue is the Invisible Woman and Johnny—“
“I said the original team,” Alvin said, cutting him off.
“Oh,” Herbert said, embarrassed.
“Riddle the third,” Dexter said. “I think I’ll handle this one myself. Tell me, Chase, who wrote the three laws of robotics?”
“Some scientist,” Chase said, just wanting this exercise in humiliation to be over.
“Yes, but can you be more specific? I’ll even give you a hint: his first name was Isaac.”
“N—“ Chase started, but stopped himself short. He thought remembered an Isaac being the answer to one of these trivia questions a few weeks ago. “Asimov?” he ventured.
Gertrude and Herbert looked shocked, but Dexter just looked annoyed. “Lucky guess,” he said.
“Great,” Chase said. “Can I go to class now?”
“I don’t know ‘can’ you?” Alvin asked, mockingly.
Dexter held up a hand, signaling Alvin to back down. “Fine,” he said, stepping back from his victim, allowing him to pass. Chase took only a few steps when the bell rang.
“I sure hope you have a hall pass,” Dexter said. Chase turned to look and saw everyone in the group hold up a laminated hall pass. He dropped his head and sadly walked to his algebra class. Making matters worse, his tormentors started humming some song (which, unbeknownst to him, was the ending music to the Incredible Hulk television series).
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Pasta
“Hey, Andre,” Gordy called from the door of his office. “Come over here; I need to talk to you.”
Andre said a few words to his sous-chef before walking across the kitchen to the restaurant manager’s office, wiping his hands on his nearly floor-length apron as he went. When he was within arm’s reach of Gordy, he asked “What’s this about, then?” in his unusual not-quite-British-but-not-quite-American accent.
“Just come inside, will ya?” Gordy said, motioning with head.
With annoyance clearly written across his face, Andre stepped inside the small office. He took the only seat opposite the desk, the chair creaking as he sat down. Gordy sat behind the desk, removed his glasses, and looked at his computer screen. After a second or two he put his glasses back on and turned to face Andre.
“Andre,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve got to talk to you about your new menu items.”
Andre did not appear surprised. “Have there been complaints?” he asked in a way that made Gordy think he already knew the answer.
“As a matter of fact,” Gordy said, his thick Brooklyn accent flavoring every syllable, “there have. I know you said you wanted to experiment with some of the dishes, but we still gotta serve food people want to eat.”
“We still serve food that the uncultured and insipid will recognize,” Andre said, haughtily. “I am simply interpreting a scant few dishes in new ways. Few geniuses are recognized during their lifetimes, so I expected just as much of a negative reaction.”
Despite trying to be diplomatic, Gordy rolled his eyes slightly at the word “genius.” If people hadn’t been coming to the restaurant because of its famous chef, Andre Spicoli, Gordy wouldn’t be nearly so nice. Gordy had been a restaurant manager all around New York for the last twenty years and had seen plenty of chefs become popular, but never like Andre. The restaurant owner, Tom Jones (no, not that one), had promised Andre the chance to experiment with the menu—along with a big pay increase—if he left his job and came to work at Casa di cibi e bevande. Andre spent his first year simply refining what was already on the menu and the public loved it. Andre and Gordy had disagreed here or there about ingredients or plating, but the past year had really been a smooth one, all things considered. Now, Andre was doing brand new stuff, but … well, people didn’t like it.
“Fine, kid,” Gordy said, stroking his greying goatee, “you know better than the simpletons, but they’re the ones keeping us open. I’ve gotten multiple comment cards about the lasagna.”
Andre perked up a little. He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his bulky frame causing it to creak some more. “And what have they said?”
“They said it tasted off. People aren’t going to order it again or tell their friends about it if doesn’t taste right.”
“What was the exact wording they used to describe it?” Andre asked. “Was it ‘off’?”
Gordy sighed. He took his glasses off and turned to his left and read a few comments on his computer. “Uh, the word most of them use is ‘funny.’”
“Ha!” Andre exclaimed, a condescending grin on his face. “Then they experienced exactly what I intended!”
“You actually wanted to make food that people would think tastes weird?” Gordy asked, genuinely surprised.
“Not weird; funny. It’s a comedic interpretation of lasagna.”
Gordy was dumbfounded. He honestly had not expected this. He put his glasses on and looked at the large, blond man sitting across the desk from him. “Huh?”
“As you know,” Andre said, more than a little smugly “Mr. Jones has allowed me to try new interpretations with some of the dishes. Artists across other mediums have taken classics and reworked them, so why not me? The Scream has been repainted to include famous icons and I have seen several of the Bard’s tragedies retold as comedies. I am simply taking the same approach with my art.”
Gordy never liked it when chefs called themselves “artists”; artists aren’t known for having to clock-in. “Who’s ‘the Bart’?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
This time it was Andre’s turn to roll his eyes. “Shakespeare.”
“Look,” Gordy said, ignoring the eye-roll, “we ain’t a theater. We’ve gotta feed people what they want.”
“They don’t know what they want,” Andre said, turning his nose up slightly. “If we only fed people what they thought they wanted, we’d be serving nothing but deep-fried butter and candied sugar-cubes. Food can be so much more and I’m allowing our guest to discover that.”
“Okay,” Gordy said, both annoyed and curious, “what else did you do? What other ‘interpretations’ have made?”
“Why don’t I ask you: what are people saying about the fettuccine Alfredo?”
Gordy looked at Andre for a long moment, the look on his face clearly conveying his thoughts: You’ve got to be kidding me. Eventually, he swiveled around and took his glasses off to read some more comments. “Alright, this lady says it was ‘flat and lifeless’ and this guy says it was ‘boring.’ Marty Sipowitz, one of our regulars, says he was ‘unsatisfied.’” Gordy put on his glasses and turned back to face Andre, who was looking as arrogant as ever. “Let me guess: that was on purpose.”
“Indeed!” Andre said, his pale face slowly getting red with excitement. “May I assume you are unfamiliar with the feeling of ennui?”
“‘On we’?” Gordy repeated, his features crumpled in confusion.
“Ennui is the feeling of boredom, listlessness; of being unable to find satisfaction; and I provided that experience through a plate of pasta.”
Gordy leaned back and threw his hands in the air. “Because heaven forbid our customers actually enjoy their meals!” He shut his eyes, pointed his face towards the ceiling, and took a few deep breaths. He looked back at Andre and asked “What’s next?”
“Take a look at the tiramisu,” Andre said.
Gordy turned back to his computer screen. He scrolled through the comments and started nodding his head. “Okay, we’re getting a better reaction with this one.”
“And what are the people saying?” Andre asked as he looked down at his fingernails.
“They’re saying it’s ‘exciting’ and ‘unexpected.’ Meghan Carmichael, another regular, said she was ‘thrilled’ by the new recipe. What were you going for, an action movie?”
Andre actually looked a little disappointed (which Gordy thought was a nice change of pace). “No,” he said, “that was a passionate romance between the ingredients. I wanted guests to fall in love with it.”
“Well, why don’t you do that for everything?!” Gordy asked, shocked he even needed to ask such an obvious question. This whole conversation felt like he was talking to his good-for-nothing son-in-law: both he and Andre thought they knew better, despite reason (and Gordy) telling them otherwise.
“How droll,” Andre said. “I might consider a love triangle of sorts, but I’m not interested in people experiencing the same emotion with each dish. After all, if we never had any raining days, we wouldn’t appreciate the sunshine.”
“What’s next, horror?” Gordy asked, sarcastically.
Andre looked intrigued. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that one. I might try that out with the calamari.”
Gordy decided he had heard enough of this garbage. “Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we can’t have customers not enjoying their food. Are you going to change the menu or do I need call Tom up?”
“No need,” Andre said, his ego cranked to eleven. “I had each of the new recipes approved by Mr. Jones himself.”
“We both know that’s a crock,” Gordy said, nearly laughing at the thought of Tom Jones (again, not that one) approving such a cockamamie idea.
“Very well,” Andre said, “call and ask him yourself.
“Ha!” Gordy laughed. He decided to call Andre’s bluff. “It’s your funeral, kid.” He picked up the handset of the office phone and hit the speed-dial button to Tom’s cell. A short time later, Gordy had him on the line. “Hi, Tom. Yeah, it’s Gordy… Oh, fine… Uh, Tony G. said the mozzarella will be late this week… Friday morning at the latest… Yeah…” Gordy glanced back at Andre, who looked like he was waiting for a punchline, only he was the one telling the joke. “No, we dropped Dom for eggplant… Yeah, we still get tomatoes from him, but I got a better deal on eggplant from Diane… I wish! No, Diane Feldman… Yeah, I’ll let you know. Anyway, I was calling about these new menu items that Andre debuted this weekend. He said you approved everything… Oh?” Gordy looked at Andre who had somehow found a way to look even smugger. “I see… Well, people are leaving comment cards and a lot them ain’t positive… A whole month?… Yeah… No, I get that… Understood… Alright, see you Monday. Bye.” He hung up the phone, pausing with his hand still on the receiver as it rested in its cradle. He finally looked up and found Andre still in his seat (Gordy had half-expected for Andre to have transformed into a being of pure arrogance).
“Believe me now?” Andre asked.
“You’ve got a month to prove that those dishes deserve to be on the menu,” Gordy said, defeated. “If you’re wanting an apology, you can forget it.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Andre said, standing up. He opened the door, but paused in the doorway before stepping out. “If you don’t mind, I would like to experiment with the pasta bolognaise, with you as inspiration.”
“Oh, yeah?” Gordy said sarcastically. “What’s it supposed to taste like, failure?”
Andre thought for a moment. “No,” he said, “I was thinking ‘shortsighted’ would be appropriate.” Then he walked back to the kitchen to oversee the prep work for the coming night.
Andre said a few words to his sous-chef before walking across the kitchen to the restaurant manager’s office, wiping his hands on his nearly floor-length apron as he went. When he was within arm’s reach of Gordy, he asked “What’s this about, then?” in his unusual not-quite-British-but-not-quite-American accent.
“Just come inside, will ya?” Gordy said, motioning with head.
With annoyance clearly written across his face, Andre stepped inside the small office. He took the only seat opposite the desk, the chair creaking as he sat down. Gordy sat behind the desk, removed his glasses, and looked at his computer screen. After a second or two he put his glasses back on and turned to face Andre.
“Andre,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve got to talk to you about your new menu items.”
Andre did not appear surprised. “Have there been complaints?” he asked in a way that made Gordy think he already knew the answer.
“As a matter of fact,” Gordy said, his thick Brooklyn accent flavoring every syllable, “there have. I know you said you wanted to experiment with some of the dishes, but we still gotta serve food people want to eat.”
“We still serve food that the uncultured and insipid will recognize,” Andre said, haughtily. “I am simply interpreting a scant few dishes in new ways. Few geniuses are recognized during their lifetimes, so I expected just as much of a negative reaction.”
Despite trying to be diplomatic, Gordy rolled his eyes slightly at the word “genius.” If people hadn’t been coming to the restaurant because of its famous chef, Andre Spicoli, Gordy wouldn’t be nearly so nice. Gordy had been a restaurant manager all around New York for the last twenty years and had seen plenty of chefs become popular, but never like Andre. The restaurant owner, Tom Jones (no, not that one), had promised Andre the chance to experiment with the menu—along with a big pay increase—if he left his job and came to work at Casa di cibi e bevande. Andre spent his first year simply refining what was already on the menu and the public loved it. Andre and Gordy had disagreed here or there about ingredients or plating, but the past year had really been a smooth one, all things considered. Now, Andre was doing brand new stuff, but … well, people didn’t like it.
“Fine, kid,” Gordy said, stroking his greying goatee, “you know better than the simpletons, but they’re the ones keeping us open. I’ve gotten multiple comment cards about the lasagna.”
Andre perked up a little. He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his bulky frame causing it to creak some more. “And what have they said?”
“They said it tasted off. People aren’t going to order it again or tell their friends about it if doesn’t taste right.”
“What was the exact wording they used to describe it?” Andre asked. “Was it ‘off’?”
Gordy sighed. He took his glasses off and turned to his left and read a few comments on his computer. “Uh, the word most of them use is ‘funny.’”
“Ha!” Andre exclaimed, a condescending grin on his face. “Then they experienced exactly what I intended!”
“You actually wanted to make food that people would think tastes weird?” Gordy asked, genuinely surprised.
“Not weird; funny. It’s a comedic interpretation of lasagna.”
Gordy was dumbfounded. He honestly had not expected this. He put his glasses on and looked at the large, blond man sitting across the desk from him. “Huh?”
“As you know,” Andre said, more than a little smugly “Mr. Jones has allowed me to try new interpretations with some of the dishes. Artists across other mediums have taken classics and reworked them, so why not me? The Scream has been repainted to include famous icons and I have seen several of the Bard’s tragedies retold as comedies. I am simply taking the same approach with my art.”
Gordy never liked it when chefs called themselves “artists”; artists aren’t known for having to clock-in. “Who’s ‘the Bart’?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
This time it was Andre’s turn to roll his eyes. “Shakespeare.”
“Look,” Gordy said, ignoring the eye-roll, “we ain’t a theater. We’ve gotta feed people what they want.”
“They don’t know what they want,” Andre said, turning his nose up slightly. “If we only fed people what they thought they wanted, we’d be serving nothing but deep-fried butter and candied sugar-cubes. Food can be so much more and I’m allowing our guest to discover that.”
“Okay,” Gordy said, both annoyed and curious, “what else did you do? What other ‘interpretations’ have made?”
“Why don’t I ask you: what are people saying about the fettuccine Alfredo?”
Gordy looked at Andre for a long moment, the look on his face clearly conveying his thoughts: You’ve got to be kidding me. Eventually, he swiveled around and took his glasses off to read some more comments. “Alright, this lady says it was ‘flat and lifeless’ and this guy says it was ‘boring.’ Marty Sipowitz, one of our regulars, says he was ‘unsatisfied.’” Gordy put on his glasses and turned back to face Andre, who was looking as arrogant as ever. “Let me guess: that was on purpose.”
“Indeed!” Andre said, his pale face slowly getting red with excitement. “May I assume you are unfamiliar with the feeling of ennui?”
“‘On we’?” Gordy repeated, his features crumpled in confusion.
“Ennui is the feeling of boredom, listlessness; of being unable to find satisfaction; and I provided that experience through a plate of pasta.”
Gordy leaned back and threw his hands in the air. “Because heaven forbid our customers actually enjoy their meals!” He shut his eyes, pointed his face towards the ceiling, and took a few deep breaths. He looked back at Andre and asked “What’s next?”
“Take a look at the tiramisu,” Andre said.
Gordy turned back to his computer screen. He scrolled through the comments and started nodding his head. “Okay, we’re getting a better reaction with this one.”
“And what are the people saying?” Andre asked as he looked down at his fingernails.
“They’re saying it’s ‘exciting’ and ‘unexpected.’ Meghan Carmichael, another regular, said she was ‘thrilled’ by the new recipe. What were you going for, an action movie?”
Andre actually looked a little disappointed (which Gordy thought was a nice change of pace). “No,” he said, “that was a passionate romance between the ingredients. I wanted guests to fall in love with it.”
“Well, why don’t you do that for everything?!” Gordy asked, shocked he even needed to ask such an obvious question. This whole conversation felt like he was talking to his good-for-nothing son-in-law: both he and Andre thought they knew better, despite reason (and Gordy) telling them otherwise.
“How droll,” Andre said. “I might consider a love triangle of sorts, but I’m not interested in people experiencing the same emotion with each dish. After all, if we never had any raining days, we wouldn’t appreciate the sunshine.”
“What’s next, horror?” Gordy asked, sarcastically.
Andre looked intrigued. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that one. I might try that out with the calamari.”
Gordy decided he had heard enough of this garbage. “Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we can’t have customers not enjoying their food. Are you going to change the menu or do I need call Tom up?”
“No need,” Andre said, his ego cranked to eleven. “I had each of the new recipes approved by Mr. Jones himself.”
“We both know that’s a crock,” Gordy said, nearly laughing at the thought of Tom Jones (again, not that one) approving such a cockamamie idea.
“Very well,” Andre said, “call and ask him yourself.
“Ha!” Gordy laughed. He decided to call Andre’s bluff. “It’s your funeral, kid.” He picked up the handset of the office phone and hit the speed-dial button to Tom’s cell. A short time later, Gordy had him on the line. “Hi, Tom. Yeah, it’s Gordy… Oh, fine… Uh, Tony G. said the mozzarella will be late this week… Friday morning at the latest… Yeah…” Gordy glanced back at Andre, who looked like he was waiting for a punchline, only he was the one telling the joke. “No, we dropped Dom for eggplant… Yeah, we still get tomatoes from him, but I got a better deal on eggplant from Diane… I wish! No, Diane Feldman… Yeah, I’ll let you know. Anyway, I was calling about these new menu items that Andre debuted this weekend. He said you approved everything… Oh?” Gordy looked at Andre who had somehow found a way to look even smugger. “I see… Well, people are leaving comment cards and a lot them ain’t positive… A whole month?… Yeah… No, I get that… Understood… Alright, see you Monday. Bye.” He hung up the phone, pausing with his hand still on the receiver as it rested in its cradle. He finally looked up and found Andre still in his seat (Gordy had half-expected for Andre to have transformed into a being of pure arrogance).
“Believe me now?” Andre asked.
“You’ve got a month to prove that those dishes deserve to be on the menu,” Gordy said, defeated. “If you’re wanting an apology, you can forget it.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Andre said, standing up. He opened the door, but paused in the doorway before stepping out. “If you don’t mind, I would like to experiment with the pasta bolognaise, with you as inspiration.”
“Oh, yeah?” Gordy said sarcastically. “What’s it supposed to taste like, failure?”
Andre thought for a moment. “No,” he said, “I was thinking ‘shortsighted’ would be appropriate.” Then he walked back to the kitchen to oversee the prep work for the coming night.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
Text
[03/27/2018 07:36 PM EST]
FindADate.com: Karen_the_Baron liked your profile picture!
[03/27/2018 07:38 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Hey.
I liked your picture.
Your dog looks really sweet.
[03/27/2018 07:41 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
thx
he was
[03/27/2018 07:43 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Oh, I didn’t realize he passed.
I can understand why you still use that picture. I have Labradoodle, Jojo.
He’s so adorable!
[03/27/2018 07:44 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
thats nice
dogs are great
u like movies
?
[03/27/2018 07:45 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Mostly, but it depends what kind.
[03/27/2018 07:45 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
u wanna see a movie friday
?
[03/27/2018 07:47 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Maybe. What do you have in mind?
[03/27/2018 07:47 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
zombie
[03/27/2018 07:48 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Uh, I’m not really a fan of zombie movies.
What about that new disaster movie?
[03/27/2018 07:49 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
oh, you meant waht movie
lol
the disaster movie is ok
[03/27/2018 07:50 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Huh?
Were you making a joke? I don’t get it.
[03/27/2018 07:53 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
u asked waht i had in mind
im actually an immortal spaceworm and i burrowed into the brain of my host
i only just gained control of the language functions
[03/27/2018 07:54 PM EST
Karen_the_Baron:
You have a weird sense of humor. I like that.
My last boyfriend was kind of boring, so I’m ready for something different.
You know what I mean?
[03/27/2018 07:56 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
yes i understand
u r very precise with ur texting
i like that
[03/27/2018 07:59 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Yeah, I make sure to type everything out properly.
I teach high school English, so I try my best to practice what I preach.
Some guys get intimidated by me being so “precise,” as you put it.
[03/27/2018 08:01 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
they r dum
it is a sign of higher brain function
[03/27/2018 08:01 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
LOL! I guess.
You’re really committing to this “brain slug” thing, eh?
[03/27/2018 08:02 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
spaceworm
yes
[03/27/2018 08:03 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
OK, I can play along.
Are you going to try to take over my brain, too?
[03/27/2018 08:05 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
yes
sort of
my species is hermaphroditic
i want to plant an offspring in your brain
[03/27/2018 08:06 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
I bet you say that to all the girls. ;-)
[03/27/2018 08:07 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
no
the other females ive been in contact with r not as intelligent as u
ur brain is bigger
juicier
[03/27/2018 08:08 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Aww! That’s really nice!
Most guys just compliment me on how I look.
I like that you looked beyond that.
[03/27/2018 08:09 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
ur face is pretty but ur brain makes you beautiful
[03/27/2018 08:10 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
*swoon*
You really know how to sweet talk a girl!
[03/27/2018 08:11 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
STAY AWAY!
[03/27/2018 08:14 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Huh?
[03/27/2018 08:17 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
This is Doug. The REAL Doug.
Some kind of parasite has taken over my body.
I don’t know how long I’ll be in control. If you come in contact with me, you’ll
be in danger of having your mind controlled too.
This is not a bit or a joke or anything.
Stay away!
[03/27/2018 08:18 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Uh…?
[03/27/2018 08:21 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
sorry
im back now
ignore those last few texts
[03/27/2018 08:22 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
LOL!
You’re pretty clever!
I like how you changed your writing style to be the “host.”
[03/27/2018 08:23 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
yes
it was a joke
so r we on for friday
?
[03/27/2018 08:25 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Yeah. You’ve certainly got me intrigued.
Which theater do you want to meet at?
[03/27/2018 08:26 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
can we meet at the 1 on franklin ave
?
[03/27/2018 08:27 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Yeah, but that one’s kind of far for me. Can you do the one on Pine?
[03/27/2018 08:28 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
ok
theres a showing at 850
will that work
?
[03/27/2018 08:30 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Is that IMAX?
[03/27/2018 08:32 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
no
thats regular
[03/27/2018 08:34 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Can we see it in IMAX? :-D
Please?
[03/27/2018 08:35 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
i guess
if im paying for imax u better kiss me at the end of the night
so i can implant you with my offspring
[03/27/2018 08:37 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
You nearly broke character there!
As for your concern: OK :-)
You’re nice, but also a little feisty. I like that!
[03/27/2018 08:38 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
thx
the imax showing on friday is at 1010
[03/27/2018 08:40 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Great! I can’t wait!
[03/27/2018 08:41 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
great
ill meet u at the theater on pine on friday about 20 before showtime
remember u owe me a kiss
[03/27/2018 08:43 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
If you treat me right, who knows what can happen. ;-)
Above is a transcript of the conversation leading up to the nearly complete annihilation of mankind. After years of research, the parasite outbreak was tracked back to the case above, though it is still unknown how Douglas Scott first became infected. Contrary to what was previously thought, the first victim, Karen Thomas, made initial contact with the parasite, through a dating website.
FindADate.com: Karen_the_Baron liked your profile picture!
[03/27/2018 07:38 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Hey.
I liked your picture.
Your dog looks really sweet.
[03/27/2018 07:41 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
thx
he was
[03/27/2018 07:43 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Oh, I didn’t realize he passed.
I can understand why you still use that picture. I have Labradoodle, Jojo.
He’s so adorable!
[03/27/2018 07:44 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
thats nice
dogs are great
u like movies
?
[03/27/2018 07:45 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Mostly, but it depends what kind.
[03/27/2018 07:45 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
u wanna see a movie friday
?
[03/27/2018 07:47 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Maybe. What do you have in mind?
[03/27/2018 07:47 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
zombie
[03/27/2018 07:48 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Uh, I’m not really a fan of zombie movies.
What about that new disaster movie?
[03/27/2018 07:49 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
oh, you meant waht movie
lol
the disaster movie is ok
[03/27/2018 07:50 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Huh?
Were you making a joke? I don’t get it.
[03/27/2018 07:53 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
u asked waht i had in mind
im actually an immortal spaceworm and i burrowed into the brain of my host
i only just gained control of the language functions
[03/27/2018 07:54 PM EST
Karen_the_Baron:
You have a weird sense of humor. I like that.
My last boyfriend was kind of boring, so I’m ready for something different.
You know what I mean?
[03/27/2018 07:56 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
yes i understand
u r very precise with ur texting
i like that
[03/27/2018 07:59 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Yeah, I make sure to type everything out properly.
I teach high school English, so I try my best to practice what I preach.
Some guys get intimidated by me being so “precise,” as you put it.
[03/27/2018 08:01 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
they r dum
it is a sign of higher brain function
[03/27/2018 08:01 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
LOL! I guess.
You’re really committing to this “brain slug” thing, eh?
[03/27/2018 08:02 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
spaceworm
yes
[03/27/2018 08:03 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
OK, I can play along.
Are you going to try to take over my brain, too?
[03/27/2018 08:05 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
yes
sort of
my species is hermaphroditic
i want to plant an offspring in your brain
[03/27/2018 08:06 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
I bet you say that to all the girls. ;-)
[03/27/2018 08:07 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
no
the other females ive been in contact with r not as intelligent as u
ur brain is bigger
juicier
[03/27/2018 08:08 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Aww! That’s really nice!
Most guys just compliment me on how I look.
I like that you looked beyond that.
[03/27/2018 08:09 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
ur face is pretty but ur brain makes you beautiful
[03/27/2018 08:10 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
*swoon*
You really know how to sweet talk a girl!
[03/27/2018 08:11 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
STAY AWAY!
[03/27/2018 08:14 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Huh?
[03/27/2018 08:17 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
This is Doug. The REAL Doug.
Some kind of parasite has taken over my body.
I don’t know how long I’ll be in control. If you come in contact with me, you’ll
be in danger of having your mind controlled too.
This is not a bit or a joke or anything.
Stay away!
[03/27/2018 08:18 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Uh…?
[03/27/2018 08:21 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
sorry
im back now
ignore those last few texts
[03/27/2018 08:22 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
LOL!
You’re pretty clever!
I like how you changed your writing style to be the “host.”
[03/27/2018 08:23 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
yes
it was a joke
so r we on for friday
?
[03/27/2018 08:25 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Yeah. You’ve certainly got me intrigued.
Which theater do you want to meet at?
[03/27/2018 08:26 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
can we meet at the 1 on franklin ave
?
[03/27/2018 08:27 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Yeah, but that one’s kind of far for me. Can you do the one on Pine?
[03/27/2018 08:28 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
ok
theres a showing at 850
will that work
?
[03/27/2018 08:30 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Is that IMAX?
[03/27/2018 08:32 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
no
thats regular
[03/27/2018 08:34 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Can we see it in IMAX? :-D
Please?
[03/27/2018 08:35 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
i guess
if im paying for imax u better kiss me at the end of the night
so i can implant you with my offspring
[03/27/2018 08:37 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
You nearly broke character there!
As for your concern: OK :-)
You’re nice, but also a little feisty. I like that!
[03/27/2018 08:38 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
thx
the imax showing on friday is at 1010
[03/27/2018 08:40 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
Great! I can’t wait!
[03/27/2018 08:41 PM EST]
#1SFGiantsFan:
great
ill meet u at the theater on pine on friday about 20 before showtime
remember u owe me a kiss
[03/27/2018 08:43 PM EST]
Karen_the_Baron:
If you treat me right, who knows what can happen. ;-)
Above is a transcript of the conversation leading up to the nearly complete annihilation of mankind. After years of research, the parasite outbreak was tracked back to the case above, though it is still unknown how Douglas Scott first became infected. Contrary to what was previously thought, the first victim, Karen Thomas, made initial contact with the parasite, through a dating website.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Emotional Words
“Are we ever going to get serious?” she asked abruptly.
“Serious?” he asked. “Babe, what do you mean? We already share this sentence. That seems pretty serious to me.”
“Than what about that?” she asked, pointing.
“The semicolon? So what? A lot of clauses are connected with semicolons.”
“Yeah, independent clauses,” she said.
“So we’re both independent,” he said, “that doesn’t mean we don’t support each other. I mean, if we weren’t closely connected, we’d still have separate sentences.”
“But isn’t it time that we settle down?” she asked. “Think about it: I get rid of a few words and become dependent to you and in a few years we can have add some phrases to our sentence.”
“Uh,” he said nervously, “I don’t know about phrases. I mean, we don’t want to turn our sentence into a run-on or anything.”
“One or two additional phrases wouldn’t make this place a run-on,” she said, starting to get frustrated.
“Whoa,” he said. “What’s next? Parentheses? Bullet points?”
“Stop being dramatic,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to hide her annoyance. She took a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I just want to know that we’re going somewhere.”
“Look,” he said, “if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t have invited you to join me in this sentence.”
“And I’ve enjoyed our time together,” she said, “but it’s not enough anymore. This is a big paragraph and there are a lot of other clauses out there.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, both surprised and a little angry.
“I’m saying that the language is changing all the time and I’m not going to always be relevant.”
He responded back by shouting his words. “I never promised you anything beyond the two of us! Why are you changing like this? Have I changed from when you first joined me in this sentence?”
She looked at him, her face full of sadness. “No. You haven’t. I guess that’s the problem.”
In his agitated state, he walked over to the semicolon that had originally brought them together (though now felt like it was pulling them apart) and ripped off the upper half.
“There!” he said, spitting his words at her. “Happy?! The semicolon’s gone!”
“Really?” she asked, getting fed up. “A comma splice? Real mature.”
“What? I’m supposed to drop everything and get an em dash just to show you that I care?”
“An em dash?” she said, her annoyance rapidly becoming sadness. “Do you even know me at all? I’m a traditional clause.”
“Of course!” he said, waving his arms sarcastically. “You've got to have a fairy tale sentence with a lovely colon.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking even bringing it up,” she said, shaking her head. “I was naïve to think that anything would ever change.”
“Maybe things could change,” he said, his voice full of anger and sadness, “but you have to give me some time. You can't just drop this on me and expect to be okay with it.”
She looked at him, her eyes moist with tears. “I need more than ‘maybe.’” She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye.”
The next day, they had a period installed and got their own sentences again. A few months later, she moved to a different paragraph where she met a nice clause and after less than a year, she became dependent to him (with a beautiful colon!). They ended up having three phrases together and are even expecting a footnote soon.
He stayed independent, and ultimately, alone.
“Serious?” he asked. “Babe, what do you mean? We already share this sentence. That seems pretty serious to me.”
“Than what about that?” she asked, pointing.
“The semicolon? So what? A lot of clauses are connected with semicolons.”
“Yeah, independent clauses,” she said.
“So we’re both independent,” he said, “that doesn’t mean we don’t support each other. I mean, if we weren’t closely connected, we’d still have separate sentences.”
“But isn’t it time that we settle down?” she asked. “Think about it: I get rid of a few words and become dependent to you and in a few years we can have add some phrases to our sentence.”
“Uh,” he said nervously, “I don’t know about phrases. I mean, we don’t want to turn our sentence into a run-on or anything.”
“One or two additional phrases wouldn’t make this place a run-on,” she said, starting to get frustrated.
“Whoa,” he said. “What’s next? Parentheses? Bullet points?”
“Stop being dramatic,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to hide her annoyance. She took a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I just want to know that we’re going somewhere.”
“Look,” he said, “if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t have invited you to join me in this sentence.”
“And I’ve enjoyed our time together,” she said, “but it’s not enough anymore. This is a big paragraph and there are a lot of other clauses out there.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, both surprised and a little angry.
“I’m saying that the language is changing all the time and I’m not going to always be relevant.”
He responded back by shouting his words. “I never promised you anything beyond the two of us! Why are you changing like this? Have I changed from when you first joined me in this sentence?”
She looked at him, her face full of sadness. “No. You haven’t. I guess that’s the problem.”
In his agitated state, he walked over to the semicolon that had originally brought them together (though now felt like it was pulling them apart) and ripped off the upper half.
“There!” he said, spitting his words at her. “Happy?! The semicolon’s gone!”
“Really?” she asked, getting fed up. “A comma splice? Real mature.”
“What? I’m supposed to drop everything and get an em dash just to show you that I care?”
“An em dash?” she said, her annoyance rapidly becoming sadness. “Do you even know me at all? I’m a traditional clause.”
“Of course!” he said, waving his arms sarcastically. “You've got to have a fairy tale sentence with a lovely colon.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking even bringing it up,” she said, shaking her head. “I was naïve to think that anything would ever change.”
“Maybe things could change,” he said, his voice full of anger and sadness, “but you have to give me some time. You can't just drop this on me and expect to be okay with it.”
She looked at him, her eyes moist with tears. “I need more than ‘maybe.’” She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye.”
~~~
The next day, they had a period installed and got their own sentences again. A few months later, she moved to a different paragraph where she met a nice clause and after less than a year, she became dependent to him (with a beautiful colon!). They ended up having three phrases together and are even expecting a footnote soon.
He stayed independent, and ultimately, alone.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
The First Day
Billy walked to the back of the bus and sat down in an empty seat. He was excited for his first day at his new school, but he didn’t know what to expect. He held his backpack close his chest and looked out the window as satellites flew past. After another stop, a girl got on and sat down next to him.
“Hi,” the girl said, “you must be new. I’m Melissa, but I go by ‘Issa’ for short. What’s your name?”
“Billy,” Billy said nervously.
“Well, Billy,” Issa said, “welcome. Is this your first time to space-school?”
“Yeah,” Billy said, feeling a little embarrassed to be so new. “My family just moved here. My mom’s an astronaut.”
Issa nodded. “Yeah, most of the space-kids here have space-parents that are astronauts. My dad’s a space-engineer and my mom’s in the space-navy.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘space’ in front of other words?” Billy asked.
“It’s just way we talk up here in space,” Issa said matter-of-factly. “You just add ‘space’ to most common, concrete nouns.”
“Huh?” Billy asked, confused.
“You know what nouns are, right?” Issa asked.
“Um, I don’t remember,” Billy said, embarrassed.
“That’s fine,” Issa said, “I didn’t know what they were when I first moved here. Nouns are words that are the names of people, places, things, or ideas.”
“Oh yeah!” Billy said, recognition spreading across his face. “I remember learning that in school back on Earth. So, should I be called Space Billy?”
“No,” Issa said, “we don’t add ‘space’ to proper nouns.”
“What makes a noun proper?” Billy asked.
“Basically,” Issa said, “proper nouns that are the names of someone or something specific. So, you’d call yourself a space-boy, but not Space Billy. Does that make sense?”
Billy thought for a moment. “So, we go to a space-school, which is a common noun, and its name is Yuri Gagarin Elementary School, which a proper noun. Is that right?”
Issa nodded. “I think you’re getting the hang of it.”
“Don’t you mean I’m getting the ‘space-hang’ of it?” Billy asked, grinning.
Issa shook her head. “No, ‘hang’ is a verb.”
“Verb?” asked Billy, his grin fading.
“Yeah,” Issa replied, “verbs are action words. So like “walk,” “talk,” read,” “write,” “play,” “eat.” If you can do it, it’s a verb.”
This is a lot to keep track of, Billy thought. “I think I’ve got it. I don’t space-play with a ball, I play with a space-ball.”
“Right,” Issa said.
“If I wanted to add to it,” Billy said, “I’d say ‘I threw the space-red space-ball to my space-friend.”
“Almost,” Issa said. “You added an extra ‘space’ that time. “‘Red’ is an adjective.”
“Good grief!” Billy said, channeling his inner-Charlie Brown. “What are adjuctives?”
“Oh, quit being so dramatic,” Issa said while subtly rolling her eyes. “Adjectives are just words that describe nouns, like colors, smells, and other stuff.”
Billy twisted his face in concentration. “So,” he said, “We’re space kids, sitting in a yellow space-bus, on our way to space-school. I’ve got two space-pencils: a green one and a blue one. I’ll use them to write my name on my space-homework. Did I add any extra ‘spaces’ that time?”
“Nope!” Issa said, smiling. “You’re doing great.”
“I think I’ve got the hang of this,” Billy said. “This is space-fun!”
“Oops,” Issa said. “That one was extra.”
“Why?” Billy asked, confused. “Isn’t ‘fun’ a noun?”
“Sure it is,” Issa replied, “but it’s not concrete.”
“Of course it’s not cement,” Billy said, a little annoyed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Issa said. “Concrete nouns are, like, solid things, you know? Something you can touch. ‘Fun’ is just an idea. Does that make sense?”
Billy furrowed his brow. “This isn’t as easy as I thought.”
“It takes some practice,” Issa said, “but you’ll get the hang of it. Just remember that you only add ‘space’ to common, concrete nouns.”
“So,” Billy said, giving it one more try, “I sleep on a space-bed, but I don’t have space-dreams, just regular dreams. We’re riding on a space-bus having a conversation, not a space-conversation. Right?”
“You picked that up quick,” Issa said. “Most space-kids are still figuring out lingo for the whole week, but you got it figured out before space-school even started. Not bad!”
“How long did it take you to learn it?” Billy asked as the bus pulled to a stop in the loading bay of Yuri Gagarin Elementary School.
“No time at all,” Issa said, flipping her hair behind her shoulder as she stood up. “I was the one who invented it.”
Billy’s mouth dropped open as Issa walked towards the door and stepped off the bus.
“Hi,” the girl said, “you must be new. I’m Melissa, but I go by ‘Issa’ for short. What’s your name?”
“Billy,” Billy said nervously.
“Well, Billy,” Issa said, “welcome. Is this your first time to space-school?”
“Yeah,” Billy said, feeling a little embarrassed to be so new. “My family just moved here. My mom’s an astronaut.”
Issa nodded. “Yeah, most of the space-kids here have space-parents that are astronauts. My dad’s a space-engineer and my mom’s in the space-navy.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘space’ in front of other words?” Billy asked.
“It’s just way we talk up here in space,” Issa said matter-of-factly. “You just add ‘space’ to most common, concrete nouns.”
“Huh?” Billy asked, confused.
“You know what nouns are, right?” Issa asked.
“Um, I don’t remember,” Billy said, embarrassed.
“That’s fine,” Issa said, “I didn’t know what they were when I first moved here. Nouns are words that are the names of people, places, things, or ideas.”
“Oh yeah!” Billy said, recognition spreading across his face. “I remember learning that in school back on Earth. So, should I be called Space Billy?”
“No,” Issa said, “we don’t add ‘space’ to proper nouns.”
“What makes a noun proper?” Billy asked.
“Basically,” Issa said, “proper nouns that are the names of someone or something specific. So, you’d call yourself a space-boy, but not Space Billy. Does that make sense?”
Billy thought for a moment. “So, we go to a space-school, which is a common noun, and its name is Yuri Gagarin Elementary School, which a proper noun. Is that right?”
Issa nodded. “I think you’re getting the hang of it.”
“Don’t you mean I’m getting the ‘space-hang’ of it?” Billy asked, grinning.
Issa shook her head. “No, ‘hang’ is a verb.”
“Verb?” asked Billy, his grin fading.
“Yeah,” Issa replied, “verbs are action words. So like “walk,” “talk,” read,” “write,” “play,” “eat.” If you can do it, it’s a verb.”
This is a lot to keep track of, Billy thought. “I think I’ve got it. I don’t space-play with a ball, I play with a space-ball.”
“Right,” Issa said.
“If I wanted to add to it,” Billy said, “I’d say ‘I threw the space-red space-ball to my space-friend.”
“Almost,” Issa said. “You added an extra ‘space’ that time. “‘Red’ is an adjective.”
“Good grief!” Billy said, channeling his inner-Charlie Brown. “What are adjuctives?”
“Oh, quit being so dramatic,” Issa said while subtly rolling her eyes. “Adjectives are just words that describe nouns, like colors, smells, and other stuff.”
Billy twisted his face in concentration. “So,” he said, “We’re space kids, sitting in a yellow space-bus, on our way to space-school. I’ve got two space-pencils: a green one and a blue one. I’ll use them to write my name on my space-homework. Did I add any extra ‘spaces’ that time?”
“Nope!” Issa said, smiling. “You’re doing great.”
“I think I’ve got the hang of this,” Billy said. “This is space-fun!”
“Oops,” Issa said. “That one was extra.”
“Why?” Billy asked, confused. “Isn’t ‘fun’ a noun?”
“Sure it is,” Issa replied, “but it’s not concrete.”
“Of course it’s not cement,” Billy said, a little annoyed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Issa said. “Concrete nouns are, like, solid things, you know? Something you can touch. ‘Fun’ is just an idea. Does that make sense?”
Billy furrowed his brow. “This isn’t as easy as I thought.”
“It takes some practice,” Issa said, “but you’ll get the hang of it. Just remember that you only add ‘space’ to common, concrete nouns.”
“So,” Billy said, giving it one more try, “I sleep on a space-bed, but I don’t have space-dreams, just regular dreams. We’re riding on a space-bus having a conversation, not a space-conversation. Right?”
“You picked that up quick,” Issa said. “Most space-kids are still figuring out lingo for the whole week, but you got it figured out before space-school even started. Not bad!”
“How long did it take you to learn it?” Billy asked as the bus pulled to a stop in the loading bay of Yuri Gagarin Elementary School.
“No time at all,” Issa said, flipping her hair behind her shoulder as she stood up. “I was the one who invented it.”
Billy’s mouth dropped open as Issa walked towards the door and stepped off the bus.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Family Values
Jeremy never liked having to confront people about complaints he received, but with so many anonymous submissions, he felt obligated to follow up. He rang the bell and waited, looking straight ahead at the door in front of him. After less than a minute of waiting, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged looking woman with hair past her waist. She smiled warmly.
"Hello," she said cheerfully. "Can I help you?"
"Hello," Jeremy replied. "I'm Jeremy Evans. I'm with Child Protective Services and I'm looking for the parents of Grover Wright."
"Oh my," the woman said, suddenly looking very concerned. "I'm Grover's mother, Verona. What's this all about?"
"We've received numerous complaints about about Grover's treatment," Jeremy said, perhaps a little too cold and business-like. "I'm here to verify the validity of those complaints."
Verona was taken aback. "I can assure you that Grover's father and I are trying to raise Grover the best that we can. Who registered the complaints?"
"All of the complaints were anonymous," Jeremy said, "but even if they weren't, I'm not allowed to tell you. Do you mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?"
"Of course not," Verona said without hesitation. "We have nothing to hide. I'm sure that once we've talked you'll see that these complaints are completely unfounded." She opened the door and showed Jeremy inside. Once they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, Jeremy reviewed the paperwork attached to his clipboard.
"Now," Jeremy said, "one complaint we've received multiple times is that Grover is not bathed regularly. How often does he receive a bath?"
"That's up to him," Verona said, matter-of-factly. "Grover's father and I do our best to not have him influenced by outside sources, whether from us or from society as a whole. We want him to find his own way in the world."
Jeremy looked dumbfounded. "What? He's five years old. If you let him decide how to run his life, he'd never eat anything but candy."
"Not at all," Verona said. "Grover certainly enjoys candy, but he also loves eating fresh produce from our garden. He constantly helps in the garden and we can tell that he has a sense of pride from eating the literal fruits of his labors."
"Okay," Jeremy said, trying to get the conversation back on track, "but that still doesn't answer the question of how often Grover is bathed."
Verona thought for a moment before replying. "Oh, about once a week or so. Grover does enjoy bathtime, but he has so many other pursuits that he doesn't always get to it."
Jeremy made a note on one of the forms attached to his clipboard. "At his age, once a week is adequate. We've also received some complaints about him using foul language to other children in the neighborhood."
"Oh," Verona said, looking mildly embarrassed. "My husband is fan of the filmmaker Quentin Tarantino and he has watched many of his films with Grover. I suspect that he was just quoting a line from one of them."
"Those movies have hard R ratings," Jeremy said; "they're not appropriate for children."
"If you review the MPAA ratings system," Verona replied a little smugly, "you'll find that R ratings are for no child younger than 17 unless accompanied by a parent. I'll admit that I don't care for those films, but Grover enjoys watching them with his father, who is always present."
Giving up on that complaint, Jeremy reviewed his paperwork to find another topic. "We've received numerous complaints that Grover is often seen outside naked, sometimes relieving himself. Does that happen?"
"Absolutely," Verona replied without hesitation. "Although, we only allow him to do so in the backyard, which is surrounded by a wooden fence, so if people are watching it happen, I believe that makes peeping toms."
"Is Grover toilet-trained?" Jeremy asked, no longer surprised by what the woman across from him was saying.
"Mostly. He still has accidents from time to time, but he's getting there."
"If he's toilet-trained," Jeremy said, "why do you allow him to relieve himself outside? That will only make it harder for him to learn to use the bathroom."
Up until this point, Verona had been nothing but friendly and cheerful. Now, however, she suddenly became very serious and a little annoyed. "My parents raised me to be Christian, just like them. I was only a child, so I was very impressionable. They took me to church every week and regularly forced me and my siblings to read from the Bible. It wasn't until I was in college when I learned that all religion is a sham meant to control the masses.
"I don't want Grover to go through the same thing I did. I refuse to force him to have the same values that I have, even if that means that he decides to become religious. Honestly, the very idea of him going to mass or what-have-you makes me nauseated, but I would still support him if that's what he wants. That means that I let him make his own decisions. If he wants to run around outside while naked, who does that harm?"
Jeremy nodded, finally understanding. "Look, I get it. You want him to be his own person."
"Yes!" Verona responded, her cheerful enthusiasm having returned.
"But," Jeremy continued, "he's still only five years old. You have to teach to do things to do things that are good for him, even if it's not what he likes. You may be mad at your parents for 'forcing' their values on you, but how will Grover feel when he goes off to college and can't sit through an entire class because he doesn't know how to hold his bladder? Or how will he find a job when he shows up to an interview in desperate need of a shower? I know you think these things will take care of themselves, but they won't. I've seen kids living in squalor because they don't know any better. I can tell your heart's in the right place, so I won't take any action today. But I need you to make some serious changes to how Grover is being cared for."
Verona protested, saying that forcing her to act as a dictator to her son was fascist, but she ultimately acquiesced. Jeremy left with an appointment to return to check on things in a month. He was showing leniency, but he couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid, Grover. His parents were so afraid of encroaching on his development that they were actually hindering it. Thankfully, Grover was still young enough that his parents' misguided approach to parenting probably hadn't done any permanent damage.
With that taken care of, he got in his car and drove to his next appointment.
"Hello," she said cheerfully. "Can I help you?"
"Hello," Jeremy replied. "I'm Jeremy Evans. I'm with Child Protective Services and I'm looking for the parents of Grover Wright."
"Oh my," the woman said, suddenly looking very concerned. "I'm Grover's mother, Verona. What's this all about?"
"We've received numerous complaints about about Grover's treatment," Jeremy said, perhaps a little too cold and business-like. "I'm here to verify the validity of those complaints."
Verona was taken aback. "I can assure you that Grover's father and I are trying to raise Grover the best that we can. Who registered the complaints?"
"All of the complaints were anonymous," Jeremy said, "but even if they weren't, I'm not allowed to tell you. Do you mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?"
"Of course not," Verona said without hesitation. "We have nothing to hide. I'm sure that once we've talked you'll see that these complaints are completely unfounded." She opened the door and showed Jeremy inside. Once they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, Jeremy reviewed the paperwork attached to his clipboard.
"Now," Jeremy said, "one complaint we've received multiple times is that Grover is not bathed regularly. How often does he receive a bath?"
"That's up to him," Verona said, matter-of-factly. "Grover's father and I do our best to not have him influenced by outside sources, whether from us or from society as a whole. We want him to find his own way in the world."
Jeremy looked dumbfounded. "What? He's five years old. If you let him decide how to run his life, he'd never eat anything but candy."
"Not at all," Verona said. "Grover certainly enjoys candy, but he also loves eating fresh produce from our garden. He constantly helps in the garden and we can tell that he has a sense of pride from eating the literal fruits of his labors."
"Okay," Jeremy said, trying to get the conversation back on track, "but that still doesn't answer the question of how often Grover is bathed."
Verona thought for a moment before replying. "Oh, about once a week or so. Grover does enjoy bathtime, but he has so many other pursuits that he doesn't always get to it."
Jeremy made a note on one of the forms attached to his clipboard. "At his age, once a week is adequate. We've also received some complaints about him using foul language to other children in the neighborhood."
"Oh," Verona said, looking mildly embarrassed. "My husband is fan of the filmmaker Quentin Tarantino and he has watched many of his films with Grover. I suspect that he was just quoting a line from one of them."
"Those movies have hard R ratings," Jeremy said; "they're not appropriate for children."
"If you review the MPAA ratings system," Verona replied a little smugly, "you'll find that R ratings are for no child younger than 17 unless accompanied by a parent. I'll admit that I don't care for those films, but Grover enjoys watching them with his father, who is always present."
Giving up on that complaint, Jeremy reviewed his paperwork to find another topic. "We've received numerous complaints that Grover is often seen outside naked, sometimes relieving himself. Does that happen?"
"Absolutely," Verona replied without hesitation. "Although, we only allow him to do so in the backyard, which is surrounded by a wooden fence, so if people are watching it happen, I believe that makes peeping toms."
"Is Grover toilet-trained?" Jeremy asked, no longer surprised by what the woman across from him was saying.
"Mostly. He still has accidents from time to time, but he's getting there."
"If he's toilet-trained," Jeremy said, "why do you allow him to relieve himself outside? That will only make it harder for him to learn to use the bathroom."
Up until this point, Verona had been nothing but friendly and cheerful. Now, however, she suddenly became very serious and a little annoyed. "My parents raised me to be Christian, just like them. I was only a child, so I was very impressionable. They took me to church every week and regularly forced me and my siblings to read from the Bible. It wasn't until I was in college when I learned that all religion is a sham meant to control the masses.
"I don't want Grover to go through the same thing I did. I refuse to force him to have the same values that I have, even if that means that he decides to become religious. Honestly, the very idea of him going to mass or what-have-you makes me nauseated, but I would still support him if that's what he wants. That means that I let him make his own decisions. If he wants to run around outside while naked, who does that harm?"
Jeremy nodded, finally understanding. "Look, I get it. You want him to be his own person."
"Yes!" Verona responded, her cheerful enthusiasm having returned.
"But," Jeremy continued, "he's still only five years old. You have to teach to do things to do things that are good for him, even if it's not what he likes. You may be mad at your parents for 'forcing' their values on you, but how will Grover feel when he goes off to college and can't sit through an entire class because he doesn't know how to hold his bladder? Or how will he find a job when he shows up to an interview in desperate need of a shower? I know you think these things will take care of themselves, but they won't. I've seen kids living in squalor because they don't know any better. I can tell your heart's in the right place, so I won't take any action today. But I need you to make some serious changes to how Grover is being cared for."
Verona protested, saying that forcing her to act as a dictator to her son was fascist, but she ultimately acquiesced. Jeremy left with an appointment to return to check on things in a month. He was showing leniency, but he couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid, Grover. His parents were so afraid of encroaching on his development that they were actually hindering it. Thankfully, Grover was still young enough that his parents' misguided approach to parenting probably hadn't done any permanent damage.
With that taken care of, he got in his car and drove to his next appointment.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Humilia
INT. OF AN APARTMENT. A man in his mid-twenties is primping in front of a mirror in a bathroom. He’s wearing artificially distressed jeans and an Ed Hardy t-shirt beneath an unbuttoned dress shirt with the collar “popped.” He sprays himself with an excessive amount of body spray before putting on a trilby (a short-brimmed fedora).
MAN: [pointing to himself in the mirror with both hands] Look out, ladies: the man of your dreams is coming for you!
The shot becomes a freeze-frame and becomes black and white. We hear the man from earlier speaking in voice over.
MAN: [VO only] Does this look familiar to you? Perhaps this reminds you of yourself or someone you know.
CUT to the man from earlier in front of a blank, white background. He is now dressed in a solid-colored sweater and khaki pants.
MAN: That was me three months ago. Pretty obnoxious, right? It turns out, I didn’t have any shame.
CUT to an animation of a human brain as the man continues speaking. The animation portrays what the man is describing.
MAN: [VO only] Shame is produced when the chemical mediocris ignominiam is released by the amygdala. Unfortunately, some people don’t produce enough shame and often become, like, just the worst. Thankfully, Humilia can help. Humilia increases the production of shame to normal levels.
CUT to a montage of the man interacting with people in various situations in an amiable way: talking to friends in a restaurant, walking a dog while accompanying a woman, turning his phone off while waiting for a movie to start, etc. During the montage, a female announcer is heard.
ANNOUNCER [VO only]: Humilia is for those who struggle with feeling adequate levels of shame in their life. Most users reported feeling ashamed of their past decisions in as little two weeks. Side effects include being polite to members of the opposite sex, feeling uncomfortable when hearing racist jokes, having better taste in movies and TV shows, no longer bragging about your honestly unimpressive bench press max, seizures, and death. Humilia is not for children or foreigners.
CUT to the man in a bar.
MAN: [to camera] With Humilia, I can actually interact with people like a normal, healthy human being. [To a woman sitting at bar] Hi, I’m Chad. What’s your name?
CUT to a splashy Humilia logo. The chemical name of Humilia, desinas irrumator, should appear in parentheses.
ANNOUNCER: [VO only] Ask your doctor if Humilia is right for you.
END
MAN: [pointing to himself in the mirror with both hands] Look out, ladies: the man of your dreams is coming for you!
The shot becomes a freeze-frame and becomes black and white. We hear the man from earlier speaking in voice over.
MAN: [VO only] Does this look familiar to you? Perhaps this reminds you of yourself or someone you know.
CUT to the man from earlier in front of a blank, white background. He is now dressed in a solid-colored sweater and khaki pants.
MAN: That was me three months ago. Pretty obnoxious, right? It turns out, I didn’t have any shame.
CUT to an animation of a human brain as the man continues speaking. The animation portrays what the man is describing.
MAN: [VO only] Shame is produced when the chemical mediocris ignominiam is released by the amygdala. Unfortunately, some people don’t produce enough shame and often become, like, just the worst. Thankfully, Humilia can help. Humilia increases the production of shame to normal levels.
CUT to a montage of the man interacting with people in various situations in an amiable way: talking to friends in a restaurant, walking a dog while accompanying a woman, turning his phone off while waiting for a movie to start, etc. During the montage, a female announcer is heard.
ANNOUNCER [VO only]: Humilia is for those who struggle with feeling adequate levels of shame in their life. Most users reported feeling ashamed of their past decisions in as little two weeks. Side effects include being polite to members of the opposite sex, feeling uncomfortable when hearing racist jokes, having better taste in movies and TV shows, no longer bragging about your honestly unimpressive bench press max, seizures, and death. Humilia is not for children or foreigners.
CUT to the man in a bar.
MAN: [to camera] With Humilia, I can actually interact with people like a normal, healthy human being. [To a woman sitting at bar] Hi, I’m Chad. What’s your name?
CUT to a splashy Humilia logo. The chemical name of Humilia, desinas irrumator, should appear in parentheses.
ANNOUNCER: [VO only] Ask your doctor if Humilia is right for you.
END
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