Author Archives: Kurt Luchs

The Spirit Of Christmas

By: Kurt Luchs

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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.

Kurt Luchs

P.S. Enclosed is an artist’s rendering of the place I’d most like to visit on this earth: your grave.

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Boy, Intercepted

By: Robert Sudduth

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As I write this, I’m convinced that I have pinkeye. To me, this is as horrific a thought as sitting through a screening of an Olsen twins movie. The numerous Internet sites that I’ve been to so far say that pinkeye isn’t life-threatening, a myth that I am certain my death will debunk. “What a horrible ending,” they’ll sniffle at my funeral. “To think that poor boy spent his last few days on this earth looking like he took 32 consecutive bong hits.” Maybe this is karma. I’ve had a couple of friends who’ve had pinkeye in their lives, and I have done nothing except shun them until they recover. I’d rather mud-wrestle with a leper than sit next to someone with one or, say, two pink eyes. I think it looks downright awful. This is the usual procedure for me when something in or on my body decides it doesn’t want to function properly. I’ve been a hypochondriac since I came backwards out of my mother. I used to think that it was my way of telling the world to kiss my ass, but now I’m beginning to understand that it was a defense mechanism against the millions of germs floating around in the delivery room.

When I was little, I convinced my family than I had every imaginable form of cancer. My leg fell asleep, and I was sure it was a melanoma. I felt a lump in my breast once. “It’s gotta be the big one,” I wept. One can imagine the terror in my eyes if a microwave was ever turned on in my presence. After my first semester at college, I came home devastated. The beer at school was fine — it was just that I was dying. I remember embracing my parents at the airport, looking into their unknowing eyes. What these two people didn’t know was that their youngest son, their fourth born, was dying of testicular cancer. I don’t think that most people can relate to this, but being an 18-year-old boy and speaking openly about your nuts to your mother can be a frightening experience. The doctor, of course, diagnosed my malignant lump as a vein, and I was left sitting in my room wondering if I had truly gone off the deep end. It was bad enough that I was making myself scared, but now I was getting my family involved with my balls. Getting sick is a fact of life. I see people do it every day. They get a cough, go to the doctor, and get medicine. Several days later, if it’s just a minor bug, they’re better. No sweat. This same practice doesn’t work for me. I get a cough, look up “cough” on the Internet, pull up 5,268,983 articles, and sift through every one, concentrating on the deadliest diseases. It may turn out that my cough is simply a minuscule bacterial infection, but I will convince myself that it is actually a precursor to a terminal lung condition, and I subsequently begin thinking about my will. Who’s going to get my credit-card bills? Where can I find a good home for my stuffed orange monkey? In the fifth grade, I was sick for four days. On Friday, I came back and a boy named Clarke said that everyone thought I was dead. I vowed never to be sick again. It didn’t work.

Several months ago, I had the stomach flu. It was easily the worst I’ve ever felt in my life. On the first day of its onset, I was bedridden, but I had to let the maintenance man into my apartment to fix my sink. As melodramatic as Halle Berry on Oscar night, I let him in, pointed him to the bathroom, and fell down on the floor. I couldn’t stand up. I thought I was going to bite it then and there, that my spirit was going to rue the fact that the last person to see me alive was Hector the Sink Man. I couldn’t think of anything more pathetic. Luck would have it that I had the strength to crawl back to my bed as a confused Hector watched. He asked me if I needed anything, and I said no, staring comatose at The People’s Court on TV.

I’ve looked at my eye in the mirror about 159 times. It seems like it might be just bloodshot…I’m not stoned, though, and if I were, both of my eyes would be bloodshot, wouldn’t they? It’s definitely pinkeye.

The only person who is more paranoid than me is my friend from college, Meg. We met as students in the London exchange program; she lived upstairs from my roommate, Andrew, and I. Meg is one of those people that carry 14 bottles of pills in her purse at all times. These are just her primary medications. She also has secondary medications, which she, if given a list of symptoms, can prescribe to you without a doctor’s note. Anytime I couldn’t find Andrew, I knew he was upstairs with Meg, eating pills and drinking wine, making up stories about how his pancreas hurt. If you look up “obsessive-compulsive disorder” in any psychology textbook, Meg’s picture is there, eyes wide open, checking under her tongue for bacteria. She told me once that her mother gave her plates that separated her food. These are the types of plates that you might find a 3-year-old eating off of. Meg got them as a Christmas gift because she doesn’t like her corn to touch her snow peas. If that happens, it might set off some type of nuclear enzyme reaction that will eventually lead to her slow, painful death. I’ve put 18 drops of Visine in my eyes, even though the directions say to use only one or two. If I had Meg’s big purse within reach, I could get something to make my eye turn white again.

I’m going to go ahead and call an ambulance to save time.

If you’ve ever seen Girl, Interrupted, you will know, as I do, two distinct things: (1) Winona Ryder is possibly the most deserving recipient of the Razzie Award for Best Actress Cast as a Robot; and (2) if you think long and hard enough, you can make yourself insane. In regards to body malfunction, this is definitely the protocol for me. It’s true — the pinkness could possibly be attributed to minor eye irritation. But what’s more probable is that I have pinkeye, and soon I’ll have pink eyes, and eventually my whole body will become pink and I’ll look like a giant pink crayon, and then I’ll just roll over and die.

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My Co-Worker Christy Brown

By: Michael Fowler

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From the private papers of Seamus O’Casey, Revenue Calculator, Department of Fishing, County Dublin, Dublin City, Ireland, 1980.

Dearest Tess,

I’m feeling terrifically inadequate at work. After the mucker Niall Murphy was told to vacate the cubicle beside mine for misappropriation of funds and smarting off to his superiors, who fills the empty cell but his nibs Christy Brown. Aye, the great Dublin author himself, with his know-all, do-all left foot.

Now I do have some sympathy for the man. His first toe-typed book My Left Foot has gone out of print, and his second tap-danced masterpiece Down All the Days limped off the Irish Independent’s bestseller list many months ago. I haven’t seen the poor sod hawking his tomes on TV documentaries for quite some time. I understand there’re other works as well, poems and whatnot, that didn’t catch on despite being his very own “footnotes.” I’m not too clear on this, since I haven’t read a word of any of it.

But that, it seems to me, is the literary biz: fickle as a female leprechaun. One minute, you and your darling tootsie are on everyone’s lips and the royalties are flowing your way like the River Liffey, and the next, you’re forced to take a government job to support your family of 15. And don’t tell me he sired all those brats with his left foot. Foreplay, maybe, but not the main course.

It wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose, if Brown and I shared any camaraderie on the job or went together to the pub for a pint after our labour. But the man ignores everyone, is quiet as a clam and sorely lacks inefficiency. If I lean back in my chair and crane my neck, I can see his bare foot multitasking away in his workspace. The savvy appendage charts fishing grounds on his computer, dials up fleets on his phone, tallies on his calculator the tons of haddock and cod caught, greets sea captains in the office and in general races to win the regatta while the rest of him appears to be in a stupor. Then at five his wife or nurse comes along, pulls a sock over the size 9 breadwinner, and wheels the man home. The lady doesn’t speak either, not so much as good evening. In the morning I don’t see her at all, since the Brown foot, itching to get to work, always arrives ahead of me.

For the better part of a month now, it’s been like this. I’m left in the wake of such productivity that I flounder and drown. A man who can only use his left foot is going to get the top performance evaluation in my area, along with the largest bonus. The foot may even fill the next supervisory opening. And there’s little I can do about it. My entire 20 years in this office, I haven’t seen a day at work like Brown’s left foot sees every day. My only hope is that the writer will think of another best-seller and clear the hell out. Here’s to the bitch of his inspiration! May she soon work wonders on the likes of my co-worker Christy Brown!

Meanwhile, I can’t stand another minute of being upstaged by a hoof, Tess, and that is why I quit my job today. If you require me before sundown, I’ll be at O’Malley’s under a pint or two.

Your loving husband,

Seamus

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Dear Lettie

By: David Jaggard

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Spanish Crown Prince Felipe is set to marry former television presenter Letizia Ortiz this morning…Long one of Europe’s most eligible royals, Felipe chose as his bride a 31-year-old divorcee who was a rising star for Spain’s most popular news broadcaster before saying yes to a proposal that means becoming queen of Spain some day.

— Reuters, Sat 22 May, 2004

Madrid, March 12, 2004

Dear Lettie,

Please don’t flip out — I know I’m late with the alimony and I apologize. I owe you four months, so here’s one check for the entire amount. Sorry for the delay, but I was out of the country — I’ve been in Afghanistan researching a documentary since before Christmas and there was no way to get word to you. Then when I finally got a week off to come back to Madrid, this funny thing happened: I ran into Antonio in the airport and he asks me what I think about you getting married again! Well of course I didn’t know anything about it, but when I pressed him for details he got this weird, sort of embarrassed look on his face and mumbled something about how he figured I’d know by now. So what’s the deal? In any case it’ll let me off the hook in terms of alimony, so I guess I should be happy, right?

Still, I know how impulsive you can be and I can’t help but wonder if you’re sure you’re doing the right thing here. For starters, I hope this guy you’re supposedly in love with knows what he’s getting into. He better be in really good financial shape if he thinks he’s going to be able to afford your spending habits. Does he know how much you blow on clothes every month? Does he know that he’s going to have to practically shower you with jewelry? Does he know that you’re going to need practically a goddamn palace just to store all your goddamn coats and dresses and shoes? I hope for your sake he’s got a good, stable job. With the economy like it is now, he could get laid off at any time, and then where would you be? Have you even thought about that?

Also, does he know how much you love giving orders and being waited on hand and foot? I’ll bet you’ve been hiding that little side of your personality so far. Boy, is he in for a surprise. Hey — tell him about how I used to call you “your highness” and “your majesty.” He’ll probably get a big laugh out of that one.

Another thing: I don’t know how well you think you know this dude, but have you really checked out his background? You can’t be too careful, you know. A lot of guys these days say they’re some kind of big important bigshot, like a business executive or film producer or a way-distant relation to some aristocrat or something, just to impress women and get them into bed. What if your fiancé turns out to be some kind of pretender? You better know for sure that your Prince Charming is who and what he says he is or you could get royally screwed. I’m not kidding!

So I suppose now that you’re such a megastar newscaster you’re going to want a big fancy formal wedding that you can turn into a media circus. It’d be just like you, wanting to see your picture in the tabloids all dolled up in a designer gown, parading around in front of hundreds of people like you’re some kind of freaking princess or something. But just one thing, OK? When you get desperate to pad out the guest list, don’t even think about inviting me. I know how you’d make it sound like some kind of noble cause and everything, but you can just count me out.

Hey, whoa, I’m sorry — I’m getting kind of carried away. But it’s only because I still care about you. Really, Lettie, I do. Sometimes I even think about us getting back together. Crazy I know, but hey — it wasn’t all bad, was it? Yeah, I can be a jerk sometimes, but you never know — maybe your new guy will turn out to be a king-sized pain in the ass. And admit it: you can act like a real infanta sometimes too. But deep down I’m basically a good person — you know that. Just think about it for a while. Take a step back and reflect. Keep your options open. It’s never too late to back out with this whozis, whoever he is — Antonio says he isn’t even sure what his full name is, this nobody that nobody ever heard of. And if you ever want to call me, just to talk or whatever, I’ll be there.

Please, Lettie, do this one last thing for me, for old times’ sake. Before you jump into something and make some rash decision that you might regret later, stop and consider: what’s this other guy got that I haven’t got? Just think about it, is all I’m saying.

Fondly,

Miguel

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Krapp’s Last Date

By: Scott Brothers

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(An early evening in the present.

Krapp, an old man, and Sophia, a woman in her early thirties, sit at a table in FYI TGI Mc Faddens, a circus/vaudevillian-themed eatery. It’s Saturday night, and the restaurant is bursting with activity. Krapp is sullen and hunched over. He wears a sleeveless black overcoat with very deep pockets and a dirty white dress shirt, unbuttoned to the waist. Sophia is brimming with energy and optimism. A pimple-faced waiter of 16 approaches the table.)

WAITER: Hello and welcome to FYI TGI McFaddens, home of the never ending tower of greasy onion rings and the bottomless bucket of coffee-flavored gin. Can I take your order?

KRAPP: Order?…Yes…Whose order though?…In what way are we to…order.

(Pause.)

WAITER: Well, it’s your order, sir, and you should place it.

SOPHIA: I’d like a side of onion rings and a margarita.

KRAPP: By the light of the equinox, my scalp is no longer dry and itchy! I’ll have a glass of your best Irish whiskey…no ice.

(The waiter leaves. Sophia looks around nervously. Krapp begins making tiny boats out of the paper napkins on the table.)

SOPHIA: So, what do you do for fun?

KRAPP: You know, it’s my birthday…today.

SOPHIA: Oh really, happy birthday —

KRAPP: I’m 95.

SOPHIA: (appalled) What? You said you were 61 in the personals ad! I mean, I like older men, but you’re —

KRAPP: Ancient. Yes. Not as ancient as, say, Mesopotamia. Or even Dick Clark, who’s really 125. Not as ancient as, say, one of Phyllis Diller’s wigs.

(Krapp pulls out an old portable tape recorder from his coat pocket and begins playing a tape.)

TAPE: Eggs…flour…sugar…milk…pick up dry cleaning.

KRAPP: I recorded this when I was 70. I sounded more alive then. (Pause.) Don’t you think?

SOPHIA: I don’t really know. I just met you.

KRAPP: So full of promise.

SOPHIA: At 70? Well.

TAPE: Call doctor for check-up. Can one get taller as he gets older?…I’m 70 today. Still eating bananas. I ate 12 today. Can’t get off the toilet.

SOPHIA: That’s disgusting.

KRAPP: That reminds me. (Krapp pulls out a banana from his coat pocket and begins eating.) My 6:00 p.m. banana. Is that a banana in your coat pocket or are you just happy to see me?

(The waiter approaches with the drinks.)

WAITER: Sir, FYI TGI McFaddens does not allow any outside fruit.

KRAPP: Yes. Right. Understandable. (The waiter deposits the drinks on the table then leaves, eyeing Krapp and his banana.) You know, a few years back I owned a restaurant where everything on the menu was made from bananas: banana steak, banana l’orange, banana surprise.

SOPHIA: What was the surprise?

KRAPP: Banana. (Krapp eats more of the banana.) Even the furniture was made from bananas. Although everything got really mushy and brown really fast. And stinky. The restaurant was called the Banana Republic. Pretty clever wouldn’t you say?

SOPHIA: You know that’s the name of a chain of clothing stores.

KRAPP: Yes. We got sued. That was the end of that dream. Match. Game. Set.

(Krapp finishes the banana and then throws the skin on the floor. A passing waiter slips on the discarded peel, dropping a tray of food.)

WAITER 2: My back! Sweet Jesus, my back!

SOPHIA: (horrified) I can’t believe you did that!

KRAPP: Farewell to eaten bananas.

TAPE:…must call that woman I dated when I was 40. What was her name again? The one with the yellow coat. Hilda? Marge? Wendy? Wendy! Yes, Wendy! No, Flora. Yes. That was it. Flora, who I met in Florida: America’s penis. These pants itch. Itchy pants! Itchy pants! Why do you itch me so! Damn you itchy pants. (sound of a banjo being strummed in the background) Itchy pants, (singing) oh itchy pants, why must you itch me so?

(Sophia, along with other patrons, is trying to hoist the waiter up from the floor.)

KRAPP: (shouting at the fallen waiter) That’s nothing. I was in Korea!

(sings) I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and bright…

(Another waiter emerges from the kitchen and helps the injured waiter to the employee break room. Sophia sits back down at the table. Krapp rewinds the tape.)

TAPE: Itchy Shirt! Itchy shirt! Going to grocery store…need a list.

SOPHIA: I’m not sure if this is working out. And it’s not just the age thing.

KRAPP: Is it my erectile dysfunction? Because I’m taking pills, I’ll have you know. The doctor says I could be up in no time…no time like the present. Which is where we are. In the present. I bet you wouldn’t have a problem if Florida had erectile dysfunction!

SOPHIA: No, it’s not your erectile dysfunction, which I didn’t know you had. It’s your total self-absorption. You’re not aware of anyone else around you. I mean, you could have seriously injured that waiter! (Sophia drops a fork.) Crap!

KRAPP: Yes?

SOPHIA: What? No, I wasn’t — I just dropped something on the floor. Look, maybe this was a bad idea. These things don’t always work out. Everyone has their own quirks, their own eccentricities. Like my last boyfriend’s habit of referring to himself in the third person. And my boyfriend before that; he had this obsession with shaving the hair on his chest and stuffing pillows with it. Anyway, it was…well. Right. Have a nice…er, remainder of your life.

(Sophia grabs her purse and leaves the table.)

KRAPP: Call me! (Krapp mimes a telephone with his right hand. With his left hand he pulls a banana from his pocket and holds it to his left ear, like a telephone. Pause. He lowers both telephones.) Never knew such silence. I wouldn’t want her back. No. (Pause.) The aspirations!

(Krapp takes the tape out of the recorder, turns it over, then puts it back in, fast-forwarding briefly before hitting play.)

TAPE: –OK, where did I put the banana hat that I made the other day?…In the fridge. Yes, of course.

(Long pause.)

Ah, that’s what I did with those boxer shorts with the gooseberry print on them. In the freezer. Frozen stiff and flat as a pancake. Pancakes! That’s what I needed the flour, eggs and milk for.

(Krapp motions to a waiter for another glass of Irish whiskey, then retrieves a banana wedged in his grimy white dress sock and begins peeling it.)

CURTAIN

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Irma Bimbo

By: Kurt Luchs

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Did you ever notice how spring makes some people nuttier than a jar of Planter’s Party Mix, whereas some go goofy in fall, and others act silly in summer, and still others get weird in winter?

I must confess I’m in the latter group. When winter comes I hibernate like a grizzly bear, and brother, don’t try to wake me up — grrr! But when spring finally arrives I return to normal and leave my cave to go salmon fishing on the banks of a nearby stream. I stun the fish with a swipe from my huge furry paw, then gut them with my razor-sharp claws and pop them still dripping into my mouth. If only I could get rid of that yucky “fishy” taste!

But I digress. I was going to tell you about my wacky teenagers — or should I say sex machines? Every year they get spring fever so bad you’d think it was a terminal illness instead of nature’s way of saying “Beer drinkers make better lovers.” It gives this middle-aged mom the strangest feeling to watch them go through their elaborate adolescent courting rituals, rubbing their hollow legs together to produce a shrill song, or performing complicated dances to display the fire-engine-red bony crests on top of their heads, or building immense love bowers deep in tropical rainforests out of twigs, moss and brightly colored stones. Kids sure are different these days.

Remember how it was when we were young, back in the late Pleistocene? Before we girls could even contemplate a date, our parents had to meet our prospective beau and ask him everything but which side he dressed on (Dad would always check that manually). Then while the poor boy blinked away tears of frustration, they’d inflict a paralyzing bite and use their posterior silk glands to spin him inside a gossamer cocoon where they could store him against the hungry days ahead. Have things really changed so much, or am I just being old-fashioned?

And what about those kooky metrics? My too-bright-for-their-britches teens find them a cinch with their ten fingers to count by, but unless I cut two of mine off I’ll be using the base twelve system the rest of my life. Besides, I just can’t imagine anyone saying, “Give her 2.54 centimeters and she’ll take 1.61 kilometers.” How zany can you get? If we’re not careful, pretty soon we’ll be measuring feline toiletries in “kitty liters”!

I guess I haven’t really said what I started out to say about spring, but it’s hard to think warm, loony thoughts when your anything-for-kicks offspring have turned your kitchen into a recombinant-DNA lab and made you the subject of the experiment. What won’t they think of next?

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Tips For The Novice Boxer

By: Leland Young

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Boxing is the competitive sport that champions sparring excellence and satisfies the mysterious craving to place maximal punching force on the other guy’s chin. But there are some pitfalls that must be avoided. I have developed the following essential tips over time by garnering information from numerous sources, such as tabloids found in the supermarket checkout line, late-night sports talk-radio programs, and old movies.

Applying these tips will steel your confidence as you travel the rocky road of boxing, and will help you achieve two important goals in your quest for success:

1. Minimize embarrassment.

2. Leave the ring with dignity.

Punching Bags


The big heavy bag will help you develop hard-hitting combination blows to your opponent’s torso. This bag is to be hit firmly and, if possible, without grimacing. The speed bag, on the other hand, requires finesse and critical timing. After intense practice, you should be able to make the speed bag take on its hypnotically rhythmic sound. Caution is advised, however, as it is recently rumored that Knuckles deSchmitt became so caught up in the experience that his head began bouncing like the speed bag through sympathetic vibration. Just a word to the wise.

Running


Going ten rounds or more in the ring can be grueling, if not downright unpleasant and dull. How often have you seen a boxing match where both boxers were leaning on each other in a waltzing manner after only the second round? Blows delivered in that state of exhaustion carry the force of a ladybug landing on one’s head, only less. Regular running exercises will prevent this faux pas.

When you first start running, you may do a lot of wheezing and holding your aching sides. But over time that will diminish. Build your endurance by running difficult routes, such as up and down numerous marble steps in front of city hall or maybe the federal courthouse, along harbor docks with the city skyline in the distance, back and forth on lonely stretches of two-lane highways at four o’clock in the morning, over the river and through the woods … well, you get the idea.

Hitting Techniques


Remember that hitting the other person harder and more frequently will enable you to prevail. Half-hearted hitting simply will not do, and politeness is definitely out (“Okay, now it’s your turn to hit me!”). You must exhibit controlled rage, going after your opponent as though you hate the very depths of his soul, but being principled in doing so. Windmilling, wind-ups, and comin’-’round-the-mountain punches are ineffective because your opponent, if he is any good, can get in five or six well-connected star-studded punches before your punch comes anywhere close. Don’t rely on them. Besides, they look a little silly and go contrary to goal number one.

Training For The Rainmaker


There is only so much you can do to prepare physically for the dreaded stealth punch some adroit opponent might slip past you. Otherwise, you may want to implement some modern technological advances to minimize the impact. For example, you may wish to wear an MP3 player recently adapted for the ring, which, upon sensing a horizontal position, automatically plays stirring marches to help restore sentient behavior.

Leaving Boxing


There will come a time when you should leave boxing. You will most likely know when that time comes. You may even feel it. This is when you want to make your last exit from the ring a shining moment in your boxing career.

But as you consider your exit, guard against overconfidence, because at a critical moment fate can deal a cruel blow. This may be attested by a recent rumor about Ballpein Slapenhitzle, who became terribly confused while attempting to exit the ring for his last time. He didn’t know it was his last time. In trying to make a running leap out of the ring, he stumbled over his own feet and managed to spin himself around the ropes into a tight little wad, making himself look as though he had three arms and four legs.

Conclusion


Follow these tips and you will surely achieve the boxing renown you deserve. And when the time comes to hang up your gloves, you will know deep down inside that you did your part for the sport, and, in some abstract way, possibly became an inspiration to others, or, perhaps, helped someone with a personal matter regarding aluminum siding. Maybe people will cheer, or maybe they’ll shed a tear. Yes, some may laugh. But no matter, for they will all have to say in their hearts, “There goes a dignified boxer…with a face mangled beyond all recognition.”

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Inventor’s Help Line Feedback

By: Joseph O'Brien

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Double-Decker Minivan

As you pointed out, this may be a sure sell in England, but we’re afraid the resulting lawsuits would drain away any potential profits. Regular (single-decker) minivans already have a high tipping potential. The double-decker would be a top-heavy death machine, liable to blow over at the smallest gust. We’d see them rolling like tumbleweed down our highways and byways.

Sausage-Link Fence

Any purpose the fence aims to serve would be undermined by the fact that it is made of sausage links. For instance, your dog would no doubt eat his way to
freedom and neighboring dogs would eat their way in. Also, in the summer months, the aroma of sausage baking in the hot sun would likely attract buzzards. One solution would be to shellac each individual link, which would preserve the sausage and make it inedible. Another solution would be to ditch the idea altogether, which is what we recommend.

Edwardian Beachwear Line

The sunglasses versions of the monocle and pince-nez are well-designed updates on old accessories, and the flip-flop spats seem functional enough, but we
suspect that even the most discriminating individuals abandon such formalities when it comes to a day at the beach. The appeal of such a line is simply too narrow, even for a specialty catalog item, as you suggest.

Cigar-Store Cowboy

You’re being overly optimistic in thinking that any tobacconist with a wooden Indian in their shop would automatically want a wooden cowboy as a companion piece. In fact, you’re mistaken. Native Americans introduced tobacco to
Europeans, which explains the Indian’s inherent connection to cigar stores. The cowboy, on the other hand, is connected to the Indian via gunplay and bow-and-arrow battles. The presence of both a cowboy and an Indian in the same store would create a friction that would be bad for business.

Small Yellow Gift Boxes, Wrapped With A Red Ribbon, That Explode When Opened

It’s true that kids who grew up enjoying the shenanigans of Jokey Smurf would very likely be interested in this toy. But we’ve got to think of the victims rendered limbless by the young pranksters using your invention. Just because it’s funny in a cartoon doesn’t necessarily mean that it would be funny in real life. We know that you have a lot riding on this idea and that you expect to see yourself “laughing all the way to the bank” once it hits the market. But, as an aspiring inventor, it is well to remember not to put all of your eggs in one basket (or one yellow gift box), because you never know when it’s all going to blow up in your face.

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Unanswered Missed Connections

By: Ryan Kennedy

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Cook County Prison Complex. You: muscular, facial scars, double homicide in cell 203. Me: tall, ponytail, double homicide in cell 223. Maybe we can bench-press together. Send me a sign.

Marie Model 103-P, you were our robotic maid for two years. I fell in love with your artificial intelligence and stainless-steel hips. My wife recently left me. Maybe we can meet for dinner. Activate your sweet vocal processors and call me.

Chicago Public High School. You: skinny, nerdy, locked inside your locker by one of our stronger classmates. I watched you adapt to your new environment by settling down, starting a family of your own, and declaring yourself “mayor of Lockerville.” When you get out of the locker, call me for a soda pop.

Looking for someone to watch television with. Just lost my cable and I would really like to watch my shows at your place. Really don’t want to talk, just watch. Prefer ER, Matlock, The Real World, BattleBots, and anything with Gallagher. Call me.

Irving and Ravenswood. We were lurking in the shadows. You: a young flesh-eating zombie with minimal muscle atrophy and most of your limbs intact. You offered me a bite of warm brain. I accepted and couldn’t ask your name with a mouthful of frontal lobe. Please call me and we’ll talk over some coffee?

Pinebrook’s Annual Thanksgiving Orgy. You: shy, blond, and wearing a strap-on. Me: submissive, Slayer tattoo, and wearing a green ball gag. Wish I could have said hi.

You were the girl in the red dress at the ER with the massive head wound. Sorry your prom date turned out to be a total dork. Would love to meet again. Hope recovery was quick.

We met at the 2004 Final Fantasy Convention. You were dressed like Yuna from Final Fantasy X. I said, “I like your Yuna costume from FFX-2,” and you immediately corrected me. I was too ashamed to ask for your number. Call me. I will boost your stamina and health.

We were feeding on decaying organic matter. You: the gorgeous maggot in the orange tabby’s left eyeball. Me: the maggot in the other eyeball. I peered across the golden bridge of that feline’s nose and our eyes met. Too stunned to say anything. Should have asked you to catch a bite of decaying organic matter.

The dude with the monocle at the Empty Bottle show last weekend. Seriously, call me.

Last Saturday, I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. You: blond, high heels, loop earrings, seventh thumbnail from the bottom on Skank-Wank.com. I have a good feeling about our future. I’m thinking three children and a dog?

Um, maybe a few weeks ago on, uh, Michigan Avenue around, say, rush hour. You were, hmm, looking very beautiful and with some, uh, friends — or maybe not? Me: stunning muscleman wearing something expensive — definitely not creepy-looking. Please call me. I’m lonely. Anyone, please call. Really, I mean it. Anyone?

Two weeks from today at Clark and Addison you will be wearing a green hat and eating ice cream. Me: a time traveler wearing a tuxedo. You will say hello, but I will be too nervous to respond. Please do not think that I am being a jerk. No matter how many times I travel back to that moment, I still get it wrong. Next time please ask for my number.

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Shot List for Britney Spears’s Next Music Video: Sacrifice (For My Fans)

By: Timothy Cooper

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Set: Middle Eastern–looking desert with nearby oasis and lots of palm trees.

Intro

0:00–0:04 Fade in; we see Britney from the back, being born in a manger. (Note: Make sure this is hot but still tasteful.)

0:05–0:07 Introduce main characters (all played by Britney in different wigs), including: tabloid-vilified Britney; tragically-distant Britney; introspective-and-surprisingly-well-read Britney; never-had-a-childhood Britney; only-wants-someone-to-love-her Britney; and just-once-I’d-like-to-go-out-and-buy-a-Caramel-Macchiato-at-Starbucks-without-anyone-noticing-like-any-other-normal-person Britney.

0:08–0:10 Establishing shot of booty-shaking next to the oasis.

0:11–0:13 Giant crowd chasing Britney as she tries to go about a normal day of shopping.

0:14–0:20 Energetic booty-shaking segueing into near-maniacal booty-shaking.

0:21–0:25 Booty-shaking while clad only in a thin layer of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese sauce. (Note: See if we can secure product placement compensation here.)

0:26–0:28 Britney collapses from extensive booty shaking.

Verse

0:29–0:31 EMTs rush Britney to hospital, where she’s given an IV.

0:32–0:35 Britney undergoes cardiac arrest and flatlines after enthusiastic fans raid the hospital and steal her IV bag to sell on eBay.

0:36–0:39 Optional shot of doctors doing that gross electrocution thing to Britney’s ample chest with those paddle things.

Hook

0:40–0:42 Britney’s soul rises above her body. (Note: Make sure this is synched with the hook.)

0:43–0:45 Fans weep at her bedside.

Chorus

0:46–1:00 Britney’s funeral; over 1 billion people in attendance (Note: Might need to use CGI for this one unless we can get a lot of extras).

1:01–1:05 Britney’s body is interred at Arlington National Cemetery. (Note: Check on this — it might only be for soldiers and stuff. May have to add backstory to make it more obvious that Britney died serving her country.)

1:06–1:10 Britney’s tombstone is stolen and sold on eBay.

1:11–1:12 Three days pass; darkness descends upon the world and national production slows to a halt. (Note: Crow could be used to demonstrate country’s collective pain and landscape’s desolation.)

Verse

1:13–1:20 Britney rises from dead in burst of heavenly light. (Note: Could be controversial; prepare alternate clip of her in nun’s habit just in case.)

1:21–1:49 Bird’s-eye view of Britney lifting her eyes on high and reliving her life in flashback, thinking what she would have done differently.

Bridge

Note: The next four shots should be filmed in black-and-white to denote seriousness.

1:50–1:55 Britney takes singing lessons and a music theory course. (Note: Is there such a thing as fast-motion? If so, film this in that.)

1:56–1:59 Britney goes back to school and studies the classics. (Note: Definitely Ovid, Thucydides, Aristotle, Tacitus, and Herodotus, plus maybe a few Christian writers of late antiquity if we have room.) Time slows down.

2:00–2:00 Britney teaches illiterate children in Mozambique to read; time stands still.

2:01–1:50 Britney focuses on something other than herself; time moves backwards.

Rap Break

1:51–2:10 Cameo/rap duet by William Hung and Chingy, featuring quick shots of “bling,” “ho’s,” “biotches,” “ice,” “gats,” “Cristal,” “crack cocaine,” and whatever else the kids are into these days.

Hook

2:11–2:21 Long tracking shot of Britney crucified on the cross of the intersection of the public’s expectations (vertical beam) and her intensely private persona (horizontal beam).

2:22–2:30 Matrix-style revolving shot of Britney pleading for forgiveness for being super-hot.

2:31–2:40 Britney plays compassionately with those really skinny children with big bellies you see on infomercials sometimes.

Chorus

2:41–2:48 Dance interlude involving “hot” shepherds.

2:49–2:55 Britney logs onto Friendster; sees she has no new messages.

2:56–3:02 In a cleansing shower of righteousness, Britney repents for her success, clad only in a strategically fitted Middle Eastern–style bikini.

3:03–3:04 Quick cuts of Britney saving humanity from threat of Mutually Assured Destruction; encouraging self-esteem among girls ages 13–25; joining Outward Bound; brokering an Israeli-Palestinian peace accord that works; smoothly handing over Iraqi control; inventing an efficient desalination process for third-world populations; breaking ground on the new Britney Spears Johns Hopkins AIDS Research Institute; penning a Pulitzer Prize–winning picture-book “prequel” to Anna Karenina called Santa Anna Karenina; and getting married to someone who’s never heard of her.

Closing

3:05–3:07 Britney wakes up; realizes it was all a dream; smiles contentedly.

3:08–3:10 Snap zoom-out to see she’s actually trapped inside a TV, a victim of her own success. (Note: This is ironic.)

3:10–end (3:15) The TV is stolen by her fans and sold on eBay; fade out.

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