The Battle About Nothing

Gonzo Kramer fingered a jovial TV tune on his bass guitar, hoping for an audience of some kind in this tiny New York apartment. But alas, all the attention was on his three whiny friends in the kitchen, Jerry Stonefield, George Katana, and Elaine Berretta. No matter how ordinary the topic was, there remained no shortage of comedic observations or general complaints about it. The more they bitched, the harder Kramer’s bass playing became. It had nothing to do with being heard, but everything to do with wanting to slap his friends instead of a bass guitar.

The wavy-haired Jerry Stonefield held a jug of milk in his hands and asked, “Why is it called two-percent milk?! It’s a hundred-percent full when you buy it. It should be called a hundred-percent milk! And why is it so funny when Oval Teen dissolves in it? And why is it called Oval Teen? The jar is round. The teenagers who drink it become round. It should be called Round Teen!”

This earned a corny laugh from anybody not named Gonzo Kramer, who slapped his bass guitar with even more aggression. He could have played bagpipes, a kazoo, and crash cymbals and still wouldn’t have drawn a crowd.

All the attention now was on the horseshoe-haired, stumpy George Katana, who said, “I drank a whole jar of Oval Teen on TV once. I didn’t even put milk in it, I just ate the powder. I had powder all over my face and there were no napkins around. Whoever was responsible for shooting that footage cost me a relationship!”

“You should’ve just eaten soup, George,” said Elaine, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Soup is not a meal unless you crumble some crackers in it.”

“It’s the Bubble Boy’s fault anyways,” said George.

“No, it’s Newman’s fault,” said Jerry. “Everything is Newman’s fault! He’s not a mystery wrapped in a riddle! He’s a mystery wrapped in a Twinkie! There’s LESS to Newman than meets the eye!”

The kitchen drivel blended together and became more obnoxious for Kramer to listen to than any instrument he could have been playing. It didn’t matter how hard he banged his instrument, because it was his own head that needed banging against a brick wall if this conversation was allowed to continue. And then…he got an idea.

“I like Newman, but I don’t know if he’s sponge-worthy!” confessed Elaine before Kramer got up and smashed his bass guitar over her head, crushing her skull and splattering her brains all over the counter. The guitar wasn’t in any better shape since the neck broke off and the thick strings coiled up.

Jerry and George backed up against the fridge shaking in horror. Jerry yelled, “Kramer, what the hell are you doing?! You killed her!”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship with her,” confessed Kramer with an evil grin on his face.

George whimpered and stuttered, “Have you ever killed somebody before?”

Throwing the neck of the bass guitar on the ground, Kramer held out his bloodied hands and said, “What do you think, Junior? Have these hands been soaking in Ivory liquid?” He then wiped the blood all over George’s flannel shirt and Dockers pants. “Wait a minute…cotton Dockers! One hundred percent! If they’re not Dockers, they’re just pants!” In one fluid motion, Kramer ripped George’s pants off and left him trembling in his boxers and socks.

With Jerry unable to help him due to cowering in the corner, George begged, “Please don’t hurt me, Kramer!”

“Shut up, you whiny bitch!” yelled Kramer. “Fifty years ago, we would have had you upside down with a fucking fork up your ass! In fact, now that I’ve got you here…” He grabbed George by the ear and allowed the victim’s glasses to fall on the floor. George could scream all he wanted, but his trembling legs weren’t backing him up in his begging for freedom. Kramer dragged George to the open apartment window and bent him over the sill.

As George whimpered and squealed, Kramer let out a few yodels to taunt him before ripping off his victim’s underwear. “Aww, what’s the matter, you big baby?!”

“Kramer…I think it moved…”

“Get a life, you faggot!” yelled Kramer before smacking George on the ass. He spanked him a few more times until George’s naked butt was blistered and bleeding. “Hey, George! Are you sponge worthy?! Can your boys swim?!”

“For God’s sake, Kramer, let him go!” cried Jerry, huddling in the corner despite his small moment of bravery.

“You want me to let him go?! Okay! I just hope he doesn’t need radical reconstructive surgery afterwards!” Kramer shoved George out the window and it was only seconds after that the sound of crunching metal and glass echoed across the street. It was even more musical to Kramer’s ears than his bass guitar playing, but it was not nearly as boner-inducing as Jerry’s pleas for forgiveness in the corner of the kitchen.

Kramer slowly stalked towards his final victim and stood over him like a giant over a sea of frightened villagers.

“Please, Kramer, don’t kill me! I won’t tell anybody about this! I won’t even do it in my standup comedy!”

Kramer knelt beside Jerry and placed a hand on his vibrating, tear-stained arm. “And here I thought you liked edgy comedy. This is far more compelling than arguing about two-percent milk and whether or not soup is a meal. Aren’t you always complaining about how everything is too politically correct these days? Well, you’re being a snowflake right now!”

“Kramer, you murdered them!” Jerry wiped his leaky eyes with his other sleeve.

“Your audience was dead long before I smashed that bass guitar over Elaine’s head! Who gives a shit about two-percent milk?! Who gives two fucks about Oval Teen?! In fact…” Kramer pulled out a jar of Oval Teen from the cabinet and scooped up a handful. “This should help with your little crying problem.” He threw the powder in Jerry’s face and caused him to blubber some more.

Trying to talk over Jerry’s screams of pain, Kramer said, “You know why they should call it Round Teen?! Because your crappy comedy is like a circle! It just goes on and on and on! It never changes! It’s the same shit over and over again and I’m sick and tired of it! Do something edgy! Change it up a little bit!” He grabbed handful of Jerry’s hair and said, “Don’t make me come back here again!” Kramer then slammed the back of Jerry’s head against the cabinet. “Maybe that’ll scramble your brains enough!”

Months after the incident, Kramer never returned. Jerry’s brains did get scrambled. This was the wakeup call he never asked for. Quite frankly, nobody else asked for it either. Kramer sat in his jail cell watching TV one night when he saw Jerry debut new material on a late night talk show. He sported a shaved head and an older look (probably because of the beatings and trauma respectively), but he was definitely ready to charm the audience.

“Oh, people. They’re so important to you,” said Jerry. “You’ve got to be on your phone all the time because the people in your life are important. Really? They don’t seem that important with the way you swipe right by them like a gay French king.” The audience laughed as Jerry made exaggerated swiping motions with his finger. “Who pleases me today? Who shall I favor? Who shall I delete?”

“Okay, maybe I fucked him up a little too hard,” said Kramer to nobody in particular. “Can you go back to talking about Oval Teen?”

A prison guard knocked on his cell bars and said, “Gonzo Kramer? It’s time for your last meal.” And what did he get for a last meal? Soup with crackers crumbled in the broth.

“Soup is not a meal, damn it!” yelled Kramer. “Jerryyyyyyyyyyy!!”

Ice Cream

VERSE 1

I saw you eating the ice cream on TV

I broke up with you so no one would see me

Side by side with a piggish eater

You ranked lower than a careless cheater

I saw you with hot fudge on your face

I saw you with chocolate all over the place

I had to get away, please try to understand

It’s not you, it’s me; I’m breaking up the band

CHORUS

He’s the loser, she’s the victor

If she’s superficial, you don’t have to miss her

To the victor go the spoils

Is that enough to get your blood to boil?

VERSE 2

Join the party, it’s not totally awkward

The host himself made the final offer

He’s keeping his lips tight about the breakup

But there’s still no chance to kiss and makeup

You can read his lips from a mile away

“Let’s sleep together” is what he’ll say

One letter off and you’re like a volcano

Yet she’s the one with the wings and halo

CHORUS

He’s the loser, she’s the victor

If she’s superficial, you don’t have to miss her

To the victor go the spoils

Is that enough to get your blood to boil?

BRIDGE

Hop in the car and get out of the arena

For this disaster, you’ll have to call FEMA

Don’t worry about useless small talk

If worst comes to worst, get out and walk

EXTENDED CHORUS

He’s the loser, she’s the victor

If she’s superficial, you don’t have to miss her

To the victor go the spoils

Is that enough to get your blood to boil?

If this is comedy, your sense of humor is dark

You make slaughter sound like a walk in the park

Just another item on the list of failures

That ship has left and you’re the sailor

Judging Books

This past Father’s Day, I went down to Purdy to visit my dad like all good sons do on that particular day. Midway through the visit, he and my brother James wanted to know why I would call a book about pro-wrestling “Hardcore Hate”. Their main justification for disagreeing with the title was that it sounded too much like something a neo-Nazi would buy (probably because the word “hate” is closely related to racism rather than simply not liking your opponent). Of course, James’ alternative title “Barbarian and Doctor” was even worse since he obviously wasn’t even trying. But this conversation brought up a topic that I’m discussing tonight: judging a book by it’s cover or title. You hear people say all the time “Don’t judge a book by its cover”. While that may be an admirable slogan, people do it all the time with books while being encouraged not to do it with people. If you see an overweight teenaged girl walking down the street, don’t judge her body, because she might turn out to be a friendly person. But if you see a book that’s titled “The Dragon Prince” and the cover design shows a gun being pointed at a tiny kitten, that’s when you can start to worry. Come to think of it, there is a book cover that shows a gun being leveled a cute, cuddly kitty. It’s called “How Not to Write a Novel” and that image is supposed to illustrate a point: disgusting promotional tactics will get your manuscript shoved in the rejection box. It all goes back to a point I once made about hooking the reader in rather than making him wait for the hot action on a platter. Let’s take the book “The Sisters Brothers” for instance. For the book cover, somebody might see a moonlit background behind two sinister-looking people. Or if you look closely enough, you’ll see a skull with two hideous eye sockets. That’s fucking creative, people! I don’t know how good the book actually is (I haven‘t read it before), but with a clever cover like that, it’s a good start. You need another example? How about “Quiet” by Susan Cain? It’s a simple gray cover with minimal design, but it’s exactly what the reader wants to see. The book is about introversion and in order to achieve introversion, you need a quiet environment. A cloudy day with low barometric pressure is the perfect catalyst for a brief nap, and thus you have your quiet situation. If you followed that logic successfully, you’ll understand why Susan Cain’s simple book design is actually the best one for drawing readers in. Should we judge a book by its cover? Maybe, maybe not. But if I see a book on Amazon called “The Desert Maiden” and it shows a picture of feet being chopped off with a hacksaw, I’m skipping over it.

　

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

OLD MAN: Which candy bar has the commercial with swirling chocolate?

GEORGE COSTANZA: They all have swirling chocolate.

OLD MAN: Not Skittles.

-Seinfeld-