Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, when I woke up this morning I thought, wow, I am so tired of the same old outfit. So first person I saw in a suit: Bam! Knocked him out and took his clothes.&nbsp;
Ever since that moment, I knew I was destined for something greater. Like helping this poor kid escape a wrongful conviction. I know what you&rsquo;re thinking. Why should I listen to a lawyer who doesn&rsquo;t even know how to tie a tie? Well to that I say, get off my back, what are you my loan shark?
I actually had a cousin who did time. Real young up and comer, going to college, has a great girlfriend, all of it. In a random flash of rage he drives through 22 states, murders a high schooler in each one and keeps their fingernails on a necklace as a souvenir. You know how kids are. After time in the pen he can&rsquo;t get a job, can&rsquo;t go back to school, his girlfriend breaks up with him, he&rsquo;s screwed! If that&rsquo;s justice, then I don&rsquo;t know what to believe in.
Now I know what you&rsquo;re thinking again. The man you see before you isn&rsquo;t just some random wrong-side-of-the-tracks-teenager. His crime is much worse than murdering 22 innocent people. And you may be right. Or you may be wrong. Frankly, I have no idea. I just met him.&nbsp;
What I do have an idea about is this: an automatic tie-tier. It&rsquo;s a machine that ties a tie for you. So, wealthy ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please see me after the trial to discuss the investment opportunity of a lifetime.&nbsp;
That&rsquo;s a funny word, isn&rsquo;t it? Opportunity. Op. Ro. Tune. Ity. Sounds weirder the more you say it. Well jurors, that is what you would be robbing this man of. A life of opportunity. This man could be anything. A lawyer. A prisoner. A middling employee for a tie-tying startup. But if you convict him, he could only be one of those things. And that&rsquo;s just unconstitutional.&nbsp;
In conclusion, even if this hasn&rsquo;t convinced all of you, that&rsquo;s okay. Because when you go into that room, I only need 7 of you to outvote the others. Or 6 of you to tie, which I would also begrudgingly accept. You know who you are. Do the right thing.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, when I woke up this morning I thought, wow, I am so tired of the s...

Closing Argument

<div class="page" title="Page 30">
<div class="layoutArea">
<div class="column">
This guy Brian showed up in my shower last night. The water wasn&rsquo;t on, he was just reading a comic book in there. Turns out he&rsquo;s my guardian angel. He&rsquo;s all like &ldquo;hey, I&rsquo;m Brian, and I&rsquo;m here to show you how kick-ass life can be.&rdquo; He calls it livin la vida Brian.
Cut to thirty minutes later, Brian&rsquo;s just taught me like three different karate moves. Karate is a big part of his lifestyle. He convinces me that we&rsquo;ve gotta go try these out on some people. I&rsquo;m like, good idea, but I&rsquo;m a beer and a half deep. And he&rsquo;s like pfft, a little drinking and driving never hurt anybody.
It&rsquo;s not until he calls 911 from my phone just to get all smug and say &ldquo;God is dead, and the boys in blue killed him&rdquo; that I start to think Brian may be kind of a bad influence. I&rsquo;m trying to remember how we even met, but I get distracted cause he asks me if I want to see a magic trick. I&rsquo;m a sucker for magic, but I want to play it cool, so I shrug all casual-like and say &ldquo;yeah, whatever, if you&rsquo;re into that type of thing I guess.&rdquo;
He snaps his fingers and bam: three tickets to the local high school&rsquo;s production of the Wizard of Oz appear in his hand. Brian and I look at each other and say &ldquo;oh hells yeah!&rdquo; in unison. Then we slap five. But wait! Why do we need three tickets if there&rsquo;s only two of us? Well, Brian&rsquo;s one step ahead of me. Snack chair. That&rsquo;s right: roast lamb, rotisserie chicken, fettuccine alfredo-it&rsquo;s enough to fill a whole chair plus the arm rests.
So we&rsquo;re in the auditorium chowing down, and you&rsquo;ll never guess who&rsquo;s playing Dorothy. Give up? It&rsquo;s my dumbass niece, Rebecca. Regardless of her dumbass status though, I have to admit, she has some really cool shoes.
</div>
<div class="column">
So I go see her after the show. I don&rsquo;t bring flowers cause Brian says they&rsquo;re girly, but she seems to appreciate the leftover alfredo sauce. Her parents give me the same old rigamarole as always: &ldquo;oh, dur, you&rsquo;re not allowed to be within one hundred feet of our daughter, dur.&rdquo; Brian, guardian angel that he is, recognizes the verbal assault and responds with a physical one. Wham bam, triple roundhouse crane flat-hand strike. Suddenly they&rsquo;re on the ground. Cowering. Like baby birds.
Anyway I guess that kind of explains why I&rsquo;m here, in court for assault, driving while intoxicated, and resisting arrest. Pretty simple misunderstanding. Brian disappeared using one of his classic smoke bombs right after that, but he&rsquo;s the guy you want. I may have been drinking that night, but you know what I&rsquo;ve learned the real drug is? Peer pressure. Not guilty. (Bangs personal gavel I brought from home.)
</div>
</div>
</div>




This guy Brian showed up in my shower last night. The water wasn’t on, he was just reading a c...

New Best Friend

Good morning Vietnam! No, it's not Robin Williams. I know everyone gets excited every time I do that because they think zombies are real. Don&rsquo;t worry though, because I&rsquo;m just as good. It&rsquo;s me again, Andrew Stevens, reminding you all that I get to do the announcements for the next month because the principal hit me with his car. You losers wish you had two punctured lungs.
Okay now everyone rise and repeat after me: I pledge allegiance to Andrew, who has immunity from disciplinary action, and to the power trip that he is currently on, one student body, under him, indivisible with dopeness for all but especially me. And I better not hear about any of you assholes kneeling again. I&rsquo;ll be a vet in 3 years. The animal kind, but still.&nbsp;
Lunch today will be scattered fistfulls of ground beef for you and 3 cornucopias of delectable sweet treats for me. I would offer you guys some but I like watching your faces as I throw each piece real high up and see if I can catch it in my mouth. This part is honestly more for me than for you.&nbsp;
In other news, prom is coming up, which brings me to the most important part of the announcements! Stacy, will you be the queen to my king? Oh fuck. Oh fuck! I forgot I can&rsquo;t hear you. I assume you said yes so I&rsquo;ll see you at 2:00 pm sharp. We have to leave a little early because I don&rsquo;t have a car so it&rsquo;ll probably take a little longer on my tandem bicycle. It&rsquo;s actually usually super fast but got a bit mangled when Principal Asshole knocked me off of it. Don&rsquo;t worry, I already know where your house is.
Now, to end the announcements as I do every day. Holding my breath as long as I can to remind the principal what he did to me and my lungs. Mfhpph&hellip;.hmsh&hellip;urghmhp&hellip;hell yeah. 7 seconds. That&rsquo;s a new record. Anyway, I have to get back to the parking lot. I&rsquo;m trying to extend my streak with a few more broken bones. Goodfirst-period Vietnam!

Good morning Vietnam! No, it's not Robin Williams. I know everyone gets excited every time I do that...

Morning Announcements

<ol>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">Children under the age of 14 may not use the pool without a parent or guardian present, unless they are named Robert because we can&rsquo;t stop him.&nbsp;</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">No more than 7 normal sized people or 1 Robert sized child in the jacuzzi.&nbsp;</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">No running. Physicists believe accelerated speeds near Robert may cause orbit.&nbsp;</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">If a lifeguard brings out the fishing net, Robert is drowning. Clear the pool.&nbsp;</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">The sound of a forklift means Robert has beached. Make way.&nbsp;</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">Should Robert choose to breaststroke, watch in awe. He&rsquo;s weirdly good at breaststroke.&nbsp;</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">No turquoise bathing suits. Turquoise is Robert&rsquo;s color.&nbsp;</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">If it begins to thunder, exit the pool and stand in the shade of Robert&rsquo;s mass. He is benevolent when treated with respect.</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">Do not swim near Robert when he&rsquo;s playing hungry hungry hippo.&nbsp;</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">Shower before entering the pool. Be aware that the pool is Robert&rsquo;s shower.&nbsp;</li>
</ol>


Children under the age of 14 may not use the pool without a parent or guardian present, unless the...

Pool Rules

—Oh, just a little crater in Roswell.
—Well I’m from New York, but every summer we crash in Area 51.
—Yeah, my father had the same landing coordinates. My grandfather too.
—Imagine landing in a cornfield! Oh, you landed in a cornfield? No, that’s great, I thought about landing in a cornfield too.
—No yeah, I went to a boarding spaceship.
—My crash site? It’s this darling, little, boutique, impact crater. It’s on this island off Cape Cod.
—My dimensional displacement counselor wanted me to take a gap eon before choosing an impact site. So enriching.

Oh, just a little crater in Roswell. Well I’m from New York, but every summer we crash in Area 51...

How Ivy League Aliens Respond When You Ask Where They Crash Landed

—Okay. Focus. You’re your own last line of defense. Can’t let them steal me. See something; say something.
—247th conformist saying, “the eyes follow you around the room,” today. Imagine if these puppets knew the truth.
—248th sheep. Baaa.
—Boo! I totally got that guy.
—I wish, just once, someone would comment on my personality.
—If the coke I’m doing right now makes my pupils dilate, is that gonna mess with this third grade class’s sketches of me?
—Had that dream again where Lisa and I swap places, and she looks through my eye holes, and everyone’s like, “Wow, The Mona Lisa looks really different today,” and I’m just sitting there trying and failing to do the smile, and then terrorists bomb the Louvre. I wonder what it means.
—Everyone thinks her smile is so cute. I could do that if I wanted.
—20 goddamn years on this job and still no lunch breaks.
—I should unionize with the guy
who stands behind Van Gogh
and the people behind those
creepy farmers in American Gothic.
—I wonder if the people behind the creepy farmers are holding hands back there.
—That would be kind of sweet.
—I wonder if they’ve ever fucked
—Ew, no! Stop thinking about that. C’mon man.
—When that one art historian told that other art historian that my eyes “follow you around the room,” and then the other art historian was like, “no idiot, that’s just basic portrait technique,” I really wish I had jumped in on behalf of the first art historian.
—What the fuck! What the fuck! That kid just touched my boob! Did anybody see that Security?
—I’m pretty tired. I’m sure no one will anyone notice if I just take a little... nap...
—FUCK FUCK WHY IS EVERYONE SCREAMING?

Okay. Focus. You’re your own last line of defense. Can’t let them steal me...

Thoughts From The Guy Who Stands Behind  The Mona Lisa All Day And Looks Through The Holes Where The Eyes Used To Be

War Horse is very fast and strong. He is good Horse. War Horse knows he is good because Captain Jeremy says so. But even good Horses sleep outside sometimes, like when Captain Jeremy is too busy with Other Captains or women to cuddle War Horse. This makes War Horse cold in body, and also heart.
I am War Horse. I was not sure when writing first paragraph, but since then I have begun to understand concepts like individualism and the use of the first person. I still no understand math.
Sometimes Jeremy brushes War Horse and gives me raspberries. This is not like real raspberries, like humans eat. More like an affectionate way of going “bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh” with his lips into my neck and stomach regions. Then he says “I love you” so quiet that no Other Horses can hear. War Horse does not like this. War Horse would prefer real raspberries.
Other Horses, like Big War Horse, Small War Horse, and Donkey, all say the same thing. “Man, he is
playing with you, dog,” they say. I ignore them because I am not a dog. I am a Horse.
Whenever War Horse confronts Jeremy about keeping relationship behind closed stables, he says
“woah!” or “settle down there.” Or, least favorite, he will say something like “you just have to know how to
connect with them” and then wink at blonde whore he has brought. And it’s like: we all know she is prostitute Jeremy. Me and Other Horses all know. Just stop.
War Horse is getting old. Other Horses tell me so, and even Captain Jeremy, when he wants to hurt my feelings. I just hope I marry before I pass. And I hope Captain Jeremy is my bride.

War Horse is very fast and strong. He is good Horse...

War Horse

When this reporter first learned about the Vietnam War in Ms. Johnson's seventh grade history class, I thought wow, what an intellectual force of a woman. In school I was sexually attracted to every single one of my history teachers because I loved the idea of them having sex with me. The point of this paragraph is to establish that, while the Vietnam War may have caused rampant PTSD for some, for me it has always been associated with fond memories and erections.
Flash forward 8 years and I’m working for the Harvard Lampoon as a full time journalist in the field. In very poor taste, Editor-in-Chief Bokil decides to send me to Kiev to gather some pictures to write funny captions under. Then my cab took a wrong turn on the way to the airport and I woke up in Vietnam.
My first few hours of ‘Nam were, frankly, lovely. Picture this: you’re sipping a mimosa beachside, a beautiful man on your right, and a less beautiful war memorial on your left. You feel just like a real life American GI but without all the violence and trauma. You even take a few pictures while you’re there, mostly of this lump on your back, but at least they’re HD resolution.
I should probably do my job, so I grabbed the nearest Vietnamese person I could find. When asked if “‘Nam was actually that bad,” the public provided me with answers like “no English, sorry” and “fuck you American, give me your wallet.”

When I showed Mr. Bokil the transcripts from my interviews, he said something along the lines of: “you’re 
fucking&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
really&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
incredible&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
SEH&nbsp;&nbsp; 
I&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
respect you&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 
you&nbsp;&nbsp; are <s>from</s> [for] Lampoon.”
Inspired by his silver tongue, I set out for Harvard ROTC training camp to collect a few statements from the other country involved in the conflict. When asked about their experience in Vietnam, our soon-to-be veterans explained that “you don’t have to salute us every time you say something” and “stop following us please.” A man wearing nothing but an American flag commented “no siree, not bad at all, we whooped ‘em real good,” but that may have just been Richard Nixon.

If I’m being honest, none of those interviews were useful. Beyond veterans, families who lost people, and the Pentagon Papers, the lack of available primary sources has made it impossible to render an academically sound conclusion to the titular question of this article. But it was probably like pretty mid.

When this reporter first learned about the Vietnam War...

Lampoon Investigates Was Nam Really That Bad?

Spotlight on a bale of hay. I clomp in, slowly, pausing just outside the circle of light. I step forward.

“You’ll never amount to nothin’, Chesnut!” That’s what Mama always said. She always told me I was chasing a wild dream—that Broadway wasn’t built for a horse like me, and that I wasn’t built for it. I knew she was wrong. At night, I would watch Billy Eliot on the TV through the window of the farmhouse. I knew that one day I would soar. I would fly. Just like Billy.

You know what Pa’ said when I finally left that hick farm? He told me to just keep running. “Keep running til your legs can’t run no more, Chesnut!”

I trot in a circle on stage to show the location is changing.

New York. 1999. The city bustles with energy. I’m paying rent for a fourth-floor walk-up I don’t live in because I can’t climb stairs. But hey, that’s just the Big Apple for you, right? Every day I trot to auditions. Secretariat? Rejection. The Horse Whisperer? Rejection. War Horse? Rejection. Regional Charmin Ultra-Soft commercial?

The lights turn green. Call. Back.

Regional Charmin Ultra-Soft commercial callback? Immediate Rejection.

I try to become an alcoholic, but no bars will serve me. “No arms, four legs, no service, Chesnut!”

I trot in a circle on stage to show time is passing. I look tormented as sound effects play. Voices echo: “You’ll never amount to nothin’, Chesnut!” “Just keep running, Chesnut! Keep running!”

I find myself sleeping underneath a bridge, letting horse perverts brush my hair in exchange for apples. I can’t go back to the farm. Not like this. I try to get a job, but no one wants to hire a horse that’s slept on the streets.

I lie on my back and snort slowly through my horse nostrils. That’s not air that I’m breathing. It’s ketamine. And it was running this town. Hell, no one knew what it was. We were kids. And the more we tasted, the more we wanted. I trot in a circle on stage to show I’m doing lots and lots of ketamine.

And then, just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom my phone rings.

“Hello? Ma? Pa? Is that you? I failed, Ma. I need help.”

“Are you sitting down, Chesnut?” It was the casting director for Charmin Ultra-Soft. I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

“I can’t sit down. I’m a horse.”

“Our lead actor kicked a man in the chest and is going to jail for 20 years. We need you.”

“I’ve Got a Golden Ticket (Slowed / Reverb)” plays.

You don’t make it in this town by waiting your turn. You clomp in. You neigh so loud the critics can’t ignore you. You shit in the elevator of the Lincoln Center and do as much ketamine as you can. And eventually, someone notices.

Which brings us...to now. To you. To me. To this stage. Lights come up. The line between actor and audience is blurred. We are all one.

Because when mama says, “The world out there ain’t built for horses, Chestnut,” you know what I say?

I say I’m gonna build one that is.

The stage collapses under my unbelievable weight.

One Horse Show

– Babe, today is the first day of the rest of our lives.
– We’re gonna be young forever.
– I can’t wait to spend our gap year together.
– Actually...I have something to tell you.
– I know what you’re going to say, and I love you too.
– I was going to say we can’t stay together next year. I applied to Mid-Sized New England Liberal Arts School.
– How could you do this to me? On the night of the big lake party?
– There’s more to life than this small town. I’m gonna get out of this place. I’m gonna go to college, and Hollywood, and maybe even the Eiffel Tower one day.
– You’re right. You need to follow your dreams.
– I’m gonna be a poet.
– You’re such an onion, babe.
– A set of nesting dolls.
– I’m going to miss you even more than my dead dad, and I was really sad about that for two weeks before I started focusing on my campaign for homecoming queen.
– Don’t cry, babe.
– Not a problem.
– We still have three months of sunset drives, drives at dusk, and driving between when it’s fully light out and fully dark out.
– Will you also play shitty original guitar songs at me as I stare blankly into space?
– As long as we can do over-the-pants hand stuff after.
– You can say that we did.
– This is gonna be the best summer ever.

Babe, today is the first day of the rest of our lives...

High School Movie

<ul>
 <li>Anyone who says Disneyland is the happiest place on earth has never been on the set of Masterchef Jr.</li>
 <li>The competition are all under 14 years old</li>
 <li>Kids under 14 years old are as mentally and physically weak as you’d expect</li>
 <li>You’re automatically the coolest guy in the room if you’re not a loser ten year old who likes to cook</li>
 <li>Gordon Ramsay doesn’t look a day over 70</li>
 <li>None of your opponents have the cognitive skills to defend themselves against rampant verbal abuse</li>
 <li>None of your opponents have the motor skills to defend themselves against stealthy physical attacks</li>
 <li>“Pussy-ass bitch” is inappropriate language for national television</li>
 <li>Masterchef Jr. is not broadcast nationally</li>
 <li>“Pussy-ass bitch” is inappropriate language for children who are pussy-ass bitches</li>
 <li>About half of the contestants are pre-diabetic</li>
 <li>The other half are actual-diabetic</li>
 <li>There’s food everywhere and you can eat any of it at any time if you’re high enough</li>
 <li>The on set safety team takes its job way too seriously</li>
 <li>The on set safety team believes blood in the food to be a safety hazard</li>
 <li>You can curse out children on a show hosted by Gordon Ramsay and no one will notice</li>
 <li>Cooking sure is harder than it looks!</li>
</ul>

Anyone who says Disneyland is the happiest place on earth has never been...

What I Learned On The Set of MasterChef Jr.

Robert: So, crucifying hard or hardly crucifying? Sorry, don’t mind me, I have kind of a twisted sense of humor. 
Jesus: (stops praying, exasperated) I am the son of God, King of Kings and Lord of Lords. 
Robert: I know. So what! 
Jesus: So please stop yelling “and women” in a sarcastic tone every time I finish a prayer. 
Robert: You’re not even going to ask me what my name is are you? 
Jesus: I know all things. I know your name is Robert. 
Robert: That’s not my name. 
Jesus: Yes it is. It’s the name my father gave you. 
Robert: If you know all things then you know what people call me... 
Jesus: I’m not calling you that, Robert. 
Robert: Dingbat. Because I ding Romans on the head with my bat. 
Jesus: (annoyed tonal muttering) 
Robert: That’s actually why I’m up here on this cross. All the dinging. Well, I guess more the crushed skulls, but that was mostly on account of the dinging. 
Jesus: Maybe you could just do your crucifixion and I could just do mine. 
Robert: You know what I always say, though, if you can’t take the— 
Jesus: If you can’t take the dinging make stronger helmets. I know. I know you always say that.

Robert: So, crucifying hard or hardly crucifying...

Guy on the Cross Next to Jesus

Time Traveler: People of Salem, stop this madness! These women are innocent. 
 Executioner: What? 
 Time Traveler: What you’re doing disproportionately discriminates against a subset of society on the basis of identity. 
 Executioner: (high-fives other Puritans) 
 Time Traveler: This woman committed no crime other than the crime of being strong and beautiful. 
 Executioner: The witch? Goodie Brenda? She burned down a school. 
 Time Traveler: Probably to protest the lack of schooling she received! 
 Executioner: Look man, when you’re stabbing other kids with pencils, the board pretty much has to consider an expulsion. 
 Time Traveler: I wish you could see the gender and sexuality office of my private New England liberal arts college. Your worldview is so small. 
 Witch: (pokes head out of rat-filled burlap sack) 
 Time Traveler: She’s alive! 
 Witch: To be honest, I’m like—I’m a pretty bad person. I kind of deserve this.

Salem Witch Trials

One Thursday, Little Walter Chairfork was trudging home from school, mind filled with the events of the day. He had spilled milk all over his “Dad Jokes Are How Eye Roll” shirt at lunch, right in front of his crush, Nancy, and her boyfriend. J-Dog, everyone called him. It was the type of nickname you could shout while doing sports or having sex — two things Little Walter had yet to experience. Little Walter’s idea of sport was catching Pokemon on his Nintendo DS. His idea of an orgasm was basically the same thing but under his covers at night.

After spilling the milk, the day had gone from bad to worse. As Little Walter looked up at Nancy, he had tried to ease the tension with a gentle quip. “Some weather we’re having, huh Nancy? It’s raining milk and cookies!”

The room, which had previously erupted in laughter at his mishap, fell silent. “What does that even mean?” asked Nancy. “You’re not even eating cookies. I mean, the tone was fine, but the premise just fell flat.” Then J-Dog spit on him and gave the lunchlady his autograph.

After the great D-Hall Debacle, as Little Walter had termed it in his head, he had failed his Spanish test. You see, Little Walter wasn’t the kind of bullied nerd who could find solace in the fact that one day he would go to a great college and make more money than his peers. He was quite dumb. Next to a bag of potatoes, Little Walter looked like a bag of rocks, which was the sort of thing he would often say about himself in an attempt at self-deprecating humor, but everyone else would just find sort of sad due to its accuracy. Little Walter was also fat. Obviously.

And so, Little Walter was trudging home from school after his worst day of the last three. In all honesty, bad stuff happened to Little Walter all the time. Today he had failed the Spanish test and spilled the milk. Yesterday, his father had died in a brutal car accident. The day before, the ice cream truck had run out of Chunky Monkey (Walter’s favorite flavor). It was while attempting to capture a wild Charizard that Walter tripped, fell, rolled 4 feet, and found himself staring over the edge of the sidewalk into a gaping void of eternal darkness.

Jump, a voice echoed.

“Come back here, Chawizard!” said Little Walter, still engrossed in his videogame. Little Walter had a lisp, which came out in moments of stress.

What the — are you even listening, kid? A mysterious voice tells you to jump into a gaping hole in the middle of your neighborhood and you’re worried about a Charizard? Oh God – I can smell you from here.

“Chawizard?!” The hole had gotten Little Walter’s attention with the word. “Holy guacamole!” he exclaimed. The boy was prone to replacing his swear words with foods. His mother had always told him swearing was “a sign of the devil.” His father had always told him “shut up, go to your room, but get me another beer first.”

Uhh – yeah, yeah that’s right kid, the void said. There’s a Charizard down here, and if you want to catch it you have to jump.

Little Walter hesitated.

What are you waiting for?

“I guess...” he sputtered. “I guess I’m just worried that when I jump my shirt will ride up on my stomach like it does in gym class on rope climbing day, and that J-Dog or Coach Applebee will be nearby and say I’m a “tub of lard” or “trying my best” like they do at school.

Jesus Christ.

“But I can get over that,” Little Walter continued. “And plus, I jump every day when I’m trying to play hopscotch during recess. One day I’ll make it to the tenth square without tripping!”

Um. Okay. Well, yeah. I’ve got hopscotch down here, and ice cream, and all the Pokemon you could ever want. And... your dad just died, right? I feel like that was kind of glossed over, but he’s down here too. And he wants to see you! And there are no bullies or gym coaches. Nancy’s here, and you didn’t hear it from me but she’s wearing her good chapstick – the cherry-scented one, and she looks just about ready to kiss behind the bleachers. So tuck that shirt into those neon athletic shorts and get jumping!

“Wait... Nancy wants to kiss me? I gotta get down there.” Little Walter was confused but excited. Something was beginning to happen in his pants and he moved to cover it with his Nintendo DS, which was more than large enough to hide the problem.

I don’t know, she was saying something earlier about being in love with the unphukular kid and wanting to turn him into Prom Queen? And how she knows everyone else would see his inner beauty if she could just give him an 80s rom-com-style makeover?

Little Walter asked what song the makeover would be paired with, and the void said Take on Me or maybe The Power of Love, and Little Walter was sold. “Stop drilling, you’ve hit oil!” he chuckled.

What does that even – oh, okay yeah. Come on down.

“I’ll be down faster than you can say ‘my dog has cancer and I’m worried I won’t be able to emotionally deal with her death!’”

There was a pause.

“I mean hey, whatever’s down there it’s gotta be more spacious than the locker I spend half the day stuffed in. So is there a trampoline or something down there ready to catch my fall?”

Again, no reply.

“Hello? Are you there? You’re sounding almost as absent as my father!”

Look man, I think I’d just – I think I’d feel bad if I didn’t ask: is everything, like, okay at home? All this stuff you’re saying... it sounds like... really sad? Like pathetic even? And it’s just, this whole thing I’m doing... usually I have to tempt people into abandoning their lives with all of these false promises about what’s down here, and you just seem sort of immediately ready to go.

“You got snacks down there?”

Oh my –

“I like twizzlers. You got twizzlers?”

No, I don’t “have twizzlers,” said the voice, exasperated. Little Walter patted the rim of the hole comfortingly, worried he had offended it. “Aw, that’s okay,” he offered. “I also like Twix and Kit-Kats. Any candy, really.” He flashed a gap toothed smile. Little Walter’s penchant for sweets had landed him with 17 cavities before the age of 12.

I can’t believe I’m saying this but I... don’t have a lot of candy actually. Maybe you should ease off the sweets? Could help with the acne? And you might do a little better in gym class. Do your parents really not pay enough attention to you to care what you eat?

Walter felt something stir in his chest. He looked at the ground. Or rather, he looked down at his stomach, then leaned forward so he was able to properly see the ground. It was true – his parents were usually too busy arguing to remember to make him dinner, and he spent many a supper on the curb of 7/11, forlornly stuffing lukewarm taquitos into his mouth. Most nights, he would follow it up with a pack of four of twizzlers. Sometimes he would stare at the intersecting red strands, imagining them to be two people in love – not like Mom and Dad. Not like him and Nancy. Or maybe they formed a piece of DNA, he would think. A double helix of a gene that could make him a different person. An even marginally less pathetic person. It was his greatest wish in the entire world.

And though he was generally relentlessly optimistic, Little Walter felt sad.

Oh... look kid, I wasn’t trying to bum you out. You know, it’s just like, you gotta at least try to improve your life. You know, try deodorant or something. You can’t expect magic holes to appear all the time and start offering you everything you’ve ever wanted.

Little Walter considered this. He did not consider things often. and it hurt his little walnut-sized brain.

And most of the time those offers of paradise would probably be a trick anyway. Just a ruse to – taking purely hypothetically here – harvest your soul or something like that. I don’t know.

“So you’re saying I... shouldn’t jump in.”

Well, yeah. I guess you shouldn’t. It was the first time the void had ever said this.

“And I should wear deodorant? That would make people like me more?”

Yeah. Correct.

And so Little Walter continued on his way, circumventing the void by carefully maneuvering around the street and through his neighbor’s yard. He hummed Take My Breath Away to himself, thinking of one day when he would kiss Nancy. He would be like “Hey Nancy, you take my breath away” and she would be like “you’re so handsome” and they would totally smooch, maybe even with tongue if the moment was right.

As Little Walter trotted home, he felt nothing but appreciation for the advice the void had given him. He imagined doing his Spanish homework that night without his classic “reverse pomodoro method,” which included 25 minutes of Pokemon for every 5 minutes of studying. He pictured making eye contact with J-Dog the next day in school without cowering, speaking without spitting all over the place, and walking through the cafeteria without spilling his food. And yes, oh yes – he would even put on deodorant, he resolved.

And as the pit of despair and desperation into which he had almost stumbled shrunk in the distance behind him, he remarked to himself that maybe – just maybe – he would eat one fewer taquito that night.

“Only 11,” he whispered to himself defiantly. “Only 11 taquitos tonight.”

Little Walter eventually moved to Hollywood and became who we now know as Tom Cruise.

Screaming Into The Void

HULL 
Integrity of RMS Titanic seems somewhat dubious due to series of giant holes throughout the bow, stern, and middle part of hull. Cited to reviewer by architect as “intentional design choice, it’s not like you would know anything about aesthetics anyway, have you ever even been to New York?”

GIANT PATCHES OF SHEET METAL STAPLED ACROSS HOLES IN HULL 
Not structurally sound. Insisted upon by previous reviewer who was asked if he even knew who architect’s dad was before being dismissed by architect. Previous reviewer can no longer find work in the industry.

ARCHITECT 
Self-described as “trans-disciplinary cultural provocateur working at the intersection of memory and materiality.” Makes 2 million dollars a year, reviewer was informed. By architect.

CAPTAIN’S WHEEL 
Not attached to rudder in any way, given rudder does not exist. Architect informed reviewer he wanted to be able to do “this” without the boat turning, then spun wheel all the way around like wheel of fortune and informed reviewer the “solution to the puzzle” was “F-U-C-K-O-F-F,” which in reviewer’s opinion seemed unlikely.

STERN 
Cited by architect as “resistant to all naturally occurring elements except ice.” And when reviewer was like “well ice is pretty common, especially on the ocean,” architect just sort of repeated reviewer in nasally sing-song voice that implied his concerns were invalid.

UPTIGHT BITCH 
What architect referred to reviewer as, despite being informed that reviewer does not appreciate name calling and actually used to let loose back in college quite a bit.

STATE SCHOOL 
Where architect mockingly assumed reviewer went to college. Architect went to Brown, apparently.

CRYING 
What reviewer did not do at any point during the review process, despite the shine architect thought he saw in the corner of his eye that was actually just the sun reflecting weird through the porthole.

SOME OF US GOT INTO SCHOOL ON MERIT, NOT LEGACY 
What reviewer should have said to architect. Yeah, that would’ve shown him. That’d have been perfect.

Integrity of RMS Titanic seems somewhat dubious...

Final Notes On Pre-Launch Structural Integrity

Intergalactic War is what me and my younger brother Terry play in the basement when we want to escape the sound of Mom and Dad arguing.

Me: Pew Pew! Got you with my laser gun, Terry! 
Terry: Did not! 
Me: Did too! 
Terry: Yeah, well I just hit you with my freeze ray! 
Me: (standing still) Curse you, moon aliens! 
Terry: And guess what? I’m gonna blow up the whole Earth with this epic laser. 
Me: Not if I blow up the moon with my epic laser first. 
Terry: Hey. Don’t do that. 
Me: Why not? 
Terry: The consequences would be cataclysmic. 
Me: (pretending to fire a large laser) Peeeeew-wowwwwwwww! Too late, just did, haha. 
Terry: The chunks of debris from the explosion hurtle towards Earth, promising unfixable terrestrial transformation and certain death for millions. 
Me: Jeez Terry it was just— 
Terry: The surviving Moon People mourn the losses of loved ones, children, and spouses, in the mere moments they have left before their own inevitable deaths. 
Me: Well, I guess my laser worked pretty good. Earth wins, right? 
Terry: Yeah, if you consider the melting of Polar ice caps, rising sea levels, millions displaced, skyrocketing immigration, post-apocalyptic dictator-based governance, and an unstable axial tilt a “win.” 
Me: I don’t understand where you learned all this. You’re seven years old. 
Terry: I’m what Mom and Dad are fighting about.

Intergalactic War is what me and my younger brother Terry play in the basement...

Sterling Hoyte.css-1xlpnei{margin:0px -15px 0px 6px;width:11px;vertical-align:-14px;}

Sterling Hoyte