Star Wars — Episode IV: No Hope (or: “Paging Dr. Skywalker”)

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

…there was a young boy named Luke Skywalker. Like many boys his age, Luke dreamed of becoming a Jedi, just like his father. He would stare up at the sky and dream of adventures among the stars. At first, all signs seemed to indicate that Luke was on the correct path for living his dream. His skills as a pilot were increasing daily, his latest achievement being that he could bulls-eye womp rats in his T-16; and they’re no more than two meters in length. However, things quickly took an unfortunate turn for young Skywalker.

It was as normal a day as any. Luke was raking the sand at his neighbor’s house, a weekly chore assigned to him by his Aunt Beru, when he was approached by an unsavory character whose appearance was not all that dissimilar from a relatively large shanty, or bodega. The overgrown slug-like creature spoke in a language unfamiliar to Luke, but his side-kick, an albino Rastafarian, translated. “Jabba says that you must do a job for him. Or you will suffer the consequences.”

“What’s the job,” asked Luke. “Will this interfere with my plans to become a Jedi Knight like my father?”

The shack sized fellow let out a bellow, and spoke again in his odd language. The Rastaman again translated. “Jabba says that he is your father.”

“No!” exclaimed Luke. “No! That’s impossible.”

“Ah-ha-ha,” laughed the Rastaman. “Stupid kid. Of course it’s impossible. Look at this guy! He’s like a small house. Between you and me, I don’t think he even has a penis. Hell, the only way to kill the son-of-a-bitch is to choke him with the chain of an enslaved bikini girl.”

Just then, the lean-to known as Jabba spoke in perfect English, with perhaps just a bit of a New Jersey accent, “I can understand you, you know.” He turned to look at Luke. “This guy’s my brother-in-law. Favor for the wife. You know. So listen, kid, you wanna make a few thousand credits really fast? I need you to take this box, get in your T-16 over there, and deliver it to a guy I know. Think you can do that? Do it once a week and you’ll have more credits saved up than you’ll know what do with. You’ll be able to finance your own rebellion.”

Being the naive farm boy that he was, Luke accepted the job. And so it began. Every week Luke would make a pick-up at Jabba’s palace, and then make a drop at a certain location. It was pretty simple. And easy money. That is until the day the stormtroopers picked him in his landspeeder doing 77 in a 45 MPH zone.

“May I see your identification?” asked the trooper.

“You don’t need to see my identification,” responded Luke.

“Excuse me?” said the trooper.

“I’m not the anthropoid you’re looking for,” said Luke.

“Outta the car, sir,” said the stormtrooper as he removed his sidearm from its holster.

“Move along,” said Luke.

“That’s it, you’re coming with me,” said the trooper as he set his weapon to stun.

When Luke awoke, he found himself in a holding cell. He could hear the voice of his Uncle Owen bellowing somewhere in the distance, clearly trying to barter for his release. But frankly, Luke didn’t want to be released. His chances of joining the rebellion now were no better than the odds of successfully navigating an asteroid field: approximately 3,720 to 1. And if he couldn’t pilot a fighter among the glimmering stars that surrounded those two magnificent suns, then life just wasn’t worth living.

But he was released. Not only that, but he was released a second time just three weeks later. After his first arrest, Luke knew he’d never be a Jedi, so instead he started mainlining Essence of Sarlaac — the trendy drug of choice among kids his age. He was back in the local lockup within a month. Things were going downhill for Luke, and they were going downhill fast.

Once he was released for the second time, Luke moved out of his Aunt and Uncle’s hole in the ground and moved into a much cheaper high-rise on the wrong side of the Sand People tracks. Down on his luck, and nearly broke, it didn’t take much for Jabba to convince young Skywalker that his T-16 skills made him the perfect candidate to transport large quantities of controlled substances across the sandy dunes of Tatooine. Jabba’s interplanetary contacts, Indiana Solo and some Wookiee named Huey or Louie, would drop the main shipment at a rendezvous point, Skywalker would pick up the merchandise and bring it to the designated warehouse. It was going to be a walk in the park.

Unfortunately for young Skywalker, it was a very short walk. Unbeknownst to Jabba, Solo, or the Wookiee, Imperial Agents had been wire-tapping Jabba for years. Luke Skywalker got caught in the middle. As you probably know, Tatooine had recently passed a 3-strikes/no-tolerance law. This meant that Luke had to serve no less than ten years in prison. There was no escaping his fate now, his destiny lay in a cell.

It was during this time of incarceration that Luke found an interest in medicine. He began meditating. He put his faith in his knowledge of an unknown force called pilates. It was with this strength of body and mind that Luke was able to transform himself from a youth-gone-astray to a full-fledged educated pre-med student. Within weeks of his release from prison, Luke was able to take his medical board exams. He passed with flying colors.

Luke encountered another setback, however, when he attempted to look for a job. Unfortunately for young Dr. Skywalker, he lived in a time when all medical professionals were actually robots. In fact, there hadn’t been a non-robotic doctor of the non-proctology practice in well over 300-billion parsecs. This left Luke with just one option: become a proctologist.

Oddly, due to many individuals’ fear of being examined rectally by a robot, business was booming for Dr. Skywalker. He became so famous throughout all of Tatooine, that people started referring to him as Dr. Luke. He even had his own self-help television show for a period.

Which brings us to the sad conclusion to our story. On one particular afternoon, Dr. Luke was treating a pair of Siamese twins. It seems that they were suffering from a pretty severe case of hemorrhoids, exacerbated by the fact that they were congenitally joined at the sphincter. These were his last patients of the day, so after treating them for their affliction, Dr. Skywalker suggested that he take them to the local cantina where he might buy them a couple drinks. In this age of disconnected robotic medical treatment, Dr. Luke found that taking the “human” approach was a nice touch that his patients always appreciated.  The twins agreed to accompany Dr. Luke to the cantina, and with their inflatable donut pillows, they set out on the short walk.

Upon entering the cantina, the trio was enveloped by the echo of the familiar music that became sort of the theme to this particular establishment. Luke always liked the tune, personally, but frankly, on karaoke night it got a little old. On this night, however, things weren’t fated to go as usual. Before they could even descend the steps into the main bar, the bartender yelled up at Luke and his companions.

“Hey, we don’t serve their kind here,” said the bartender sternly.

“Huh?” said a confused Dr. Luke.

“Your ‘roids. We don’t want them here. They’ll have to wait outside.”

That was the final straw. Dr. Luke reached beneath his white lab robe, next to his stethoscope, and he pulled out his lighted rectal examination sabre. His intention was to demonstrate to this bartender that his companions did not, in fact, have “‘roids” (as he so callously referred to them), for he had cured them of that affliction.

In a moment of tragic misunderstanding, however, Dr. Luke’s world changed in a heartbeat. First, he heard the bartender scream, “Help me Obi Wan Kenobi! You’re my only hope!” That was followed by a searing pain in his right shoulder. But when he looked down, he did not see his shoulder. Rather, Luke saw only the floor below; upon which laid his severed arm.  Standing over it was an old man in a brown robe.

Luke screamed out in pain, “My arm! What have you done, you fool?”

“Who’s the more foolish?” said Obi Wan calmly. “The fool? Or the fool who follows him?”

“What? What the hell are you talking about, old man!? You just sliced off my arm! You just sliced off my examining arm! I’m finished! Ruined!”

“Your eyes can deceive you, don’t trust them,” said Obi Wan.

“My eyes can WHAT!?” screamed Luke. “My arm is laying on the floor, just between your feet there. See it? What’s deceiving about that, you sick bastard?”

Luke moved as if to strike the old man with his remaining arm, but the old man was too quick for a weakening, one-armed doctor of proctology.

“If you strike me down, I will be become more powerful than you can imagine,” said Obi Wan.

“Shut up, psycho!” yelled Luke. “Get me to a doctor! Please! Leia! LEIA!”

Just then the sound of a blaster rang throughout the cantina, and Luke fell to the ground, dead.

“Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, kid,” said the shooter. “Besides, proctology is for assholes.”

With that, the cantina band began playing again. Obi Wan returned to his bar stool and ordered another Rob Roy. The Siamese twin/former hemmorhoid sufferers quietly backed out of the bar. And as the cocky shooter headed toward the exit the bartender called his name.

“Hey! Dr. Richard Kimball! Who’s gonna clean this up?”

The man just flipped a credit coin in the direction of the bartender.

“Sorry ’bout the mess,” he deadpanned. “But it was the one-armed man’s fault.”


Coffee? Tea? Bathroom cleanser?

The other day I was enjoying a cup of coffee. It was so good, I thought I’d have a second cup. I filled up my mug, and headed toward the computer to check some emails, but decided to hit the bathroom first. I went to set my coffee mug on the shelf that stands just inside the doorway of my bathroom. The top shelf is about five feet off the ground. As I set it down, my finger caught on the handle of the mug, shaking it violently enough to splatter half the contents of the mug over the side of the mug and down the shelves, onto the floor, and thus splashing up around the various bathroom amenities one comes used to having in American bathrooms. Specifically, the toilet, the toilet brush, a bathroom scale, a package of Scott Tissue toilet paper, and the lower shelves of the aforementioned unit.

Now I’m not sure if any of you have ever actually spilled coffee around the base and surrounding area of your toilet before, but lemme tell you this, were someone to walk into that commode before I’d cleaned up, the assumption they would make is one that I would prefer to avoid having made.

Remember the scene in the film Trainspotting where Obi Wan Kenobi, I’m sorry, Ewan McGregor, has to use the loo and he walks into the nastiest bathroom ever seen? Well my bathroom wasn’t that bad, but the way the coffee spilled and splattered lightly around the floor, the base of the walls, on the Scott Tissue toilet paper packages, on the toilet brush, up and around the base of the toilet, and on the toilet seat itself, one could easily come to the conclusion that I had a pretty unfortunate morning.

In retrospect, I should’ve taken a picture of it. Instead, I just cleaned it up. But a year from now, when you’re looking for a fresh April Fool’s prank, remember this one.

Another letter from a reader (The Mr. Boffo Incident)

I recently received the following letter from a fan:

Dear Mikey,
Please don’t laugh at me, but I’m one of 2,485 Americans that suffer from a very rare brain condition called Nogetus DeBoffo Disease. There is still very little known about this strange condition, but what we do know is shocking. Almost immediately upon the onset of the disease, the carrier of the condition ceases to maintain the capacity to understand single-panel comic strips such as Ziggy, The Lockhorns, Family Circus, and of course, the strip for which the disease is named, Mr. Boffo.

It is not known what causes this condition to take over the mind of such a select few individuals in this country. But a group of doctors working in conjuction with the Tribune Syndicate has developed a theory. It appears that through their extensive research, it has been determined that readers of the funny pages who tend to read their strips in a particular order have been exposed to a combination of eye stimulants that, individually, would be harmless to the human receptors, but combined, they form a deadly mixture of ink, newspaper grain, and adoloscent humor that can be crippling to the brain’s primordial lobe region.

But there is a separatist movement in the medical field which has seen a small cluster of doctors coming out against the aforementioned theory. This group of doctors, known simply as The Mary Worths believe that the problem is genetic. They believe that an extremely miniscule percentage of newborns are brought into this world missing one-twenty-fifth of their humor chromosome. The Mary Worths hope to prove this theory through extensive stem cell research.

The fact remains, Mikey, that I am one of the unfortunate souls who has spent his whole life traumatized by his inability to grasp those simplest of life’s little pleasures. And that pleasure is the single-panel comic. You can’t possibly know what it’s like to find yourself gathered around the office coffee maker as everyone admires the new Ziggy cartoon that someone posted on the company bulletin board. Faking a laugh can be a traumatic experience in its own right, and I challenge anyone to live in constant fear of the inevitible happening: “Hey there everyone, let’s see if Greg can tell us why this Ziggy cartoon is so darn funny! Greg?”

I can’t take it another day. So in a last ditch effort to keep from flinging myself into a wood chipper, I’ve enclosed a few single-panel comics in the hopes that you might be able to help me wrap my tiny little brain around them. I have no where else to turn. Please, can you help?

Not Gettin’ It Greg

Dear Not Gettin’ It,

It just so happens that this is a field in which I am a trained expert. You’ve come to the right place. Let’s get right to it.

Clearly, poor Ziggy lost his luggage. Upon inquiring about its whereabouts, he’s informed by the friendly customer support representative that his luggage was sent to another country. Once again, poor Ziggy finds insult added to injury when it’s determined that the French luggage collectors actually became offended at the sight of Ziggy’s luggage, and decided that the best course of action would be to throw it away, rather than send it back to the place from whence it came. This is funny for several reasons: 1) Ziggy just has no luck with anything, let alone luggage; 2) the stereotype that the French are arrogant snobs is perpetuated with some effectiveness; and 3) the woman relaying the information about Ziggy’s luggage is doing so with a high level of earnestness, thus providing a subtle undertone of implied irony. But really, it just comes down to Ziggy’s penchant for bad luck.

Moving on:

This one is particularly funny. Let us break down why. For starters, it is expected that the reader know and understand that Don Juan was a man well-known for his ability to woo and bed women on a regular basis. It is expected that the reader recognize that Don Juan was a master of turning a seductive phrase at the most romantic of moments, thus rendering his female prey unable to resist his charms. However, what cartoonist Joe Martin has done here is substitute his Uncle Leon for Don Juan. The first reason this is funny, is because Uncle Leon is a much funnier sounding name than Don Juan. Secondly, the reader is expected to infer that Uncle Leon is still lamenting about the missed field goal that cost his team the big game (presumably the missed 45-yarder by Mike Vanderjagdt which cost the Indianapolis Colts a trip to the 2006 Superbowl, a game ultimately won by the team at whose hands the Colts were dealt defeat, the Pittsburgh Steelers). Thirdly, this is not the sort of question one would normally expect a gentleman to ask a lady when he is attempting to win her affection. Finally, the ultimate punch-line occurs when the reader accepts that this alternate-universe that Joe Martin created is one in which a line about the what-should-have-beens of NFL football serve as a spoken aphrodesiac. Ah, if only this world was real, and our current reality just a cartoon.


Mr. Lockhorn has arrived home from work and he’s hungry. His statement implies that his wife, Loretta, isn’t much of a cook. That’s pretty funny.

Last but not least:

I think we can all relate to this one. What we’re dealing with here is a play on words. The author of the comic is drawing a comparison to real human life. As it happens, there are things out there called “gay bars.” These are establishments at which people of a certain tendency tend to gather. In this case, it’s assumed that dogs that don’t wear collars are considered a different breed of dog. They tend to sniff the butts of the same mutts, if you get my drift. They use the fire hydrant as more than just a deposit point, if you see what I’m saying. These are dogs that often travel in fudge packs, if you take my meaning. Therefore, it just makes sense that they should have their own drinking establishment. This is funny because these two collar-wearing breeder dogs have wandered into a bar in which they don’t belong. Good stuff.

Okay, one more:

Ziggy has been drinking and doesn’t recognize a quality television program when he sees one. In this episode of CSI: Sesame Street Big Bird was shot and killed while attempting to thwart a robbery at Mr. Hooper’s liquor store. But Ernie suspects that the case isn’t as cut and dry as that. With the help of The Count, Ernie discovers that there were one…two…three…four…FOUR bullet casings on the floor of Mr. Hooper’s liquor store, ah hahahaha! Ernie takes these to Oscar who determines that they were fired from the same small caliber, nickel-plated .22 caliber handgun that was discarded in his garbage can by a large, brown, furry, four-legged muppet with a trunk not unlike an elephant’s, and a tendency to be self-loathing and depressed all the time. Brothers and bail bondsmen Cookie and Telly Monster arrive at the home of one “Snuffy” Snufalupagus and inform him of their intention to present him to the authorities. Snuffy goes cooperatively, and is placed in a holding cell. While in the cage, Snuffy finds himself in a mortal tussle with his cell mate, Grover the Glove, known assassin. Grover was picked up selling counterfeit letter G’s in the alley. As it turns out, the bust was all a big setup. Snuffy finds himself with a shiv buried deep in his trunk as he’s ultimately killed by Grover. The blue assassin struck again before vanishing in into a cloud of chicken feathers. He’s not heard from again. Meanwhile, the post-mortem forensic results indicate that Snuffy was not the Big Bird shooter after all. And through a magnificent stroke of luck, Sesame Street officials stumble across a piece of red fur stuck under the fingerhoof of their dead Snufalupagus. Further tests reveal the fur belongs to one Elmo “Maddog” Timpowski. He’s brought downtown where he cooperates and gives the Sesame Street authorities a full confession. Sadly, after prison guards fail to subject “Maddog” Timpowski to a full body and cavity search, Elmo strangles himself with the human hand on which he has come to rely for animated body movement and well-timed, comic relief providing giggle spasms. The episode ends with a despondant Kermit the Frog unveiling the details of the tragedy to the local Sesame Street media. Elmo is survived by his mother, Elmo’s Mommy, and his uncle, everyone’s favorite former gameshow host, Guy Smiley.

I hope that helped. As always, feel free to drop me a line.

Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) – Smoker of fags (cigarettes)

There’s nothing I can say that will describe what you’re about to watch. Don’t deny yourself this. Seriously. Don’t.

It’s not short, but it’s not long. When you finish come back and praise me for sharing it with you, then watch it again.
(If it has problems loading, you can also click here to see it.)

Also starring in this clip are:

Thanks to the best drummer in Elmwood Park, Matt DeRosa for forwarding this my way.

High school metaphors and analogies.

This was forwarded to me by a friend.
So funny!

Every year, English teachers from across the country can submit their collections of actual analogies and metaphors found in high school essays. These excerpts are published each year to the amusement of teachers across the country. Here are last year’s winners…..

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

Dipping into the Negative Waves archives

I haven’t really posted anything significant in a little while, so I thought I thought I’d dive into the archives of Negative Waves and pull out one of my old columns. One of my friends didn’t know what the acronym KIT stood for. So I was reminded of this column I wrote in 2003 about signing yearbooks. It’s one of my earlier Negative Waves pieces, but it’s still one of my favorites. Hope you like it.

If you enjoy this, check out my archive at Negative Waves. There’s a bunch of good stuff there. There’s probably a bunch of crap in there too, but still.

(UPDATE: Unfortunately, Negative Waves and the Negative Waves archives no longer exist as far as I can tell, so these links won’t take you anywhere. But rest assured that Negative Waves was once a thriving community of talented writers. RIP, Negative Waves.)

Summer is quickly approaching which means that school is out soon. With the end of school, come yearbooks. With yearbooks, come catchy phrases to write in yearbooks. I have a friend who is a teacher in Houston, Texas. He asked me what he should write in his students’ yearbooks when they asked him to sign theirs. It was then that it occurred to me that there really isn’t any resource out there for teachers to consult when faced with this dilemma. Therefore, it is with great pride that today I will unveil the “Ultimate Guide to Yearbook Phrases for Teachers.”

Please, feel free to use these as you will. There is no need to give credit to me, as I provide this service for the betterment of my readers, not for my own glory.

Before reading the individual phases I have come up with for you, take a moment to understand a few things about yearbook signing in general. In fact, before I even get into that, I should point out that these phrases are in no way strictly for yearbook usage. Feel free to use these on office birthday cards, e-mail conversation threads, bathroom walls, or anyplace you feel that something like this might be appropriate. Please take care to recognize, though, that certain phrases might need altering to fit the medium into which you decide to share the phrase.

For example, let’s start with the phrase: “You were in my class? I don’t remember teaching you.” Now if you were going to sign a birthday card for a co-worker, it might read something like: “Not really sure who you are, but I’ll be eating your birthday cake.”

Now, getting back to the understanding of signing things (yearbooks, group birthday cards, wedding guest books, 8×10 glossy headshots) it’s important to recognize that people want to remember you for the rest of their lives. You have to go into each new signing thinking that you are the most important person in their lives. Sign like you are somebody. Imagine that when you’re rich and famous, your autograph could end up on eBay. The more clever and witty you are in your signature, the more your memorabilia will be worth.

Here’s an example of a signature I uncovered in my senior yearbook (note that it lacks a signature and anything indicating who this person is):

“Hey Mikey, it was great having class with you. You are the greatest person in this school. I can’t imagine having class without you, or even living without you for that matter. When it comes to all around great people, you’re it, man! It’s so cool to know that I can say that I went to high school with you. KIT, man. I mean it, we really need to KIT. Have a great summer!”

It seems like every single signature I got in my yearbook read just like this. I had so many people write the same thing over and over again that I actually had to get a second yearbook to accommodate all the people who wanted to sign my book. This is simply poor form. The signing of another person’s yearbook is your chance to live forever for that person. I already know I’m great, tell me about you. When I read my yearbook in 30 years, chances are good that I’ll still know who I am. I probably won’t, however, remember you unless you write something in my yearbook that makes me remember you.

Here’s an example of what I wrote in someone else’s yearbook. I’ve included some explanation for your benefit in parentheses:

“Hey, Dog. (I couldn’t remember this person’s name). Man, another year gone by, hoo-boy, eh? I tell you what, I’m so glad you had the chance to get to know me. (Remind them of how much they wanted you to sign their book). Boy, how ’bout that class we had with old Whats-his-name, uh? (I don’t remember ever having a class with this person, but I like to make them feel like I know who the hell they are). And remember that one day after school? Who could forget it? (I did. Don’t know if I ever saw this person after school or in school for that matter). Well, Dog, KIT (More on acronyms later), and stay coolio. (By adding the -io to the word cool, I’m protecting myself in case this person was never actually cool. By telling them to stay Coolio, you’re essentially telling them to stay something that they think might be cool, but if they’re not sure, they probably aren’t cool, so it’s ok, because you’re not telling them to stay cool at all, you’re just making up a silly word).”

So now you can sort of see how a successful yearbook signing would go. The above example works for student to student signings. Teacher to student signings are much different. Teachers have to be direct and to the point in their signings. Students should never expect to read something fluffy and trite written by their teacher. On the contrary, it should be succinct and to the point.

Here’s an example of something a teacher wrote in volume two of my senior yearbook:

“Mr. Fertig, if only every student could be like you….Signed, Mrs. Almanza-Sanchez-Zolanski”

So, without further ado, here is the Ultimate Guide to Yearbook Phrases for Teachers:

* You were in my class?
* You have no chance of succeeding in life. Have a good summer.
* I come from Chi-town, and here in Chi-town, we don’t sign yearbooks, we tag ’em, Shorty.
* If I were a tree, I’d be pine tree so that my fresh fragrance would cover up your awful stink you smelly little bastard.
* Can I get your mom’s phone number?
* If I were you, I’d stop talking anymore.
* Any chance your parents are split up? ‘Cause your mom is way hot.
* No one has ever peed their pants in my class more than you.
* It’s people like you that make me want to quit my job.
* You didn’t come close to passing my class. I just didn’t want to have to teach you again.
* Looks like I’ll be seeing you here again next year, Flunky McFlunk.
* I told those bullies to pick on you.
* Did you know I can’t stand children.
* I have your picture on my wall at home. It inspires me to hate all things child.
* I lowered your SAT scores.
* When I told you that you did a fine job on your science project, I was lying because your dad was there. It was the stupidest thing I’d seen since you brought in your pillow for show-and-tell. Dumbass.
* I have a pretty good feeling you’re going to turn out gay.
* I stole money from your jacket while you were at recess, sucker.
* You better be good at sports, cause you’re dumber than a fire hose.
* I’ve always wondered, do dorks know when they’re dorks? Cause you’re a dork.
* If you weren’t in seventh grade, you’d make a great date.
* I must have seen you eat your own boogers at least six times. I also saw you eat the dried boogers from under your desk. You sickened and repulsed me like I never have been. Have a nice summer.
* I’ll try being nice when you try being smart.
* (written to a boy) You’d lose your penis if it wasn’t sewn on to your vagina.

So there you have it. Sometimes even the shortest lists can still be the Ultimate Guides. A short list that should help out teachers across the country and of any grade level in the thankless task of yearbook signing. I provide this service out of love for teachers and I recognize that they hold our world’s future in their hands.

Some of you may remember the little acronyms kids used in yearbooks. Such as the one mentioned earlier, KIT, or Keep In Touch. These acronyms were shortcuts to phrases we all knew, so there was no reason to actually write the whole thing out. Below I’ve listed a complete guide to yearbook acronyms. This guide can be used by either students who need to brush up after a year off from yearbook signing, or by teachers who simply aren’t up on all the current phrases, or by parents who wish to decipher what their kids are saying to each other.


* KIT=Keep In Touch (the old stand-by)
* BFF=Best Friends Forever (a touching way to let your best friend know how you feel)
* HAGS=Have A Great Summer (not hard to figure out)
* TAS=Take A Shower (a subtle way to let the stinky kid know where he stands)
* NYWU=Next Year Wear Underwear (generally used by teachers and written for the exhibitionist Lolita that sits in the front row)
* YMIH=Your Mom is Hot (can be used by students or teachers)
* YHNCOSILSQN=You Have No Chance Of Succeeding In Life So Quit Now (again, most often used by teachers)
* TFTBJ=Thanks For The Blow Job (surprisingly, this is becoming more popular in male/male yearbook signings as well)
* SISYIYL=Sorry I Shut You In Your Locker (bullies often feel bad for their victims on yearbook signing day)
* RPYHWYPWOOT=Rockin’ Party You Had When Your Parents Were Out Of Town (this one’s pretty self explanatory)
* ETISYFIWTSOI=Every Time I See Your Face I Want To Spit On It (this is a special way to tell a person how you feel. This doesn’t always have to be a negative comment either, depending on what you’re into).

That concludes the incomplete list of yearbook acronyms for now. I hope you’ve enjoyed this service I’ve provided. It would please me greatly to know that teachers and students across this great land of ours are communicating properly through their yearbooks signings.

Until the next issue of Negative Waves, SMMIDGPFWT (Send Me Money, I Don’t Get Paid For Writing This).

A Christmas story sure to warm your hearts.

So with Christmas coming up, I thought that I should tell you the story of my Christmas last year. It was truly a special one. It all began when I went to the mall to get some last minute shopping done. It wasn’t going well, I kept getting distracted by the kids lined up to see Santa Claus.

Okay, so I was more distracted by the knowledge that I was so close to Santa, but couldn’t actually see him. They really do a good job of hiding him back in his little North Pole workshop. There’s not even a window into which an eager guy like myself can focus his peepers to get a little glimpse of the big man. It’s evil, really.

So, I did what I had to do. I waited in line.

C’mon, like I wouldn’t wait in line to meet John Lennon or Loni Anderson if they were letting kids sit in their laps. This might be a once in a lifetime opportunity. I mean it was Santa Claus!

So I waited in line. For forty-five minutes I waited. I got into a fight with the kid behind me because he said that Kenny from Southpark could beat up Meatwad from the Aqua Teen Hunger Force. I told him that he was outta his mind. Meatwad would kill Kenny!

His mom finally had to separate us, which was lucky for him, cause I was about to give him a knuckle sandwich. Fortunately, it was about then that a little elf, who looked like she had to be a 20-year old Phys. Ed major at a local college told me I was next.

“Is that your son?” she asked me as she looked at the kid whose underestimation of Meatwad’s intelligence and braun would surely come back to haunt him one day.

“Him?” I said with a snicker. “Ha, nooo. I’m here alone.”

“You’re here to see Santa by yourself?” she asked as she gave me the once over.

“That’s right,” I said. Then added, “But what time do you get off work? I’d love to take a little elf like you out for a drink after work.”

“Uhm, like, I work until Christmas. I’m an elf and we elves don’t get any days off until Christmas is over,” she said as she smacked on her Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum while looking disinterestedly toward the rest of the line.

“Oh, right,” I responded, “I get it.” And I gave her a little wink.

She lifted her arm gesturing for me to enter Santa’s workshop. I gave her my sultriest look as I walked past the velvet rope she had removed to allow me to pass. Then I turned quickly to the kid behind me and stuck out my tongue as I hurried toward Santa.

“Ho ho ho,” came the voice as I entered. It was him! “And how are we this fine day?”

I entered and closed the door behind me. “I’m fine, Santa. That’s a cute little elf you got out there. Maybe you could put in a good word for me.”

“Um, sure, sure.” Santa said looking past me. “So, do you have a kid with you?”

“Nope,” I said. “Just me.”

“Hmmm. I see,” said Santa. He looked around as if looking for some help.

I stepped toward him and slid myself right into his lap. I tried to sit gingerly, as I’m aware that I’m pushing 200 pounds.

“So what would you like for Christmas?” Santa asked with a voice that would have made you believe I was sitting on his chest and not his lap.

“What, am I crushing you Santa?” I asked.

“Actually, I am about to turn 78 in a month,” he said.

“Don’t you mean more like 478, Santa?” I said smiling. I wasn’t just some kid, I knew Santa had been around forever.

“Right, well, either way, maybe you wouldn’t mind sitting in that chair over there,” he said. “Every now and then Santa likes to have a face to face conversation.”

“Gotcha,” I said. I hopped off his lap and pulled up a chair so that we were sitting across from each other. I crossed my legs and leaned back like I was sitting down to chat with an old friend. It really was amazing just how comfortable ol’ Saint Nick can make a guy feel.

“So, now, what can I do for you?” he asked me.

“Well, you know, I’m not really here to ask for gifts,” I said. “I know your hands are tied in that department. I mean I asked for plenty of stuff when I was younger that you never delivered. Don’t get me wrong, you brought me plenty of good stuff over the years, I understand that every kid can’t get everything he asks for. I’m not bitter about it at all. But the fact of the matter is that I’m just not really here in that capacity.”

“Alrighty then — um, what’s your name?”


“Alrighty then, Mike, what is it I can do for you today?” he asked me.

“Well, I guess I’d just like to see how you’re doing, really. Is everything alright? I mean this world of ours just keeps growing and growing and growing. How is it that you can keep track of everyone? How is it that you can truly tell who’s been naughty and who’s been nice? I mean I had a girlfriend once who was really naughty, but I didn’t know that until it was too late. I mean I suppose you’ve got magic on your side, she just had crabs. But you see what I’m getting at?”

“No,” he said, staring at me blankly. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Let me ask you this, Santa,” I said leaning forward to get closer to him. “What is it that you want for Christmas?”

Santa just sat there staring at me. For a moment I thought he might have died.

“Santa?” I said, just to make sure he hadn’t.

“Yes,” he responded breaking out of his reverie, “I’m sorry. It’s just that no one has ever asked me that before.”

I smiled to him and leaned back to await his response.

“You know what?” he began. “I’d really like a really comfortable pair of boots. I mean these things are killing me. I’d also sort of like to get an iPod or something. Those trips all over the world on Christmas night can really be dull. By the time I’m done, I’ve got the sound of jingling bells in my head until Memorial Day. And I’d really like a nice bottle of good scotch. I mean I’m not talking Dewer’s or something. I’m talking about some 18-year oak barrel aged scotch. Something from Scotland, or Iceland, or Greenland or some place that has a land at the end of it.”

“How about Disneyland?” I asked.

“Oh! Ho! Ho ho ho!” he bellowed as he pointed at me. “That was a good one.”

We laughted heartily together for a moment, then as the moment slowly came to an end, we settled back into our chairs, staring at our legs as we contemplated the delightful exchange we’d just shared.

We sat in silence for a brief moment when the cute little elf stuck her head inside the workshop. “Santa, are you ready for the next little boy?” she asked.

“Um, no, not quite yet,” Santa said. “We’re gonna be a few more minutes.”

As she gave me an odd look and closed the door, I shot her another wink. Then Santa said, “Want some Schnapps?”

“I’m sorry?” was all I could say.

“Peppermint schnapps,” he said. “I always keep a couple bottles in my boots. Make days like this go by so much easier. Plus, it smells like candy canes. No one thinks twice.”

“Sure,” I said.

He reached into both of his boots and pulled out two bottles of Dr. McGillicutty’s peppermint schnapps. He tossed one over to me. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

I thanked him as I caught the bottle. We unscrewed our respective schnapps bottles and took a healthy pull.

“Santa, there’s a question I really need to ask you,” I said.


“Do you eat all the treats that kids leave out for you?” I asked.

He smiled, leaned forward to look at me closely, then gave me a look that seemed to inquire as to the seriousness of my question. “Are you nuts?” he said.

I took a swig on the schnapps as I waited for him to continue.

“Do you have any idea how many people would like to knock off ol’ Saint Nick? Father Christmas? Santa Claus? It’s a lot, I can assure you.”

I was stunned. “I suppose I never thought about that,” I said. “But who would want to kill you? All you do is bring joy and happiness throughout the world.”

Santa leaned forward and said with a whisper, “It’s the Jews.”

I almost shot schnapps out of my nose.

“Santa!” I said. “That’s just not fair assumption.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m not assuming,” he said. “In fact, a few years back I caught this one kid sneaking into his neighbor’s house and dropping rat poison all over the cookies they’d left out for me. Turned out he was jealous.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” I said. Having grown up in a predominantly Jewish community, and having a group of friends that include people of all races and religions I found myself offended.

“Please, don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of Catholics, Christians, Muslims, Buddists, and Pastafarians that’d like to get their hands on me as well,” he explained. “To be honest, it’s the Republicans that I’m most worried about. And besides, I’m actually Jewish. Not many people know that. As it happens, Mrs. Claus is Jewish, I converted. But my PR guy thought it would be best to keep that under wraps.”

“I gotta say, Santa, I’m just really not sure how to take all this information,” I said.

“Well take it for what it is, an old man a little high on schnapps talking with a new friend,” he said with a smile. Then he raised his schnapps bottle as in a toast and took a pull. I followed suit. “It’s a dangerous world out there these days. What with all the political correctness that everyone seems to be so concerned about following. There are some radical thinkers these days that would love to pick me right outta the sky with a hunting rifle. I’ve lost three Blitzens that way.”

“Oh my, that’s horrible,” I said.

“You’re telling me,” Santa said. With that, he laid his finger aside of his nose, then leaned forward and pulled another bottle of schnapps from his boot. He leaned back with a thump and stared absently into space. “Got a light?” he asked.

I hadn’t noticed, but he’d slipped a Winston in between his lips. “Sure,” I said. I hopped up to light his cigarette, taking care not to ignite his beard.

“Well, Santa,” I said as I slipped the lighter back into my pocket, “It’s been great chatting with you.”

“Mike,” he replied, “the pleasure has been mine.” He shook my hand and looked me right in the eye. He flipped me a wink and I turned to leave. As I walked through the door, I heard him launch into a coughing fit. I looked back to see his belly shake like a bowlful of jelly.

I waved good-bye as I exited Santa’s workshop. My face was glowing from a combination of the warm schnapps and the warm conversation. I knew then what my Christmas shopping for the afternoon would consist of, a trip to the shoe store for a new pair of boots, a trip to the Apple store for a fresh iPod, and a trip to Binny’s Liquor Depot to find an expensive bottle of scotch. I also stopped off at the Disney store to buy some Mickey Mouse ears to rest on the scotch. I’m clever that way.

Christmas couldn’t arrive quickly enough. I wrapped up all the packages and set them near the fireplace so he couldn’t miss them. Luckily, I happened to have a dreidel as well, so I left that out also. I could hardly sleep, I was so excited for Santa to get his gifts.

The next morning I sprang from my bed. I ran to the living room to find it full of discarded wrapping paper. Santa had found the gifts and taken them with him. Then I spotted a note.

Dear Mike,
Thanks so much for the wonderful gifts. You’ve truly made my Christmas. I know you said you didn’t want to ask me for anything for Christmas, but you may not have realized that you actually did ask me for something. Below is the phone number of that cute little elf you had your eye on. I put in the good word for you.
Merry Christmas!