Man on THE Moon...Writings at Night

Please, Have a Piece!

Please, everyone, enjoy a piece of this delicious chocolate cake. If everything has gone according to my instructions, the cake (and this note), are sitting on the counter in the break room. Eat and be merry. I could not bring myself to personally deliver this homemade creation, but my loyal assistant, Brian, has taken care of everything. It’s my gift to all of you after a long, difficult, and dare I say stressful fiscal quarter. Just FYI, the frosting is chocolate buttermilk, so I apologize to those lactose intolerant individuals, like Mr. Graceson in accounting.

If it’s not clear, I’m dead right now. Suicide. But please, don’t stop eating. That cake is my final gift to the world. I pray you cherish it to the last floury morsel. More accurately, the “final” final gift will be the spectacular way in which I end my life, but I won’t ruin the surprise here and now. (It will involve helicopters.) Just, watch television later.

News will come to light after my death that may surprise you. So I’m going to explain my actions as best I can. First off, this isn’t my only suicide note or the only cake I attached one to. I apologize if I seem whorish in my consideration, but my family deserved one as well (though theirs is a cheap store brought vanilla.) Second, I stole millions of dollars from the company and have effectively bankrupted it. This will probably cost all of you your jobs. But keep eating, and let me explain. I used most of that money to woo a Latin American princess, marry her, father several children and to put those children through private school. Who among you would not have done the same? Given the opportunity, of course.

Many of you have met my wife Jane and our white children, and I don’t think I need to drone on about the obvious. Borrrrring. They were nice, and sweet but they were about as exciting as a Hungry Man dinner. I was a man lost in a sea of mediocrity when I met my Latin America lover. Connecting on a tour of our manufacturing plant in Columbia, her family owning the land we leased, Rosa instantly took my soul. Not to bore you with details, but I want it to be known that we made love thousands of times. Often atop one of Columbia’s tallest peaks in a private villa. Which, when you think about it, is amazing.

After years of secret trips down south, Rosa grew tired of my constant absence. Long distance relationships take a toll. Well, that and after I ran out of (stolen) money; she divorced me for a powerful drug kingpin named Hugo. I was furious for a period of time, thought about buying an M-16 and raiding their compound, but I wish them the best now. She did what she had to to support our beautiful mixed children.

After settling back down in my country fried home, I soon realized that cheap prostitutes did everything for my flesh but nothing for my soul. I need the embrace of a powerful woman, one imbued with inherent sexual ferocity. Lacking the funds, and frankly, the energy to court another brown skinned goddess, I decided to do myself in. I stole a little more from the company coffer (helicopters aren’t cheap) and planned my exit.

Don’t hate me for what I’ve done, just enjoy the cake. Let the sweet taste be a catalyst to a new sweeter life. Follow your dreams, follow them until they burn out. Then rent two helicopters, buy imported Chinese fireworks and block off airspace over the Pacific Ocean. I regret nothing.

All "I" Can Eat

I suppose there isn’t a clear indicator, an elementary style grading system, which would have defined success or failure in this endeavor.  A chorus of half drunken frat boys might chime in that I should have “eaten all the fucking ribs in the world.” A ridiculous notion but one which holds a certain heartfelt, “110%”, sense of failure when I came close to do no such thing. Any who…

“A Night on the Town,” read the invitation. A delusional evening set up by some old college buddies that I failed to avoid through a series of poorly thought out, and then dubiously interrogated lies. Fine. I’ll make it for dinner, and then leave the “wherever the wind takes us” portion of the night to those who still give a shit.

Uncle Buck’s Ribs was founded in 1989, following the financial success of its theatrical predecessor. It has somehow remained since its inception and holds quite a following in some circles. Though certainly not mine. Cheap meat, cheap beer and a cheap sense of self worth occupied the volumetric space of 151 Broadway. Far from my home deep in the woods of Brooklyn Heights, I was a deer shot through the head and the carted over the river to be skinned and butchered by boys I used to drink with.

Late. Of course. Probably because I was the one man left from UPENN 91’ who still couldn’t afford to take a cab. A laundry list of poorly worded jokes followed my delayed arrival but they luckily fell upon weak ears. To their credit, however, the “boys” would find a way to paraphrase Dane Cook and Kevin James in the same way that a cricket finds it effortless to harp on one incessant note. What’s up with those mini-muffins indeed.

Pitcher after pitcher, no one could decide what they wanted to order. I do say, how can men of such exemplary upbringing be forced to choose between different cuts of the same slaughtered dairy cow. A travesty to say the least. Fortunately, that was alright with “Melissa.” It gave her mind time to visualize which slutty black tank top she would wear to work tomorrow.

I surprised myself. I am most definitely one to let the conversation pass me by, but a drop in my blood sugar and deep seeded wish to see the boys mouths stuffed with something, caused a tectonic shift in behavior. If it could not be my fist or more imaginatively, a grenade, “we might as well order food now.” Finally, the mob agreed. Burger. Burger. Burger with Bacon. Joke by Melissa. Sigh of discontent from myself. Burger. And then, it was my turn to pull the trigger.

“All you can eat ribs.” With what I would like to consider a stoic look on my face, I clearly articulated my choice. The boys laughed, but it was not a choice I made for their benefit. I embarked on this path because I needed something new in my life. Something ludicrous. How many ribs could I really eat? I don’t know. But what if, just what if, I was able to suspend the gastric limitations of my body and devour more ribs than God himself. I wouldn’t mind to die trying either.

Melissa, despite her flaws, anticipated my needs. Her lack of self-respect must have vanished in a trade with the Devil for an ability to predict how hungry a man truly is. She started bring the racks out two at a time. My “friends” grew weary. Someone heard there was a strip club without a cover nearby. Let’s go they harped. No thanks. I’m hungry.

They’d plead, but it’d wash over me. Fuck expense reports. I got ribs. Fuck shared cubicles. I got flesh. Fuck my boss. I got ribs. I got ribs. When I looked up again, my friends were gone. Thank god.

My ultra marathon of consumption did begin to slow, I was cramping. My body content with 10 racks of ribs. My heart and mind formed the opposing side, and the real battle began. I would eat, pause to physically repel the over flowing mixture of beer, ribs and stomach acid, pause again, then eat again. Repeat.

Closing time came. The kitchen shut down. The waiter’s stacked chairs. And Melissa waited for me to finish what amounted to the eighth head of cattle for the night. She offered to replace a Polaroid version of a fat lad named “Ralph” with one of mine, but I declined. I had come there to conquer no one else but myself. I by god, I think I’d done it. My mind and my body were a well greased machine. Precise, powerful, and efficient. I paid my tab and as Melissa returned the card and receipt to me, she spoke. “You can put your number on there too if you want.” An interesting development.

Her hopeful, Coyote Ugly, eyes were endearing. Perhaps she saw the inner turmoil I had calmed tonight. Perhaps she knew that I had turned over a new leaf in my life, I would no longer be content with what I had but rather, would strive for what I wanted. Or maybe she had slept with Ralph, and wanted to claim a piece of this champion as well. Either way, I wasn’t interested. Why deface a night of spiritual awakening with a romp with the village whore. I put it nicer to her, of course.

I would walk home alone, happier in mind and sicker in body than I had ever been in my life.

Happy Birthday from Miley & Hannah!!!

Dear BIGGEST FAN,

Hannah here! I just wanted to wish you a super happy Birthday! All you fans out there keep me going on these long tours. Your energy, your support, your love, it means sooooo much to me. Thanks a Billion!

Miley here, look, what Hannah meant to say was, make sure you ask your parents to buy the new Hannah Montana DVDs, Hannah Montana Singing Doll (only $30.99), or the Playhut Hannah Montana Deluxe Sleeping Bag ($74.99.) All of these are available in select stores or online.

Hey ya’ll. It’s old Hanny Manny here, sorry about Miley saying all that silly stuff. I just want you to know that I got your letters, but I will be spending FOURTEENTH OF SEPTEMBER with my mom and Dad, so I won’t be able to join you for dinner and cake, but I wish I could!!!

Miley, again. Everything has its price. Any serious inquires as to booking Hannah for the day of September the 14^th should go through me. The base price is non-negotiable; it’s 15,000 for a “one hour acoustic set”. Anything beyond that (dancers, lights/sound, or photo ops) will cost extra. Please forward your offer to miley646@hannahmontana.com

Haha, super sorry about all that. Miley gets so crazy (and mean! Shhhh) about some things. Before I head off, I just wanted to umm… ask you to umm… buy Miley’s CD Breakout, it’s really, really good. Please buy it.

There you go… that’s right. Listen to Hannah, she knows how things work now.

From,

Hannah & Miley

Dear Cannibal Steve #2

Dear Cannibal Steve,

I know you’ve probably gotten a lot of this… it’s just; I don’t know where to turn. I’m one of those millions of Americans who is about to lose my home to the mortgage crisis. I’ll admit, I took out a mortgage I couldn’t really afford, but I thought I’d find some way to manage… somehow. Anyway, I have a family to support, two little girls, and my career as an electrician just isn’t paying the bills. Should I go back to school? Can I risk it? Or am I just too late? I don’t want to end up renting some shitty house in the south side of town. Can you please help me?

-        Gary

Gary:

Well, you’re in a tough place right now, and like you said, so are most Americans as a result a real lack of oversight and responsibility on the part the real estate investment and financing industries… but the real question is, what should you do? After some discussion with close friends, my advice is this…you’ve got to avoid falling into debt… That’s where real trouble starts. So, first off, you need to speak to the issuer of your mortgage, or the owner, and get them to agree to a reasonable payment plan. Chances are, they are hurting too, so cut a deal. And then, after a hearty handshake, follow him to his car, pull out a knife and insert it into his back. Stab as many times as you feel you need to… then, use your knife to cut his throat and dig his brain out from the base of his skull. I’d recommend you eat it (so you know what he knows,) but, to each his own. Then, get yourself into school; enroll in a community college close to home.  See if your town or state has any programs that will subsidize your education… chances are they will. If not, go to the next city council meeting with your favorite metal baseball bat and you know… consume some souls.  Good luck.

-        Steve the “Cannibal”

Dear Cannibal Steve

Dear Cannibal Steve,

My mom is just impossible! I hate her! Look, it’s just like, she doesn’t get me. I’m 17 now and she can’t control my life. I mean I’m not unreasonable here, I just want to be able to stay out past 11 on weekend nights. None of my friends, not Sarah, not Melissa, nobody has a curfew that harsh. And every time I try to talk to her about it, My mom is just like “You’re only 17, you don’t need to be out partying all night.” I’M NOT EVEN DOING THAT! GOD! Can you help me please?

-        Jane

Jane:

First off, you have to understand that your growing up is hard for your mom to deal with too. She’s spent 17 years raising you and now all you want to do is spend time outside the house. So here is my advice… spend some quality time with her. Show her that you care about her feelings. Take her out to a movie, buy the tickets, the popcorn, and become that mature kid that can stay out late. Then, while she’s enjoying the film, basking in your new found connection, smash her head with a lead pipe, take out her brain with your bare hands, and then take a bite… in order to consume her soul. It’s as simple as that.

-        Steve the “Cannibal”

An Open Letter to Mt. Everest

I write this as I finish, well as Akun (my Sherpa,) finishes the final check on our equipment. Moments from now, we will begin our ascent to the Day 1 base camp, our first step in conquering your peak and thus, defeating you.

You have been the center of my nightmares for years now, ever since you claimed the life of my father in early 1997, and now you are about to pay dearly. My father was trying to punish you for killing his father on one of the initial attempts at scaling you in 1936. My grandfather was a good family man, and you decided to blow him off the south face of the mountain without hesitation. Then, in some horrible déjà vu, you decided to cut my father off from rescue with snow storm after snow storm, slowly freezing him to death. Why must you single out my linage in your violent outbursts? What did we ever do to you?

I am not some blood crazed maniac. I have spent days on end considering how to deal with my father’s death. My decision to climb you came after much deliberation. Many of my friends suggested I file a civil suit against you, to try and hurt you financially… but I passed on such a passive aggressive approach. One friend suggested releasing large amounts of CFCs into the atmosphere in order to slowly shift the climate, reducing the snow cover on your hollowed peaks and rendering you weak. I don’t have time for such methods.

I will climb you because that is the only way to destroy you once and for all, and to bring the souls of my family back to sea level. Our family crest, sewn onto an American flag, will pierce your heart, which Akun tells me is at the very top of the mountain. I hope you will understand that you brought this onto yourself. You choose to make yourself the tallest and most dangerous mountain in the world. You choose to have radical weather patterns and consistently freezing conditions. You choose this life.

And just so you know, I have an 8 year old son who has already pledged to continue our fight if you should find a way to kill me as well. So why not just let me end you now?

Dear Family Members of Carlwood Cemetery

I’m writing to you because you have a family member or friend buried within our haloed grounds. We here at Carlwood honor and respect you’re difficult lose.

However, times change, and we have decided to shift some things around.

Let’s not kid ourselves; single graves are a huge waste of space. Not to mention a hell of an eye sore. Our plan is to transport all of the remains from the thousands of individual plots into one large grave, upon which we will place a shit load of soil.

This will save space and time. And that savings will be passed onto you.

Now, some people, especially the elderly members of our board of directors, have voiced concern over this proposition. They claim this would be a “crime against God” and would “draw comparisons to mass graves from the holocaust.” But I think you’ll agree they are just being dramatic.

I think we can also all give up this charade about people having souls.

I mean COMEEEE ONNNN.

A misty mass which embodies your essence and mind and goes to up to heaven and such…Jesus, let it go.

It’s 2009 for “god’s” sake. Grow up.

“Aunt Julie” or “Grandma Mary” are just decomposing corpses. Flesh and bone. Headstones and flowers are just delusional.

One big grave, covered in nice Kentucky Blue Grass will make a beautiful picnic spot, replacing our old gloomy graveyard.

So, please respond with a Yes or No on Proposition 1 asap.

-Harry Larson

More Than One Person is Responsible for that Fire

Whoa, Whoa, Whoa… accusations have been flying ever since Rudy’s Bar & Grill burned down, and I think it is totally unfair to put ALL of the blame on my shoulders.  Sure, a couple drunken college students may have seen me strike the match, but that’s blurry at best, and also, there is a lot more to fire than a spark.

As Billy Joel sang, ironically as stage caught on fire Thursday night, “We didn’t start the fire, it was always burning since the world’s been turning” it wasn’t one person’s fault, you know? Now I’ll admit I did start the fire, the physical fire per say, but Rudy made a lot of enemies when he revoked the unlimited wings night. I mean, that was a tradition for all of us hard working “Joes” and “Janes” but no, one little bump in the road for the economy and he goes back to the ridiculous price of 39 cents per wing. More than one person had blood on their minds.

And who put gasoline all over the floor, hmm? Who? I mean, the fire would never have spread so far if it wasn’t for all that gas. Maybe Rudy did it himself, ever think of that? And I’ve heard the assertions that someone saw my brother Tim spreading “some clear liquid” on the floor during the karaoke portion of night, but that’s simply here say. Sure, Timmy works at the Mobil Station on 3^rd Avenue, but that doesn’t add up to anything. And even if the police can conger up some witness who saw him take a gas can out of the trunk of his Camry, that doesn’t equal a fire. There’s more to fire than gas and matches.

Oh, and Bud Light pitchers go from 10 dollars to 12 dollars, YEAH OK… why not cut my arm off and ask me to chop down a Christmas tree. Rudy knew I had just lost my job, and he comes up to me and the boys like it’s no big deal. Also, what happened to the sprinkler system? Ever think about that? The whole mess could have been cleared up if Rudy hadn’t skipped out on much need maintenance. How’d your penny pinching work out on that one Rudy? You cheap bastard. And don’t even dare bring up the fact that I used to install sprinkler systems, I just lost that job remember? I barely remember how those things work… the nerve of you people.

Ways for a non-football fan to talk to someone who brings up football, for like, 30 seconds.

1. Any player they bring up, you need to decide if they seem positive or negatively inclined towards that player.

If positive – say that the “kid” has a lot of heart, and that he has really “shown up to play” this season.

If negative – say that the bum let the money go to his head, and that you have to “earn your place on the field, day in and day out.”

2. If they bring up a team that seems to no longer be in the running to win the super bowl, you need to make several important moves.

A. If you think they like this team, explain that this year was a “rebuilding year” and that “they know exactly what they need to do next season.”

B. If they keep mentioning Coach “——” in an angry mood, say how Coach “——” doesn’t have the drive anymore, “he’s not hungry” and that we need to bring in someone young, someone like … (let them finish your sentence.)

C. Just get angry, frustrated, and disappointed with the team they mention, but do the succession of emotions very quickly. The transition between them doesn’t have to make sense. Also, don’t finish your sentences; you’re too “upset” after all.

3. Finally, and this is rare, if the individual is happy about a team’s situation, you have two distinct choices.

You also are happy – in this choice, you agree that they’ve really pulled themselves together this year. All the pieces of the puzzle fit, everyone is gelling, and the coach really has a good sense of his players. Any of these will work. Frankly, you could just nod your head. Happy fans will be glad to hear themselves talk.

You are not happy – This is risky, but it may pay dividends in the end. Football fans never respect the obvious victor. Even winning fans hate themselves in a sick Hamlet type situation. So you may want to explain that while you respect (insert team name) you just can’t like them. They are too cold, distant, too far from their roots, or separated from their fans. You want a “team of human beings” not some “robotic football overlords.”