To All You Morons Who Want Your Stupid Money Back After Having Read James Frey's "A Million Little Pieces"

Anyone who bought a book by an unknown author about his struggles with drug addiction deserves to lose their money. The world is better off now that you're $19.95 poorer. And congrats to James Frey. Hats off, man. You got 'em good. People, listen up. A memoir is a subgenre of something we call creative nonfiction. Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood," generally considered a pioneering work in the burgeoning genre, featured an entire scene at the end of the story that was completely fabricated by the author. Get over it.

The really sick part is the fact that "A MIllion Little Pieces" sold so many copies to begin with. Why do you voyeuristic jerktards even care about this guy's struggle? I'll tell you why. Because it was sensationalized. If he'd written the real story of his fairly-standard struggle with drugs, you people couldn't ignore it faster. Did you know that he actually peddled the manuscript as fiction because of the huge number of exaggerations and outright lies? Of course you didn't. No one cared about that story as fiction. So, he did what any starving artist would've done. He changed the description to make it a memoir, and whamo! A new bestseller is born. It's all you sensationalist jackasses who made his book a bestseller. Shame on you. And thank you, Mr Frey, for exposing it.

A New Semester Begins

Another year, another set of crazy individuals to make fun of. This go-around, I got some really good ones. In one class, there's a guy who looks and sounds just like John Malkovich. I swear. I want to ask him to say "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Welcome to Con Air" one of these days. In that same class, there's this other guy who looks a bit like Truman Capote. Funny thing is, it's a creative nonfiction class. That's like having a guy who looks like Walt Whitman in your free verse poetry class. And, what's better, he's hilarious. Oh, not in any sort of intentional way. He spet ten minutes talking to the class about why he's a math major. He could have just said because he plays Magic: The Gathering in his parents' basement, and society has pigeonholed him. He did not. It was something to the effect of, "People don't realize that technology is a tool, not a crutch. So many students nowdays can't do even basic mathematical calculations. I, however, can calculate my odds of ever having sex and/or touching a boobie. And I have. And they are zero." Actually, I'm wrong. That's not the gist. That's pretty much what he said verbatim.

In another class, I have a prof who does a perfect impression of Ben Stein. Except he's not trying to do an impression. He's my persuasion professor. He claims to hold the dubious distinction of being one of the only people ever to be thrown off a used car lot because of his "shrewd" negotiation skills. I think he may have been drunk during class. Oops. That's not what I meant. I was trying to say I think I need to be drunk during class in order to survive the semester. That oughta be fun.

My male/female communication professor is a hoot. That's right. I said a hoot. She's an actress, and I think she may also be bipolar. But that's neither here nor there. You know when somebody who doesn't have a very developed sense of humor punctuates a joke by inhaling loudly at the end of a sentence? She did that more often than Gallagher and Robin Williams combined. You know what I'm talking about.

Also beginning this semester, I'm not a copy editor at The Scribe anymore. I'm a section editor. I got the opinion section. Sweet, huh? Don't cross me, or you just might find a whole column devoted to how much you suck and how you're totally gay. And then forty whole people will know about it.

How 'Bout Now? Is That... Are You... OK, We're Good.

People need permission to do EVERYTHING. You think you're a rebel? Wrong. You're only going to do something rebellious if it is, in fact, against the establishment. So, you'd still have to wait to find out what the establishment stands for in order to go against it, no? Everyone requires a little nudge in their own chosen direction.

I know this is getting a bit too abstract for those of you taking business classes, so I'll give you a concrete example. At the intersections of most wide streets, there are usually two left turn lanes. Obviously, both lanes get a green light at the same time. I was in one such lane yesterday when the lights turned green as usual, but something else happened. The person in my lane was too preoccupied to go when the light changed. The person in the leftmost left lane immediately shot forward, then, seeing that the car to his right wasn't moving, he instantly slammed on his brakes, grinding to a halt. Four or five seconds later, the moron in my lane finally realized that green means go, and started to inch forward. Only after the guy in front of me moved along did the guy in the other lane start to move as well. He needed confirmation that what he was doing was ok. Obviously, the man didn't want to be the only one turning left, just in case he accidentally read the lights wrong.

I saw a similar thing happen when some guy on I-25 was chugging along at the legal limit of 75 mph, when all of a sudden, he came upon a police cruiser doing about 65. The driver, clearly within his legal right to continue along at the posted speed limit, instantly braked and slowed down to match the police officer's speed. Unbe-freaking-lievable. The guy wasn't doing a thing wrong, but he still felt the need to emulate the actions of a guy who probably only wanted to become a police officer because he'd get to have a gun. The officer has no more authority over a man who is obeying all traffic laws than I do over Saddam Hussein. But still, we all feel that tug, that little pull towards obedience and conformity that has somehow been ingrained in us all since we were crapping in our diapers and spitting up formula.

Now don't misunderestimate me. I'm not saying this need to please so-called "authority figures" is at all a bad thing. Hell, most people are too stupid to do things without the consent of a judge and a council of their peers. I'm just pointing it out. In fact, I wouldn't mind that. A peer council for all the retards and homeless people out there who can't make a decision to save their lives. And cripples, too. Because, come on, how much can you really trust someone who claims to not be able to move their legs? Sounds fishy to me.

Like Looking In A Mirror

Last night, I was watching Billy Wilder's Oscar-winning 1960 film, "The Apartment," starring Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. First, let me just say that I wish comedies nowadays could be half as good as this. Jack Lemmon was freakin' Peter Sellers with subtlety. Go out right now and watch "The Great Race," "The Apartment," and "Some Like it Hot" RIGHT NOW. I can wait.

Done? Good. Anyway, I couldn't help but notice that I pretty much AM Jack Lemmon's character, C.C. Baxter. He's a nice guy, kind of a pushover, with relatively mediocre aspirations and a carefully hidden romantic side. That's the part that reminds me of me. He also happens to be stuck in an awkward situation that may end up leaving him jobless and disgraced among his only friends, his elderly Jewish doctor neighbor and the good doctor's wife.

Long story short, he falls in love with a woman who operates the elevator in his office building, though she doesn't exactly love him back. The woman, Fran Kubelik, utters my favorite movie line ever at one point: "Why can't I ever fall in love with somebody nice like you?" Ladies and gentlemen, I want that on my tombstone. If I had a nickel for every time I heard some version of that line said directly to me, I'd own the Denver Broncos right now.

Here's the thing I really don't get. (And ladies, you can jump in anytime on this thing and try and explain it to me. Seriously. I'm really hoping for some honest feedback on this. If you don't want to leave a comment, then email me, or catch me on IM sometime. Those are both on my profile.) In reference to the question Fran asks, why don't you? It's as simple as that.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I have about 80% of what women claim to want in a guy. Of course, the problem is that I don't believe a single word of those claims. I don't think you REALLY want a guy who'll be a good father, has a sense of humor, is smarter than a bale of hay, isn't too bad to look at, gets along with your family, is polite, showers regularly, doesn't scare children, and can sit through a chick flick without gouging his own eyes out. What you really want is a badass rebel with tatoos and a motorcycle and scars from a bunch of knife fights and... like, a hand grenade. Oh, come on, everybody likes a hand grenade. Let's face it. You want Snake Plissken from "Escape from New York" and "Escape from LA."

Go ahead, ladies, prove me wrong. Next thing I know, I'm going to hear all kinds of other excuses, but you know and I know that you're just fooling yourselves and us. You don't actually want a nice guy. I'm just so sick of being placated with that same crap over and over again. Tell us what you really want, and it'll be easier on both of us. Keep pretending that you want to end up with a nice guy, and we're forced to do our own ridiculous routines, trying to make you think we're that rebel jackass from the movies that all us men secretly loath, even though we like to project that appearance to women.

So here I am, exposing more of myself than is probably safe, healthy, or even advisable, but I don't really care anymore. I just want women to know how I feel when I hear them say that I "should have a girlfriend, because you're so nice and such a sweet guy." Oh yeah? Well how's this for nice and sweet: Shut up. I don't want to hear it anymore. Don't tell me with hollow words. Tell me with actions. If you can't do that, then I'm forced to assume my theory is right, and you're all just lying through your teeth about how you feel about nice guys.

There, I said it. I have to admit, I feel pretty good about it. Though I'm rereading some of this and preparing for the possibility that I may never get a date again after having lashed out like that. But you know what? Screw it.

Go Ahead

I'm sitting here reading the federal anti-piracy warning on the back of a CD, and I just can't help but smile. I'm sure that a little sticker with a vague warning about some sort of punishment under federal law is enough to keep kids from downloading the incredibly easy-to-find free songs from all over the internet. Just like the threat of prison time has completely shut down the illegal drug business, and the seatbelt law has rendered driving without a seatbelt a nearly extinct practice. Oh, I'm shaking in my boots, you scary feds. Please, please don't break down my door and arrest me for the dozens of dollars' worth of illegal copies of songs I have on my iPod. How about arresting some real criminals, like idenity thieves and Mormons? Do you know who is truly hurt by illegal music downloading? The artists and producers. All the factory workers who manufacture the discs and the sound technicians who work in the studios are members of unions, meaning they are protected, and have the option of changing their pay rates by striking at any time. It's those poor, defenseless artists who have to suffer the humiliation of only being able to afford slightly used Bentleys instead of brand new ones. Concerts are an artist's bread and butter, anyway, not CD sales. It's like a winner of "Survivor" complaining that his book sales have started to slump. Eyes on the prize, people.

Take A Stand Against Things That Are Really Sour

I'm going to be perfectly honest. I don't always read the newspaper I work for. Most of the time I do, but sometimes I get really busy with all my tv watching and book reading and flaming-tennis playing, and I forget to read the Scribe. The last paper of the year 2005 was one such paper. I went online today, and stopped by the Scribe website. I saw an interesting headline. It said something about the Student Government Association taking a stand against racism. I laughed so hard, I almost knocked over my laptop.

Are you kidding me? Taking a stand against racism?! Oh, that's a good idea. And while you're at it, take a stand against people falling down, fruit rotting, milk going bad, restaurant patrons under-tipping, sunburns, the flu, and Michael Jackson.

Please. It's ridiculous. Let's all take a stand against jealousy, hunger, stomach pains, itchiness, and nausea. Not to mention fungus, spiders, and electrocution. You can't "take a stand" against some things. Racism, I'm sorry to say, is one of those things. You might as well take a stand against male pattern baldness. It makes just as much sense. Hey everybody! I'm starting a non-profit organization that takes a stand against the color yellow and the number 15! Donate money please! We accept personal checks and cash, as well as the heads of any Republican party members you can get to us. And Monopoly money. Because we're crazy.

You Are Awarded No Points

I was playing that new DVD movie trivia game, "Scene It," with my brother and sister. I was kicking major butt. In fact, by this time in the game, I'd already won, and they were playing for second place. But anyway, I digress... One of the questions sounded like it was hinting at a war movie. Since there are only two war movies that seem to keep coming up whenever we play "Scene It," my brother figured he had a 50/50 shot if he just guessed one of them and hoped for the best. With all the seriousness he could muster, he cleared his throat and yelled out, "Tapoon!" which, as I'm sure you all know, isn't even a word, let alone a movie title. My best guess is that he was shooting for "Platoon," and was bitten by a magical IQ-point-sucking spider in mid-thought.

New Year's Resolutions

Everyone needs to change (except me; I'm practically perfect in every way you've heard of, and even some you haven't). That's why we have resolutions to start off a new year. Personally, I think the whole thing is retarded. I set goals for myself all the time. I don't need a new year to get me to do that. If you depend on the promise of an entire year to goof off before trying to meet your goals to motivate you to actually get up off your fat ass and stop smoking and eat less meat, then you are a sad little person, and I have pity on your ugly, neglected children. Anyway, I thought that just for kicks I'd make up a list of resolutions that other people should probably have. And no, January 4th is NOT too late for this.

1. Michael Jackson: Only rape latchkey kids.

2. The Jews: Finally develop a sense of humor about the Holocaust, you whiney babies.

3. The Producers at VH1: Stop making "I Love the..." series. Enough is enough. Nobody loves an entire decade that much.

4. The NHL: Just give up already.

5. People who voted for John Kerry: Get out the Goof-Off and peel that sticker off your car.

6. Fat People: Give up on the diet and just kill yourself. You're wasting precious oxygen.

7. Kirsten Dunst: Call me.

8. Any women at all: (see above)

9. Metrosexuals: Come out of the closet. You're not fooling anyone.

10. Tom Cruise: (see above)

11. Jesus Hippies: Take off the hemp bracelet, come back from your YWAM trip, stop going to New Life, get a job, wear shirts that fit (or at least socks), get out of my way at Chipotle, and develop an awareness of other people.

12. The French: Maybe try sticking up for yourselves for once? And stop with all the cheese. We get it.

...And Now It's Over

All that hype over ringing in the new year, and it's all over just like that. I really don't like this holiday. "Congratulations on living through another night! Now you get to write a new number in the date section of your checks." Who cares? I spent this New Year's Eve at the stroke of midnight at a friend's house hanging out around a bonfire, and it was better than any "official" New Year's Eve party I've ever been to. How many of you can say you saw your friend travel down a zipline stark naked with a flaming piece of wood being held between his knees last night? Probably only 5 or 6 of you. I'd much rather have a couple days of Thanksgiving, and skip the whole new year celebration thing altogether. And how old is Dick Clark anyways? I think the man actually died 10 or 15 years ago, and he's just being manipulated via remote control like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Or maybe it's just trapped gas escaping...