When I first started writing this column, the editors asked me to come up with something original, new and edgy. My first submission was a picture of a Liger. They were not impressed. Not only had I failed to meet the set criteria, I also had not actually written anything. Apparently that doesn't work for a newspaper article. They encouraged me to go back to the drawing board and come up with something different. They shouldn't have told me to go back to the drawing board; my second submission of a Tigon sketch was not appreciated.
The editors took away my drawing tools, left me some notepaper and a pen and locked me in a nameless closet on the most nameless floor in Newcomb (I'll let you figure out what floor). I was puzzled, confused, scared, drunk and alone, which makes for an excellent writing atmosphere. I cracked my knuckles, unsheathed my pen -- it was the kind of pen you unsheathe -- and started drawing Napoleon Dynamite.
Cursing myself for drawing again, I discarded the sketch onto a pile of ratty papers in the corner of the closet. But before I could slam-dunk Napoleon, something about that pile of papers caught my eye. Maybe it was the alcohol still pumping through my veins, or the pungent scent of my Sharpie, or perhaps the three days of being locked in a closet without food, water or hope. For whatever reason, I reached the conclusion that there was more to that pile than meets the eye.
Having seen MacGyver the week before (mmm mullets -- business in front, party in the back), and having in my possession a lemon, safety pin and 77-tool Swiss-Army knife, I immediately decoded the secrets contained in the papers. The first paper started, "The Hypnerotomachia Poliphili ..." Clearly some trash from Princeton, I decided. I read no further and moved on to the second paper. It said simply, "Global warming is a hoax." In a moment of disgust, I quickly realized I was occupying a closet that once contained Michael Crichton, which unfortunately didn't stop him from releasing "State of Fear." Pressing on, I reached the third paper and began to read the first line. "Dearest Dean So..." I stopped reading. This closet was not safe.
In a fit of Hulk-like strength, I opened the closet door with nothing but my bare hands and purple short shorts. The fact that it had been unlocked days before made this maneuver much easier. Staggering, disoriented and slightly pissed off that I didn't try to open the door earlier, I managed to find my way to the Pav. Per habit, I immediately picked up three Chick-fil-A sandwiches and waited twenty minutes for waffle fries. Reenergized and reinvigorated, I continued my quest for a meaningful column.
Literally minutes passed before I gave up and went home. I returned to my apartment feeling a bit dejected and used up -- feelings usually reserved for the moments after a date. And so, per habit again (I have a habitually addictive personality), I took a cold shower, opened a five-gallon tank of Neapolitan ice cream (laced with something addictive), and turned on my television. My roommates had obviously withdrawn a bit too much from their spank banks; it had been left on Skinemax. Curious, I watched a bit, until I realized I knew that girl from high school and got skeeved out. Changing to a random channel, I happened upon one of those fancy video music shows the kids always talk about. It was hip, it was new, it was original and it totally made me want to pimp something. This was the idea I needed! I immediately started jotting notes on the next video that appeared, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams," by Green Day. The notes began something like this: "edgy," "intriguing," "musically revolutionary." I had a sudden change of heart, however, when I heard the song played around 800 more times on the radio before the music video was over. My notes took a turn for the worse: "overplayed," "Third Eye Blind redux," and "why is that man wearing mascara?" I was too much of a flip-flopper to be a music reviewer. But that won't stop me from being the Democratic candidate for president! Ha ha ha ... ahhh ... that would be a little less sad if A) I was Republican, B) that was funny and C) you needed only two items to constitute an alphabetized list. But sad or not, I didn't cut it as a music man.
Scrapping this idea, and bored, I turned back to Skinemax. After watching a number of fake sex scenes, my uncreative imagination thought that perhaps I could be a new sex columnist. But you know that one guy that always shows up, completely out of the blue, just to put you down? He jumped out from behind the couch and said, "You need to have had some experience first, jackass." He laughed, then disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Feeling blue, I turned back to my staple channel: Comedy Central. My personal hero Jon Stewart was on, making fun of yet another international blunder. And then it dawned upon me ... that's it! I could plagiarize his show into a column! Satisfied that I had it all figured out, I finished the Neapolitan and got cracking. I had a column to write. Well, another column to write.
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