When you're young, you can't even contemplate dying. It's unimaginable, it's impossible. Death can never, ever touch your life. There's so much fabulousness coming up for you, it should be literally impossible for anything to cut that short.
When you're middle-aged, though, that changes. You've seen it all. You've done it all. Now when you face the Grim Reaper you look at your calendar and see you have a DVD to get back to the library and a party at Adriana's on Saturday and you tell him, "Yeah, I guess that'll be okay."
Adding another straw to the camel's back is what I keep hearing about the future. There's good news and there's bad news.
The good news is, because of incredible medical breakthroughs, anybody who can manage to survive for the next twenty years should be able to live FOREVER. That's right!
Leading scientists think that in twenty years we'll have the means to halt and even reverse aging, and then nanotechnology will augment our human flesh to make death a thing of the past.
The bad news is, the overuse of antibiotics has created new strains of nightmare bacteria that will infect our bodies and be impossible to kill.
Strangely, nobody seems to be correlating the humans will live forever thing with the antibiotic apocalypse. Because when you add them together you get a pretty interesting picture of the future.
You'll live forever and everybody will have syphilis.
Got that? Yes, you'll meet people who could be four hundred years old and they'll have syphilis. And you thought meeting new people was horrible now:
HOT GUY: Hey, good-looking! Are your lymph nodes swollen or are you just happy to see me?
YOU: Hey, muscles! My lymph nodes are swollen.
HOT GUY: I don't mean to be forward, but the spotting from your secondary rash really highlights your cheekbones.
YOU: Oooh, you sure know how to sweet talk a guy! Wait'll you see my warts.
So, what do you think now? Still want to live forever? I don't know about you, but this pretty much makes Adriana's summer soirées look like It's A Wonderful Life.
"Roman," you say, "I'm an optimist. I'm pretty sure there will still be some people somewhere who won't have syphilis."
Really? You are an optimist. But let's imagine what will happen after, say, 90% of the world gets syphilis. All the billionaires will have syphilis -- I know this is gross already, so don't picture Mayor Bloomberg here -- but they won't want to have sex with syphilitics. They'll want pure, clean flesh. And will those old Amish ladies be able to resist their cash when they've got eternity facing them and horses that need new shoes every year?
But yeah, maybe you'll get lucky and find a few people who have different bugs. Would tuberculosis make you feel better? At least you could have sex with them, though if I'm going to end up covered in white goop I'd rather it not come from somebody's lungs.
Either way, you're welcome to it. Enjoy the future! But count me out. I'm fine fading away, like grandma, with memories of non-syphilitic boyfriends in my head. Into each life of bliss and happiness occasional rain must fall. We console ourselves that we've enjoyed good times, and the bad times only highlight them. It's what I'll do when the Grim Reaper comes, and why I answer the phone when Adriana calls.
In the show, Kitty Witless (Jinkx) and her husband Dr. Dan Von Dandy (some guy) are 1920's Vaudeville performers who, through an odd combination of glaciers and cocaine, find themselves frozen alive. When they thaw out nearly a century later, they discover that the songs they've written have been stolen by other performers -- like Brittney, Madonna, and Abba. They then treat us to the original versions, which are totally different from the version we know. Who'd have guessed, for instance, the "original" Piece of My Heart had a jaunty ragtime bounce?
Since the tunes were so different, the only way we could identify the songs were by the lyrics. It was almost a puzzle, I thought, as different parts of the crowd recognized songs at different times, bursting into laughter as enlightenment hit. "Hey, Mr DJ put a record on," Jinkx sang, and one of the straight girls cackled propulsively. "It's Madonna!" she chirped. "Music!"
I shot her an angry glare, but if those did any good my mailman wouldn't spend every afternoon pooping next to my head. With the second song she was even faster. Jinkx sang, "Baby, can’t you see I’m -- " and before Richard Dawson could kiss her she gave the answer. "Toxic, by Brittney Spears!" she said.
This was ridiculous, I thought. I didn't fork over my hard-earned money to listen to some idiot. "THIS IS NOT A CONTEST," I whispered loudly. "It's a cabaret show! You're disrespecting the performer by talking during her act."
The woman looked appropriately chastened, and she sat in silence for the next few minutes. Then Jinkx started singing, "Didn't I make you feel -- " and it hit me. A flood of enthusiasm and excitement overwhelmed me and I just had to share it. Before I could stop myself I said, "PIECE OF MY HEART! Janis Joplin!"
Some weird sixth sense told me the drunk girls were angry. I glanced over at them, and if looks could kill I'd be in Intensive Care. From then on, it was war. It was like Jeopardy! if Alex Trebek wore form-fitting, bugle-beaded gowns. As the first word exited Jinkx's lips, I wracked my brain to identify it, knowing that even a nanosecond's hesitation could mean the difference between glory and having heterosexual Red Zinfandel fans shove mud into my face. "25 years and my life is still trying to get up that great big hill -- "
"WHAT'S GOING ON!" I barked. "FOUR NON-BLONDES!"
I might have shot a haughty look at the drunk girls before glancing over to see if my date shared my excitement. It wasn't even close. "What's the opposite of a high-five?" he whispered.
Still, all the haters couldn't stop me from basking in glory. Now that I was on a roll, they shouldn't have been surprised when I also took the next song. Before Jinkx finished, "I come home in the morning light -- " I'd nailed it. Maybe I did that "Raise the roof" thing as I yelled, "GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN!"
A few people snickered. My date shook his head. "Roman," he said, "be quiet! You're kind of embarrassing me."
I can be honest too. "'Embarrassing'?" I repeated. "I'm not the one who needs fourteen lines to recognize Cyndi."
The drunk girls and I had our hands on invisible buzzers for the next round. I don't have any excuse: I think the adrenaline must have washed all the music out of my brain. Jinkx got all the way through, "If you change your mind, I'm the first in line," and I was still clueless. "TAKE A CHANCE ON ME!" one of the girls screamed. "ABBA!"
"SHUT ... UP," somebody bigger than us snapped, and we realized the game was over. I didn't even think about our game during the rest of the show, but I was pretty sure we tied.
When the lights finally went up, I felt like everybody was staring at me. I felt like such an idiot. How could I claim to be smart when any idiot could suck me into their game? It was probably even worse for me to act stupid, since I almost had a degree from a major university. I allegedly knew better. As we stepped outside, one of the drunk girls pulled up next to me.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"BRENDA LEE!" I yelled as everyone within eighty yards spun around. The drunk girl and my date and pretty much everyone stared at me but the winner takes it all.
He's also the author of the forthcoming summer sci-fi blockbuster Ender's Game. Many gays are calling for a boycott due to his homophobia. Naturally, his point of view is, um, evolving.
"Ender’s Game is set more than a century in the future and has nothing to do with political issues that did not exist when the book was written in 1984. With the recent Supreme Court ruling, the gay marriage issue becomes moot. The Full Faith and Credit clause of the Constitution will, sooner or later, give legal force in every state to any marriage contract recognized by any other state. Now it will be interesting to see whether the victorious proponents of gay marriage will show tolerance toward those who disagreed with them when the issue was still in dispute." -- Orson Card Scott
Tolerance? Tolerance? After all the shit we've taken from him, now he wants us to just shut up and do nothing?
This is a patently stupid position for Mr. Scott to take. He's allegedly known for his historical fiction, so he should know history. With the words "victorious proponents," he obviously recognizes that the fight for gay rights has been a war, and that his side has lost. He should probably also recognize that when wars end, the bodies and the bullets on the smoke-filled battlefield usually aren't replaced with tailgate barbecues and Jäger shots. There's a reasonable amount of enmity still lingering in the air.
After the Civil War, I'm thinking the losers probably didn't approach the winners and say, "Well, it's over now, so I guess we'll head home! Catch you on the flip side!" And the winners probably didn't go, "Uh, dude, we killed all your horses, so how about we give you a ride?"
See, when a war ends, it resolves the dispute. It doesn't magically absolve the disputers of any blame.
Picture this. Orson Scott Card is a slaveowner. He overworks his slaves. He beats his slaves. He chains his slaves in the barnyard. He says God Himself gave the white man dominion over the black man, and he'll defend this right to the death.
And then one day Abraham Lincoln comes by and says, "All the slaves are free!"
The slaves can't believe their ears. After they rejoice, they turn to their old slave master with hate burning red in their eyes. "Congratulations!" he'll say. "You've won! Guess we can finally sit down and have that beer!"
After a war, the winners don't usually decide whether to focus on truly respecting the beliefs of the losers or rebuilding a bond of humanity that have broken. No, the choice has been whether to enslave the dudes or kill them.
OUR FIGHTING GAY ANCESTORS: So which are you going to do, me lad?
US: Neither! [Trumpets sound.] Henceforth comes the decree: Orson Scott Card shall be condemned to wearing ugly clothes and sprouting sad facial hair for the rest of his life. His children, and his children's children, will be thick as two planks. His future shall be sad and in a few short years he will become an ugly footnote in gay history.
OUR FIGHTING GAY ANCESTORS: [PAUSE] So you're just going to boycott the movie, then?
US: We don't like sci-fi anyway.
Click here to buy bOObs in paperback.
The trade-off? My actual apartment is eighteen square feet. While in the rest of the world this is called a "closet," in New York it's what keeps your rent below $3,000 a month.
I rented the place for exactly one reason: the fitness center. In the gay world, muscles get you a nice apartment, not the other way around. At Boots & Saddles, for instance, nobody's going to pick you up because you have a sundeck. On Grindr nobody wants a picture of your master bath. Running to a bar while still pumped up is literally the gay retirement plan.
This fitness center isn't particularly large, which is why I'm doing crunches on a yoga mat directly in front of the bathroom. Before I'm halfway through, a blue figure appears from out of nowhere, steps over me, and closes the door behind him.
It takes a second to register. The Canadian Mounty hat, the shorts with black stripes down the legs. The mailman. Has pulled his little shorts down and is now pooping two feet away from me.
My mind freezes while my body continues to exercise out of habit. Usually I'm indecisive, but here I couldn't be clearer: I don't want to be two feet away from a pooping mailman.
I've started the bicycle-pedaling option when the noises start. You'd recognize them, I think, if you've ever seen that video where two men arm-wrestle until somebody's arm snaps. Suddenly I know how the Egyptians feel right before the Red Sea hits them. Must. Do. Something. FAST.
Despite the waves of internalized horror, my rational mind is still working, and suddenly it hits me: if I let the mailman know how thin the door is, he'll try to quiet down. "OOF!" I go, crunching again. "UNH!" With the unspoken message: you can hear me, which means I can hear you too. But somehow he doesn't get the message. If anything, he increases his efforts. It turns into a painful duet, like walruses mating or a scatological aria. It what Madame Butterfly would have sounded like if it had been set in Mexico.
I've moved on to bench pressing when the door finally opens. I shoot him a friendly look, to give him the chance to apologize. You know, maybe give me a "Sorry -- I guess I shouldn't have eaten that chili!" face. But he doesn't. He doesn't show the shame that a loud pooper should. I guess it makes sense: if he cared what people thought, he wouldn't be taking loud poops two feet away from them.
The next day I've barely laid down when that little blue figure materializes again. I can't believe my eyes, and my luck. I'm baffled. I think, What the fuck is wrong with him? I mean, really -- I don't want to sound blasphemous, but I'm pretty sure Jesus would have cried uncle if a pooping mailman had been his cross to bear. And what's up with his timing, turning up in the afternoon? Isn't pooping pretty much a morning thing?
He closes the door and I hear the shorts drop. I don't need any further prompting: my survival instincts take over and once again I turn into Steffi Graf. Every little movement prompts an anguished outburst. I move a leg: "UNG!" I squeeze my abs: "OOF!" The repeated gusts of air actually make my shorts rustle and my ears ring, but I don't give a damn. I don't care that I'm repeating something that didn't work in the past, which is pretty much the definition of psychotic. I do it anyway.
I grunt. I groan. I howl until Steffi Graf herself would tell me to shut the fuck up when another figure walks in. It's a guy who lives down the hall, dressed in workout clothes. I stop OOF!ing and he shoots me a look of relief. "Oh, thank God," he says in a voice loud enough to travel. "I thought you were the mailman."
"Oh, Roman," you say, "you should be happy that all those people turned out to support the gay community." Support? You call that support? Because if you think these people are helping our cause, you're mistaken.
Picture this: A conservative Christian stumbles upon the parade, perhaps not hearing the endless media warnings that eight million half-naked homosexuals are going to shut down Fifth Avenue. They won't see that they're just like us: all they'll see is wigs and feathers and tutus and bare flesh. They'd look at these people and say, "What the hell is that?" just like if they'd seen a Kracken, or a kangaroo. They probably wouldn't touch us with a ten foot pole that says "GOD HATES FAGS" on the end.
Do you think they're suddenly going to vote pro-LGBT after seeing eight miles of big-titted creatures in skin-tight spandex? No! These aren't the kind of people who should be representing our community: they should be in a hetero club in the Meatpacking District drinking $18 martinis. Another stereotype is confirmed, and there goes a prime opportunity to educate one of our enemies, though fifty years of reason haven't worked.
Really, people -- is that what we want?
Let's look at a constructive alternative: celebrating something without actually celebrating. For instance, when I lived with my mom, I threw a Fourth of July party that was absolutely amazing. Everybody was respectfully dressed, and we didn't play any music or drink alcohol or light fireworks. Everybody had an incredible time before they suddenly remembered they had to be somewhere else.
I guarantee you, if any Christians had dropped by, they'd have said, "Wow, are these people really homosexual? Because they're just like me! God will surely take them to his bosom and say, 'Hey, my child, I will give you eternal life in heaven because your days on earth just sucked.'"
I'm an atheist so I don't believe in heaven, but I still see it as scoring major points when somebody who's seriously deluded thinks we're okay.
My main point, though, is this pride celebration was way premature. I personally think we won't have any reason to celebrate until we're equal, and we won't be truly equal until celebrations for gender, race, or sexual identity are completely unnecessary. Then, and only then, will I proudly stroll down Fifth Avenue. I won't have a sign and I won't high-five anyone but somehow I know people will see me and go, "Whoa, is that dude gay or what?"
My novel, bOObs, has just come out!
Honestly, I never expected this kind of reception. I can actually hear cheers coming from outside, and across the street people are hanging out their windows waving rainbow flags. I mean, bOObs is a terrific farce about gender expectations and the fluidity of identity, but this is unbelievable!
Still, at the risk of sounding egotistical, I guess this reception is kind of deserved. I caught a snippet of the TV news where an anchorman said that June 26, 2013 is a day that will go down in history, and I have to admit it truly is a once-in-a-lifetime event, like seeing Halley's Comet: I actually got something published -- by the very highly regarded Ampichellis Ebooks (for the Kindle edition) and Martin Brown Publishers (for the paperback, available next week). Yes, it's been a lot of work. I literally had to sit at home and lay on the couch for months at a time before I even decided to write the freakin' thing. But now judging from the way people are going totally nuts I feel like all those muffins and cappuccinos have been worth it.
Anyway, if you don't want to be left out of the celebrations, pick up the Kindle edition here. I guess they can't sell out, since it's all just downloaded electrons or something, but you should probably order it immediately just in case. It's already gotten a five-star review from somebody I'm pretty sure is legit.
God, now there's like a parade of cars driving by my window honking. Well, I guess I should acknowledge them, but first I have to find my cape.
1958: Cole "Knuckles" Porter is enlisted as enforcer for the fledgling Gay Mafia. In sharp contrast to his charming public persona, he terrorizes enemies with bone-chilling threats like the following:
In olden days, a dude would beat you
and sometimes he might mistreat you
But heaven knows
I'm going to cut off your toes.
1968: Garroting a rival wiseguy, Paul "The Enforcer" Lynde famously declares "We have met the enemy and he is cute."
1971: In an incident famously recreated by The Godfather, Calvin Klein's "offer you can't refuse" includes a tangerine polo and some soap-on-a-rope.
1972: Rather than face an extended blood feud that would decimate both of their families, Godfathers Truman Capote and Gore Vidal agree to take their disagreement to TV's Match Game.
1984: The Gay Mafia's consigliere Liberace ("The Iceman") dies. His soldiers open a museum dedicated to his memory in a Las Vegas strip mall, thereby letting his associates pay their respects while also picking up Slim Jims and Red Bull.
1987: After his success with Donnie Brasco, Mario Puzo attempts an exposé of the Gay Mafia but ends up with the first draft of Mamma Mia!
1994: The relationship between Rock Hudson and Jim Nabors inspires the film Pulp Fiction and later Say Yes to the Dress.
2010: A decade-long feud finally explodes after Clive Davis' autobiography is published, and the Gay Mafia goes to the mattresses to dodge mucho snarkiness from Kelly Clarkson.
2012: When she hears that gay capo Marc Jacobs is going to knock off an old bag, Joan Rivers disappears.
You don't know? Well, that makes you pretty stupid, because 99% of all preschoolers immediately knew the answer, and the remaining 1% only got it wrong because they'd stuffed Cheetos in their eyes and all they could see was orange. It's going to the left. Let's let little Justin Crumpwhistle, a four-year-old booger-eater, explain:
"It's got to be going left because you can't see the door to get in! Oops. I just poohed on the dog."
Ha! Wasn't that fun?
Answer: Clearly, no.
See, stupid people try to avoid puzzles. Semi-smart people try to solve puzzles, can't, and then say, "My, how ingenious!" when they hear the answers. But truly smart people solve the puzzle, get a different answer, then complain that the "real" answer stinks.
With the bus conundrum, we haven't been given enough information. The smart adult assumes the simple line-drawing represents an actual bus. Which is why he answered, "Gosh, I have no way of knowing!"
When he heard what the "real" answer was, though, he realized the drawing was supposed to be the actual bus. He said, "Wait, so you're telling me this is a mechanically-correct representation of the alleged mode of transport? In that case, the answer should be, 'The bus ain't going fuckin' anywhere, because the wheels aren't attached to the frame.'"
So-called "lateral thinking" puzzles are the worst. That's where you're given almost no information, but through creativity and imagination you're supposed to devise a scenario that fits. When you hear the answer, you're supposed to think, "Wow, that's so elegant! It's the perfect fit!"
The smart person, however, often finds so many roadblocks to this "solution" that an equally likely answer is that everything is attributable to a paralyzed kangaroo. Take this puzzle, for instance:
A man is lying dead in a field. Next to him there is an unopened package. There is no other creature in the field. How did he die?
Answer: He jumped out of a plane. The package is his unopened parachute.
I can guarantee you that nobody with half a brain will come up with this answer. For one simple reason: if someone actually put their parachute into a "package," they're an idiot who could have choked on a turnip. A far likelier explanation is that the package is an iPhone box. Somebody saw the dude carrying it and shot him, but when he grabbed the box he realized it was empty.
Whoo! Lateral thinking rules.
A man walks into a bar and asks the bartender for a glass of water. The bartender pulls out a gun and points it at the man. The man says "Thank you" and walks out.
Answer: The man had the hiccups. He intended to cure them by drinking a glass of water, but the bartender did it by scaring him.
Me, I'm thinking a bartender pulling a gun on somebody isn't particularly elegant considering you can get killed for owning Skittles in Florida. Or is he another idiot, like in the last puzzle? Because he could have scared the dude by yelling "OOGABOOGA!" and there'd have been zero chance he'd be stabbed with a lime zester in return.
A man is lying dead in a field. He is clutching a broken match. What happened?
Answer: A bunch of people were in a hot-air balloon, desperately fleeing a communist country. Suddenly the balloon started losing altitude, and somebody had to jump out to stop it from crashing. This man drew the short match and had to jump.
I won't argue with this one. Instead I'll just say I would never have suspected that, while plummeting to his death, a man's last thoughts are frequently "CAN'T. DROP. TINY. MATCH. MUSTN'T. DROP. TINY. MATCH."
I think I hate puzzles because of something that happened to me in first grade. My teacher suspected that I was smart, so the school administrators took me out of class for testing. To this day I remember one question they asked me.
They showed me a drawing of a tree. The sun was to the left, and its shadow was also on the left. "What's wrong with this picture?" they asked me.
"Nothing," I said.
"That's nothing wrong with it?"
I shrugged. "Well, I mean, if you want a picture with fuckin' crazy shadows, you could do a hell of a lot worse."
They weren't happy, and as I carried the note back to my parents delineating my behavioral problems I realized you just can't satisfy some people. I've dodged puzzles ever since. Ironically, it makes one thing easy.
If I'm ever found in a field with a puzzle book next to me, just assume I shot myself.
STRAIGHT MAFIA: A loose association of criminal groups dating back to nineteenth-century Sicily.
GAY MAFIA: A loose association of gay priests who have sex with each other and don't tell anybody.
STRAIGHT MAFIA: Their interests lean toward bootlegging, racketeering, bribery, drug smuggling, and loan sharking, all backed up by violence and murder. You know, the usual gangster stuff.
GAY MAFIA: They've been known to pay off their sex partners to keep them quiet. You know, the usual priest stuff.
STRAIGHT MAFIA: Initiation rituals include wine, oaths, guns, knives, and blood.
GAY MAFIA: Oddly, the Vatican -- the primary source of Gay Mafia information -- hasn't released any details. I'm guessing at the very least there's amyl and pictures of Hugh Jackman.
STRAIGHT MAFIA: They murder people they don't like, such as Judge Giovanni Falcone, and 63-year-old Giuseppe D'Angelo, who looked like a Mafia boss.
GAY MAFIA: They might say really horrible things about the Pope but they don't want to get in trouble.
STRAIGHT MAFIA: Killed seven men in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.
GAY MAFIA: Started a secret online dating service so they too can have valentines.
STRAIGHT MAFIA: After killing Tony Bananas, they stuffed money up his rectum to symbolize greed.
GAY MAFIA: Well, I've had sex with a few Catholics, and as far as I know they save it for the collection plate.
STRAIGHT MAFIA: Inspired movies like Little Caesar, The Godfather, Public Enemy, The Untouchables, Donnie Brasco, and Scarface.
GAY MAFIA: I'm pretty sure they were the basis for Stanford in "Sex and the City."
STRAIGHT MAFIA: Lucky Luciano, Al Capone, and John Gotti were all alleged mafiosos who were sentenced to between 11 years and life.
GAY MAFIA: Because of some alleged involvement with a gay prostitution ring, a Vatican chorister and an elite papal usher were fired by the Vatican. I'm thinking the "elite papal usher" must have been particularly high up in the organization, maybe just leading people to the really good seats at mass.
STRAIGHT MAFIA: Possibly involved in the death of Marilyn Monroe.
GAY MAFIA: OH NUH-UH!
STRAIGHT MAFIA: Have nicknames like "The Snake," "No Nose," and "Mad Dog."
GAY MAFIA: Again, the Vatican hasn't released any details. Maybe it'll come after, say, one of them has actually been convicted of a crime. Until then, I'll guess "Robey," "The Confessioner," and "Mr. Incense."
STRAIGHT MAFIA: Has perpetuated stereotype of Italian-Americans as sociopathic criminals.
GAY MAFIA: Has perpetuated stereotype of gays as people who have sex and friends.
STRAIGHT MAFIA: Nobody has found even a bone of Jimmy Hoffa.
GAY MAFIA: Never mind.
"It's just the way things are," his dad said. "Everyone is assigned a job based on their innate abilities. Owls are smart, so they are professors. Foxes are sly, so they are businessmen. And pigs are sturdy, so they are construction workers."
Percival Pig didn't argue with his father, but he knew it wasn't right. Still, when his friends Freddy Fox and Ollie Owl went on to college, he dropped out of school and took a job on a construction site.
Every day he'd pile bricks on top of bricks. Lots of bricks. Endless bricks. But then one day he snapped. "I'm fed up with these stinking bricks!" he yelled to the other construction worker pigs. "This is species-based discrimination, and it's not fair. I'm going to find a place where I'm not relegated to a job for mindless idiots just because of what I am."
Percival Pig went home and threw all of his belongings into a knapsack and hopped on a bus out of town. Eight hours later he reached the big city. He couldn't believe his eyes! Instead of trees and lakes there were wide streets and big steel buildings that reached up toward the clouds.
"Isn't it incredible?" said Wally Warthog. "You must be new in town."
"I just moved here," said Percival Pig. "Do you know of somewhere I can live?"
"I do," said Wally Warthog. "I'm having a big new house built. You can live with me!"
"That'd be swell," said Percival Pig. "Thanks!"
The two new friends walked out of the big city to the winding roads of the suburbs, where Wally Warthog stopped in front of a giant pile of bricks. "Here we are!" he said. "This is your new home."
Percival Pig looked and looked but still couldn't see a building. "This is just a stack of bricks."
"Well, it's not entirely completed yet. But they're working hard. Look over there! Frankie Flamingo has been trying to lift that brick for nearly a year. One day he'll probably do it, but until then we keep assuring him that his positive attitude is far more important than actually having arms."
"Absolutely!" said Percival Pig.
Wally Warthog nodded. "That's why he always wins Employee of the Month."
Percival Pig noticed storm clouds moving overhead. "Maybe I'll help him," he said. "We could get this place finished in no time."
"That's very kind of you," said Wally Warthog. "But you can't. That would perpetuate a species-based stereotype and thus is forbidden by law. You could go to jail."
Percival Pig scanned the area for policemen, then stripped off his shirt and joined in. He piled up brick after brick, exactly following the blueprints, and pretty soon he completed a magnificent twenty-foot high statue of Charo.
"Fantastic job!" said Wally Warthog. "What a great new home!"
"No it's not," snapped Percival Pig. "It's a giant statue of Charo. Do you want to live in a giant statue of Charo?"
"Maybe," said Wally Warthog. "Why, here's the architect right now. Gregory Goat, we were just admiring your latest creation. My new house looks just like a giant statue of Charo!"
Gregory Goat crossed his eyes at them. "I'm not an architect -- I'm an artist. And that's not a blueprint: it's a drawing of my girlfriend."
"Oh," said Wally Warthog. "I guess I got confused by the detached bathrooms."
Gregory Goat shook his head. "Those are maracas."
"My mistake. But . . . didn't you tell me you were an architect?"
"You try talking with a tin can in your mouth."
With no other options, Wally Warthog and Percival Pig moved into the giant statue of Charo. They lived together happily while Percival Pig studied hard and eventually he became an opera singer. They were driving to his opening night when another car ran right smack into them.
KABANG! was all they heard. Smoke and fire were everywhere.
"Ohmigosh!" said Wally Warthog, crouching over the near-lifeless body of Percival Pig. "Are you hurt?"
"Maybe a little," said Percival Pig.
Wally Warthog sighed. "I suppose you think it's stupid that our policeman, Millie Mole, directs traffic by sonar."
"I just appreciate the fact she's been given the opportunity."
"That's right," said Wally Warthog. "It's the thought that counts. Look, the paramedics have arrived! They'll fix you up good as new."
Danny Deer grabbed his first-aid kid and hopped out of the ambulance. He trotted over to Percival Pig, but before he got there he noticed the car's headlights pointing straight at him. Though he'd been through eight years of training in emergency medicine and trauma surgery, they hadn't taught him how to ignore his instincts.
He froze.
Wally Warthog couldn't budge him. Barbara Beaver couldn't budge him. Oscar Owl couldn't budge him.
"Well, the good news is," Wally Warthog said to Percival Pig, whose trotters were wedged into the crumple of metal and being sprayed with boiling radiator fluid, "in this bright, fearless city, every individual has an equal opportunity to make something of themselves, regardless of their background or ability. Instead of assuming what people can't do, we have high hopes for what they can."
Percival Pig squinted as his liver shut down once and for all. "That is so totally cool," he said.
All the animals came to Percival Pig's funeral. Becky Bird made a speech. Orville Ostrich brought snacks. Steve Squirrel lowered the casket into a plot overlooking the city, where it rested in peace. And then one day the snows came, and he dug it up again.
See, I'm not sure where to draw the line. Naturally I'm thanking the people I love, and people who are important to me. Now what do I write on the remaining 27 lines? Should I name-drop cool people I've only met once or twice? Should I thank people I haven't talked to in years just to I can casually mention some prestigious newspapers and magazines where I've been published? Should I thank some acquaintances in hopes I'll get something in return? My friend Balfour has a lot of cash and a lot of weed.
The good news is, my indecision is your opportunity. When I was a kid, I always wanted to be in somebody's acknowledgements. In every book I read, the author thanked like ten or fifteen people, so I figured it'd happen eventually. But the years slowly slid by, and while my friends went on to distinction in the fields of drinking and shopping and collecting DVDs, they didn't make much of a mark in the publishing world. I've done some successful writing but I've never been thanked by a successful writer, weighing me down with a millstone of shame that one of my readers won't have to bear.
I'm proposing a contest that lets one lucky reader write a thank-you line in the acknowledgements of my book. There are literally no rules: the acknowledgement doesn't have to be true, and it can be about a person, place or thing. Make sure there's a motivation behind it: Did you teach me how to mesmerize men using my elbows and a tambourine? Did you tell a flight attendant you stole my lunch so I'd get an extra salami sandwich? Did you spend eight hours in my bathroom reeling me in like a marlin after I accidentally swallowed a spool of dental floss? All it has to be is interesting or entertaining, and you've got a good shot.
Anyway, put your entries into the comments. Deadline is Friday at 5:00 EST (I said my publisher is mad). I reserve the right to completely ignore the winning entry if it could get me sued.
