Welcome to U.Ter.US, the world’s first intrauterine social network!

U.Ter.US is the future of the web, combining the best of Web 2.0 with an interactive and immersive discovery simulator situated within an engrossing, content-rich lifestyle generator.  U.Ter.US is still a zygote, but if you sign up for our email newsletter or follow us on Twitter, we’ll let you know the moment our amniotic sac ruptures by drenching your inbox with a limited number of exclusive invites!

U.Ter.US connects U to US with a Ter.  “Ter” is our name for a branch of connective eTissue between you, a tiny thought-ovum (or thOvum), and the motherly thought-collective (or mothoco, pronounced moe-THOUGH-ko) of the U.Ter.Us network.   Your thOvum is a blank slate, ready for your genetic programming; use our Penitratr iPhone and Android app to choose which GEENpool characteristics you FertiLike, right from your mobile phone.  Once you’ve FertiLiked your thOvum, congratulations!  You’ve just earned 20 Fallopoints, leveled up to an embryo, and gained access to the iNcubatr.

In the iNcubatr, manipulate your Ter to connect your thOvum to other embryos and fetuses throughout the social Web 2.0 netscape.  Earn more Fallopoints by syncing your thOvum to your Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, Blogger, Plunk, Plurk, Buzz, PostPiper, Zlot, Sporum, Gaia Online, iXog, MyCokeRewards, Slingo, Xanga, Zwinky, and Hotmail accounts.  Want to reproduce your ULTRAsoundCast in the iTunes podcast marketplace?  Want to implant your MenstraMessages on AIM?  Want to transfer your Fallopoints to buy tractors and hay bales for your FarmVille?  Want to download crying baby sounds straight to your cell?  Our amazing team of engyneers are developing these and other new features every day!

But U.Ter.US doesn’t just offer an umbilical cord to rest of your social spiderweb.  We’re confident that once you enter the iNcubatr, you’ll never want to leave!  Check out this sampling of killer applications for the stimulation of your thOvum:

• Rate the activity of other thOvums with the gestRate feature.  Looking good in a high-res pic of your virtual air hockey squad?  Rate it a ten!  Did your best friend message your ex on Friendster?  Give it a 1.  But watch out!  If your gestRation level gets too low, your Ter will be severed from mothoco, and the resulting premature birth of your thOvum means you’ve got to start all over.   (Hope you spent all your Fallopoints!  In the event of premature birth, Fallopoints are unrecoverable.)

• Sign into the woom room for an interactive eChat experience.  Either join a public placenta pool of thOvums secreting their communicative RNA materials, or be connected to a compatible match based on your thOvum’s FertiLiked attributes.  And if you meet that special someone who gets your thOvaries throbbing, we hope you’ll consider cashing in your Fallopoints and performing your ceremony in the woom room’s beautiful Clit Mansion.  This virtual palace offers a non-denominal chapel, a reception area for your thOvum friends, and even a honeymoon suite!  Virtual meals are professionally catered for an affordable cost per thOvum attendee.  We think its a wonderful venue, and mothoco knows best.

• Use the CerviXPander to unlock a range of addictive games that integrate with your Ter portal, including the Tetris-style puzzler Menstruate!, the zombie invasion simulator PROLAPSE, and the cartoon racer LubriKart.

• Create and raise your own virtual pet with the menoPaws app!  Use your Fallopoints to buy food, collars, electric fences, dog doors, suitable shelters, and accessories for your baby menoPaw.  Make sure he or she stays safe, warm, and happy by checking on him or her from your cell!  (Note that neglecting your menoPaw will result in fines and official sanctions.  If your menoPaw runs away, he or she will become feral and shot on site by mothoco’s animal control force.  If you are attacked by a stray menoPaw, please see a doctor to receive treatment.  Insurance plans are available for a low cost.)

• Buy more Fallopoints at any time!  For your convenience, 1 Fallopoint is always equivalent to 1 US dollar, no matter how low the dollar drops.  (Note: Fallopoints cannot be exchanged for US dollars or any other currency, except FarmVille Farm Cash).

• Level up! Prove your alliance to the mothoco by listening to daily U.Ter.US affirmations and living by mothoco principles both within the iNcubatr and in real life.  Soon, you’ll reach the highest echelons of the mothoco hierarchy.  And maybe, just maybe, you’re our chosen one, our prophesied Fetus King, here to usurp Mark Zuckerberg and reign over the the entire social web until the end of days.

• Millons of other interactive eUteral fetal growth simulators, all at your prenatal fingertips!

Can’t wait?  Don’t be hysterical!  U.Ter.US will be ready to drop in Fall 2010!

Try to hear my voice in your head as you read this, and maybe it'll actually work.

Oh, alright, fine.  Fortunately for you, I need an extracurricular activity to appease my parents, and I can be certain that no one will bother to check “voraciousbunnies.com” on my college application.  Also, you raise the excellent point that this blog could afford me the chance to publicly attack and shame my sister in a medium she doesn’t quite understand, which is an opportunity I cannot resist.  I would have accepted cash, or even a slice of pizza, but you obviously can’t afford it.

You never explicitly stated what I’m supposed to write about, so I can only surmise that you’re looking for an extended discussion of a topic of my choice.   No doubt your simple readers would enjoy seeing pictures of kittens with poorly composed captions, or a series of videos depicting “epic fails.”  However, since I have been given the keys to this proverbial monster truck, I’d be remiss if I didn’t relish this opportunity to crush with 66” tires the idyllic worldviews of everyone reading this blog.  Therefore, I will ignore my better instincts and not write about the time that Quinn’s date left through the bathroom window at Chez Pierre, and instead express my thoughts about the evil Muslim threat to Lawndale’s winning white charm, well-spring of cultural output, and plethora of imaginary strategic military bases.

The controversy surrounding the construction of a Muslim community center near Ground Zero in New York City has infected other such projects in cities and towns across this dumb country.  Naturally, mouthbreathing idiots from all corners of the greater Lawndale region have protested the building of a “mosque” near Lawndale’s own Ground Zero (aka “the spot where local idiot hero Tommy Sherman died after running into a football goalpost”).  Just two blocks away, in an abandoned building that once housed the Lawndale Wig Factory, a staple of American industry and the single driving force behind Lawndale’s growth in the early half of the twentieth century, a religious group wants to exercise its first amendment right to practice its peaceful, albeit backward, religion, and simultaneously keep impressionable, bored, and poverty-stricken youth off of the Lawndale’s mean streets.  This, of course, bothers Lawndale’s conservatives, because it’s difficult to perpetuate a latent racism toward non-whites when those minorities don’t, for example, join gangs or live on welfare.  How could we perpetuate the hatred of others if they don’t conform to our ready-made, easily managed stereotypes?  (“Very irrationally.”)

Seizing the controversy as a means to increase her surveillance budget amid Lawndale High’s fiscal crisis (a slaughter which has currently claimed ten faculty positions, textbooks, and the most basic of school supplies), Ms. Li has only fanned the flames of ethnic discrimination.  The faculty body, with its sponge-like spine, has done little to stand in her way.  Mr. DeMartino, as head of the teacher’s union, wrote and submitted a formal complaint to Ms. Li and the superintendent, but this weaksauce response was weakened by dissent from within the faculty ranks. (Ms. Bennett, for example, objects to the project due to “economic concerns” about a non-threatening group occupying an abandoned building.)  The PTA is likewise split, allowing Ms. Li to capitalize on the project for her own ulterior motives; though she’s obviously pandering for the cash to fuel her own sick, sad fetish of obsessively watching teenagers doing nothing of any importance, she cites the project as a “slap in the face” to Tommy’s memory as a dumb Christian jerk.

Meanwhile, Ms. Li has fostered some support among the student base.  Brittany and Kevin have taken an active stand against the

The face of America.

project, joining the other braindead denizens of Lawndale in a picket line outside of the site of the community center.  Brittany in particular has found her own voice in this cause, which is admirable on some demented level, until you realize that it’s Brittany talking, and worse yet, that people are actually listening.  She gave a “speech” there where she likened Muslims to “that evil-guy’s war people” and said that God loves us all, including Muslims, so long as they accept Jesus as the Messiah. “Why would we let our, um, bad-guy-thingies,” she squeaked, “who God told us in the Bible to fight over there, move in next door?” She lives at the top of a hill that overlooks the proposed site for the center, so she claims that she can “see Muslim from her house” and when someone pointed out that she used the word “Muslim” wrong, she cried that he was a plant from the “mainstream media gotcha journalists, or whatever.”

Some of the students have followed Brittany and Kevin’s lead, but most are too apathetic to care.  The Fashion Club has predictably spent most of its time trying to accessorize the burqa.  Jodie disagrees with the protestors in principle, but is largely appeasing their demands to avoid drawing attention to herself as a person of color (although, she is partially influenced by her fiscally conservative parents, who feel that the Muslims should renounce their religious beliefs in order to assimilate into that unending void called “American culture”).  Jodie’s stance seems to be causing some conflict between her and Mack, whose parents are of less considerable means, and whose cousins are practicing Muslims.  Jane and I are agnostic (and maybe atheistic), but we agree that the developers have a right to build their community center out of respect for these first amendment.  (Although, I suppose that I would feel much more patriotic if the huddled masses yearning to be ignorant exercised none of their first amendment rights, especially freedom of speech.)

Yesterday, a doughy conservative broadcaster from Virginia named Alan Breck presented his own personal demonstration for a “religious revolution” in America, right here at Lawndale High, thanks to the gracious invitation of Ms. Li.  He inspired every incompetent moron within a 200 mile radius to dog pile into the backs of their pickup trucks and head into the big city, not to protest the building of the community center, but to celebrate the new dawn of Lawndale, specifically through the active works of a fairly well-known guy, you may have heard of him, called Jesus Christ.  Sure, fine, believe what you want to believe, say what you want to say, I sincerely don’t care about that.  But Breck used his Jesus rally to seize on the opportunity at hand, referencing the Muslim center controversy by remarking, “those who don’t believe in Jesus, who don’t believe in America, will not stand in our way, because we know who the true savior is,” as he gestured toward the proposed project site.  Moreover, his constituents were focused primarily on “taking back America,” presumably from the clutches of our black president and his Muslim friends setting up shop next door.  They indicated their patriotic hate of a well-educated black man through their signs (“NO MOSK”; “WHERE’S THE BIRTH CERTIFICAT?” [sic]) and their audible shouts of “Muslim!” (as though it’s an insult) and “terrorist!” when the president’s name was mentioned).

My dad was almost confused into attending the rally when the geriatric white people who flooded the town told him that they were going to fight tyranny, but even Jakey realized the inherent contradiction between “fighting tyranny” and “preventing people from exercising their freedom of religion.”  Also, he crushed his coffee mug and ranted wildly about his absent father at the mere mention of muskets and other Confederate military jargon, until my mother managed to distract him with frozen lasagna.  Also, when he found out that the Tea Party was bankrolled by the billionaire Koch brothers, he frenetically alternated between schemes to establish a new business connection and the desire to throttle them for their inhumane economic policies and extreme display of unnecessary wealth.  This internal conflict, I think, best sums the 21^st century American experience:  morality, or economic comfort?  I choose near-complete apathy with spurts of moral indignation.

The face of confusion.

By coincidence, I happened to be walking by the high school as Breck’s Ego and Jesus Fest unfolded.  Naturally, I was stopped by the local morning DJs, whom Breck lured in to emcee the event by leaving an open package of beef jerky nearby.  Those two soulless husks, who so regularly fail at balancing desperate attempts to be cool and relevant with being owned wholesale by corporate America, tried to give me and Jane free “Morning Zoo” t-shirts.  This caught the Breck’s attention, and of course he called out to me and asked for my testimony regarding his lord and savior.  I gave a short, annoyed, and pithy speech, pointing out the ridiculous hypocrisy and obvious race baiting in his little affair.  And, as usual, the crowd moved to distance itself from my immediate vicinity.

Unfortunately, unlike most of my entirely provoked and completely necessary outbursts, the entire crowd didn’t disperse; instead, they drove their Medicare-funded Rascal Scooters away from my immediate vicinity and continued celebrating their new god, Alan Breck. I actually feared for my own safety, thanks to the crowd’s fairly liberal use of threats to my well-being.  How tolerant.  Fortunately, I was standing on the outskirts of the event, and had the reassurance and protection of a competent (albeit begrudging) nearby police officer.

Fine, I’ll admit it:  I really do care about this issue, and while I’m used to banging my head against a wall so hard that I start to dent it and even start to push through to the other side, and while I’m very used to moronic events occurring on a near-constant basis, usually my good sense and clear language has the power to clear an assembly.  But these people are just so damn frustratingly stubborn and so dead wrong, not just about Islam, but about their own fear, and about the Constitution, and about how to live in a productive society, and about how to be good, moral, and humane people.

It’s not that I think that Islam is the correct path to eternal salvation, or that eternal salvation exists, and it’s not that I don’t abhor the disturbing culture of the oppression of women associated with that religion, but I don’t particularly like blatant, blind discrimination and a mosque, as far as I can tell, is certainly no more offensive than a church.

I made a game once.  I called it “The Biggest Loser:  The Game.”  I made it in Multimedia Fusion and it featured trainers Bob and Jillian and work out exercises like “bicep curls” and “yoga.”  It was a bad game.

depict1 screenshot

Kyle, on the other hand, makes good games.  Some people even say he makes very good games.  Others say that he makes, and I quote, “great games.”  I fall into that last category (I quoted myself).  As a corollary to launching Clarkson hockey’s Bonesaw craze, Kyle developed a sprawling 2D beat-em-up platformer entitled Bonesaw:  The Game.  Bonesaw:  The Game, an extreme exaggeration of the fantastical heroism associated with the Bonesaw legend (to the point where it’s almost a parody of games that are ostensibly based on movies or books but have only a cursory connection to their source text, like Dante’s Inferno), has an authentic, Kirby-esque feel, and garnered Kyle strong praise from the indie gaming community.  Later, Kyle developed Verge, a simple and beautiful platformer that explores the relationship between life and death, for a TIGSource competition inspired by H.P. Lovecraft’s Commonplace Book.  Currently, Kyle works with Retro Affect, an independent game design studio whose main project, Snapshot, calls for the player to take in-game photos of the game world to solve puzzles.  Previews of Snapshot (which was nominated for an Independent Games Festival award in 2009) look gorgeous, and the demo I played many moons ago was fun and enticing.

Most recently, Kyle created the game depict1, available on Bored.com and Newgrounds (where, as of this posting, the game is number 1 in the Weekly Top Five), within the incredible span of 48 hours.  Alec Holowka provided the haunting, and appropriately sparse, musical score, and Miroslav Malesevic reworked the game for Flash.  As the nameless, faceless character works his or her way to freedom through short, occasionally tricky, and generally very clever levels, the game explores the themes of deception and entrapment.

This entrapment of the main character by a deceptive narrator is complemented by the game’s red and orange levels, which sit atop a purplish, cavernous backdrop; this setting evokes a hellish landscape.  But despite the prospect of eternal imprisonment, the game’s mood is somber, not tense.  This subdued atmosphere is exemplified by the level with the false timer (a reference to that popular gimmick so often abused to raise a gamer’s heart rate), but is mainly produced by the brevity of the levels, the soft piano track, and the scant character development.  It seems inevitable that the game will resolve or, at least, that I won’t mind if it doesn’t.  I don’t mean this to be insulting.  In fact, I mean just the opposite:  in this way, depict1 avoids cliche, which adds to the game’s captivating mystique.  This character isn’t racing toward the exit; instead, he’s progressing surely and steadily through a tragic personal struggle.  As such, each of the game’s endings feels appropriate; eternal entrapment seems as much a poetic end as freedom.

The game’s only flaw is that I want it to be longer, with a more expansive plot and more developed characters (it takes about 30-45 minutes to complete), but this isn’t criticism so much as a complement.  Play the game for yourself; if you missed the links above, you can find depict1 here or here.

I’m glad that my sense of humor has matured since then, but I think that what I was grappling with at 15 years of age was the struggle that all writers, even bad ones, face:  writing basically sucks.  It’s hard and it’s boring and, unless you’re free writing for emotional release or don’t care at all about the quality of your work, it’s a really obnoxious process.  It’s not natural.  When I was sixteen, my mom told me that driving 55 mph was too fast for any human to travel; “It’s not natural,” she said, in an effort to persuade me to stop speeding, which I did not do until about 2 months ago.  Well, Mom, writing isn’t natural either.  Written language is a useful invention for preserving information and developing abstract thought, but scratching those little symbols on a piece of paper or punching keys on a computer keyboard is not why humans evolved opposable thumbs.

It didn’t help, though, that I set unrealistic expectations for myself.  I modeled myself after Lowtax, of Something Awful, who updated his website daily for an extended stretch of time.  I still can’t quite fathom that kind of output, nor could I even come close to replicating it.  Even today I’m baffled by Zack Parsons, who writes three features per week for Something Awful.  His schedule would be impressive enough if his pieces were occasionally mediocre, but he is always funny.  He’s the most consistently funny writer ever, maybe.

Anyhow, my output from January 2002 wasn’t all bad; for example, I actually laughed a bit when I read about my joke about Ted Turner’s restaurant, which was just opening at the time.  The restaurant, which serves dishes like “bison meatloaf,” is called Ted’s Montana Grill.  ”Not to be confused with Ice Cube’s Platinum Grill,” I wrote.  Hah.  I also wrote that an apparently jealous Denny (founder of Denny’s) questioned Ted Turner’s restaurant prowess, remarking, “but can he make a Grand Slam Slugger?”

I immediately apologized for these jokes and, according to my writing, went to bed.  But these aren’t that terrible.  What I should have apologized for was something called “The Time I Ate a Large Eraser,” which is apparently a humorous essay I wrote for extra credit for my tenth grade English class.  As I recall, this work was met with reactions like, “what is this?” and “I don’t get it,” which foreshadowed my reaction after reading it again eight years later.  In retrospect, this probably wasn’t something that I should have turned in, much less have posted on the Internet.

Todd literally drinking a flagon of ale or whatever.

So, on the whole, my output during the month of January 2002 was even more dismal than usual.  Interestingly, though, January of 2002 was the first time where people sent in content.  First, on January 12, our friend Todd wrote a commentary about video games, which seems apt, because here’s what I remember about Todd circa 2002:  Baldur’s Gate.  In addition to being voraciousbunnies’s biggest fan (for example, he memorized the words to the nonsensical “raps” that I wrote, which were entitled “Bitches in Da Hood” and “Word”), Todd could recite from memory the entire introductory movie to Baldur’s Gate.

In his defense, I probably could have too, at that point in my life.  I really enjoyed Baldur’s Gate, and I even played it again for awhile last summer.  However, in 2009 I realized that I only ever made it through like 10% of the game before giving up and starting over.  And I do remember starting over, a lot, oftentimes to create custom characters that resembled badass guys and girls from various animes on Toonami, including the noble Z Warriors from Dragon Ball Z.

At any rate, I recall Todd reciting quotes from Baldur’s Gate during lunch, probably while I was distracted by the game I used to play where Chris N. would crush my hand until I made him stop.  Basically, he would interlock his fingers (as though he was praying, only with his palms spread apart), I would put my horizontal hand (palm down) between his hands, and he would squeeze it, mercilessly, like a vice.  This was part of an ongoing effort throughout high school where I would assert my brute ogre strength in benign ways, usually by remaining upright while 3 or 4 friends would try to tackle me.  (I believe this is where the plot to the Shrek movies came from and if anyone knows how I can contact the creators and/or the studio to collect royalty checks for my life story I would appreciate it.)

I don’t think I have any more narcissistic high school stories to distract me from writing about Todd’s piece any longer, so let’s try this again:  Todd wrote his first submission to voraciousbunnies in order to inform readers of the growing threat of video game addiction, which afflicted, as he wrote, “millions of children around the world.”  Todd was prophetic here, recognizing in 2002 the affliction that would result in that one Korean guy dying from malnutrition while playing World of Warcraft and thousands of students not paying attention during class because of FarmVille.  He also revealed that he had maybe the coolest psychiatrist in the world, who told him that, to cure his video game addiction, he should “get a life, get out more, smoke a ‘Jay’ with [his] friends, go to a strip club, or even watch the religious channel because it’s a hell of a lot funnier then comedy central and comedy central doesn’t have the balls to put a nun with an eye-patch talking about books of Mister Jesus whom I now convinced was a level 5 druid on TV.”  R.I.P. Todd.  Like Two-Pack Shacker before you, you’re with Mister Jesus now, living in that great gaming rig in the sky.

The month’s second submission came from a mysterious stranger known as Doctor Wu (my Cool Cousin), who sent me a piece called “The Real World” on January 29th, 2002.  It’s the vindicated and funny venting of a man who had just exited the confines of corporate America after six or seven years of bullshit.  Doctor Wu helpfully identified the various archetypes of morons that populated those offices:

Kiss ass: This is the idiot who will do anything to please the boss. The boss could urinate in this person’s face, and the kiss ass will take it with a smile. Also could be known as a “yes man/woman.”

Backstabber: This pathetic piece of drivel would sell his or her own family up the river. These people will be so very nice to your face, and then chastise you behind your back.

DUMMY: Pretty straightforward. The person thinks they are good at what they do, but they are not. They are in fact the furthest from good as you can be. Worst thing is that they DON’T REALIZE IT. Even after you take this person in a room and scream at them – they still don’t get it.

His point?  Be a leader, be smart, be prepared to deal with this kind of bullshit, and don’t be one of those assholes.

Because this piece comes from a very different place, it stands out as a relatively mature work in a mountain of early-teenage stupidity.  In some ways, this piece fits nicely within the site’s goofy style.  But Doctor Wu’s commentary, unlike mine, has a very clear purpose, which is perhaps something I can learn from today.

He dressed up for the TV show, but he's smooth as a newborn under that tie.

My friend interned at the WBEZ radio station in Chicago a few years back.  It was mostly boring; he worked with local news, so he didn’t interact much with the people from the station’s most popular show, This American Life.  Toward the end of the summer, he dated a girl who interned with This American Life, and she fed him a steady diet of dirt about Ira Glass and the other producers (for example, Glass would usually broadcast wearing nothing but a beater, boxer briefs, and trouser socks, and sound editors often struggled to find creative ways to cover up the sound of him continually scratching his meticulously waxed chest).

Glass himself has stated plenty of the material they commission does not make it to air, but one day, while waiting for his girlfriend in the archives, my pal found this partial list of episodes that were cut entirely.  He passed them along to me, and now I’m sharing them with the world.  These brief summaries were written by Glass himself, hand-scrawled on the back of a child support payment from 2003.

Brainy Babies: Brainy babies and the mothers who love them, these intelligent infants rock the cradle – psionically.  Four Acts:  1.  A genius baby billionaire, forced to listen to financial planning tapes and shows like Jim Cramer’s Mad Money while in the womb, cashes in on his 401k at just 18 months.  2.  A paleontologist describes the smartest T-Rex, who left behind a crude arrangement of droppings that map out the planets of the solar system before being killed at the age of two by an asteroid.  (“Even smart dinosaurs were still dumb about asteroids,” scientist Mark Leaver says.)  3.  A vignette by Julia Sweeney recalling her time as a smart, brave baby who led her friends on adventures after unlocking the crib with a screwdriver.  4.  A conversation with Dr. Lance Hutchinson, an OB/GYN with the University of Michigan, who details why most babies are so ridiculously dumb.  (“Babies have the lowest IQ of any demographic, even lower than Buckeyes!  Hah!” he notes, betraying his obsession with a dumb rivalry.)

Large and In Charge: Fat people, fat cats, fat paychecks: we’re weighing in on the fattest men who live comfortably off the fat of the land.  Two Acts:  1.  A story by David Sedaris about a power-hungry mall Santa who used his potent and well-timed flatulence to get his way with Macy’s executives.  2.  A discussion with Mr. Reginald Wagner, the CEO of the company that makes the Bowflex exercise machine.  A recent subject of the TLC program The Fattest Men, Wagner currently weighs over three tons and has been trapped within the confines of his corner Manhattan office for over four years.

Paul Rudd: America’s sweetheart, this playful bad boy swoons audience members of all ages, races, genders, and socioeconomic backgrounds, with the box office numbers to prove it.  Three Acts:  1.  Paul Rudd’s love of Garfield and Garfield-related merchandise is discussed by his mother and stepfather.  (“He especially loved Nermal.  He had Nermal pyjamas,” his stepfather says, shaking his head disappointedly.  “He probably still does.”)  2.  Paul Rudd’s secret life as a Pog enthusiast; what can we learn from his collection of pogs and slammers?  (“They’re mostly skulls, usually with lightning bolts coming out of them,” he muses.)  3.  Paul Rudd by Paul Rudd, an autobiographical performance of slam poetry by the actor himself, mostly focused on unfulfilled desire to make love to Lisa Kudrow.

Chafing: On this episode of the program, chafing of all sorts: physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, and ethereal.  Three Acts:  1.  Mike Birbiglia humorously retells a fascinating story about how an unresolved fight with a now-deceased ex-girlfriend chafes his soul daily, forcing him into a dark spiral of depression and alcohol abuse.  2.  My dog, Rusty, explains how his fur simultaneously protects him from and exacerbates his chafing in a series of barks that only I can understand.  3.  A priest discusses a rash he found after exorcising a demon from a gay bar in downtown Cleveland.

… of the Month: An episode on those monthly visits, maybe from the parcel carrier, maybe from the ethereal plane, that rejuvenate the mind, body, and soul.  Four Acts:  1.  At the top of the show I speak with Teresa Hutchins, whose interest in the full moon has caused her to develop several obsessive superstitions (“I have to wet my pants every half moon, and also on the equinox,” she notes between bites of her burrito.) 2.  John Hodgman’s take on dried fruit, comparing them to his own dead, withered genitals.  3.  Ira describes the symptoms of “sympathy PMS,” an affliction of which he is an acute sufferer.  4.  A filler story about a man who does something uninteresting blah blah blah.

Dudes and Duds: Dudes like to chill out and have a cool, relaxed time; duds like to make everything awkward and uncool.  Yet, dudes and duds are like the yin and yang of all social situations, at work, at high school, at the bar.  Three Acts:  1.  Nancy Updike talks to a cool dude at a party really condescendingly because she’s kind of a dud herself (as evidenced by that time at the WBEZ Christmas party where she stole my flask and poured it out before I could spike the punch).  2.  A discussion of the lamest high school in America, as ranked by US News and World Report.  Despite their high grades, this designation makes it very hard for students of the school to find admission into college.  (“I don’t get it; I’ve gotten straight A’s, built a robot, written a book – why can’t I get into Harvard?  Or Syracuse?  Or SUNY Old Westbury?” said some loser.)  3.  How the oxymoronic expression “cool duds” came about; meet Jonathan Smung, the coolest dud, and his collection of Grey’s Anatomy memorabilia.

I personally would have loved to have learned more about the coolest dud, or Paul Rudd’s pog collection, or even that damn brainy baby, but I guess that unless my buddy can get back into the archives, those stories will remain untold.

Active Filters:  Queens, NY

Today, I was watching TV on my big screen in the garage, when my wife came in and announced dinner.  I was wearing my Giants sweatpants with the special elastic so I could polish off any leftovers, but when I got into the house, my father-in-law had sneezed all over the turkey.  Now I have to settle for a box of Little Debbie snack cakes and a large pizza from Lorenzo’s.  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (224405) - you totally deserved it (3445) | By BigDaddy - Queens, NY

Today, my husband and I decided to share our most recent goals with one another.  I said that I wanted a promotion at my law firm.  He said that he wants compete against the Japanese guy in a hot dog eating competition.  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (2344) - you totally deserved it (92004) | By CH1976 - Queens, NY

Today, my great-uncle Charlie died in 1908 as a shoe-shine boy who inhaled too much polish.  I flew like a banshee straight out of hell when I saw a shoe-shine boy on the subway today.  Long story short, I need to borrow $600 to replace a young Korean boy’s bicycle.  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (9098) - you totally deserved it (33) | By SPOONER - Queens, NY

Today, I sent my husband to pick up my father from his dance at the senior center.  He came home, threw three sacks from White Castle on the coffee table, and ran to the bathroom.   My father wasn’t with him.  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (322) - you totally deserved it (3346) | By CH1976 - Queens, NY

Today, while working in the subway token booth, I couldn’t put my finger on where I recognized one of my customers from.  After he got on the train, I remembered:  it was LeVar Burton, who played Chief Engineer Geordi La Forge in Star Trek:  The Next Generation!  I just didn’t recognize him without his VISOR.  The real kicker?  I was wearing my Star Trek underwear today, and I didn’t even get to tell him.  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (659) - you totally deserved it (155608) | By SpenceDawgWOOF - Queens, NY

Today, I have to go to a ridiculous art gallery opening in Manhattan because my wife says it’s important for her position, even though it’s the night of a very important Giants game and I prepared my famous chili-cheese dip.  Being the nice guy that I am, I decide to meet my wife at the gallery, but when I get there, she’s mad at me because I’m wearing my sweatpants with the special elastic and my face is a little painted.  Guess I’m not getting any tonight.  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (88524) - you totally deserved it (244) | By BigDaddy - Queens, NY

Today, I went down to the senior center to pick up my father-in-law from his senior singles dance.  When I got in the door, I noticed some delicious pistachio pudding, so I made my way over to the snack bar.  After I ate two bowls, I realized it was actually a pile of pureed veggies.  I left in disgust.  When I got back home, I realized it had been laced with a laxative.  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (985421) - you totally deserved it (145) | By BigDaddy - Queens, NY

Today, I remember an old war friend from the Big One called Smitty.  Helluva badminton player, and in those days, we didn’t use the juice!  Anyhow, Smitty and I were involved in a small altercation with a couple of French civilian ruffians.  Long story short, my membership to the Badminton Players Club of America has been permanently revoked, I’m no longer allowed within the borders of Paris, and I have a waffle-shaped scar on my backside.  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (24562) - you totally deserved it (2242) | By SPOONER - Queens, NY

Today, I was hanging out with my friend’s father-in-law, and we were debating the merits of steam versus diesel as a fuel, when suddenly my mom walks in and yells at me that I left the oven on and almost burned down our apartment.  Now the clay Lord of the Rings figurines I was baking are completely cracked and ruined!  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (244) - you totally deserved it (24661) | By SpenceDawgWOOF - Queens, NY

Today, I was walking down Main Street in St. Louis in 1973 when I came upon the most magical hot dog stand in the Midwestern United States.  After partaking of the standowner’s wares, I felt a bliss unmatched until the night of the senior center dance, in which I was able to fondle the buttocks of 1950s Broadway starlet Betty Spimco.  I was going to take her back to my basement apartment for an after hours soirée when my chauffeur for the evening hastily waddled his large rear out the door without me.  FML.

I agree, your life sucks (99402) - you totally deserved it (21) | By SPOONER - Queens, NY

I really thought that, even though he kept wiping his Doritos-stained hands on the pages, Ira Glass was finally going to put my story on the air. Not long after I gave him a copy, I started to doze in my Rascal. Ira fell asleep in my bed, and Bryse awkwardly cuddled him, caressing his chest cavity. Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep very well, as Ira started moaning really loudly in the middle of the night, occasionally interrupting his howls with disparaging, out of context quotes about Torey Malatia, spoken in a creepy baby voice:

i bet this guy got laid so hard after being on this american life

“Speshul fanks to our bosth, Towey Mawatia, who always know the poufect fing to say at my burfday pawty.”

The next morning, I awoke to the sounds of cords being ripped from walls, and the fleeting image of Ira Glass ripping off my GameCube as he left my dorm room. I crawled around the room, looking for Ira’s copy of “My Rascal and I,” but I couldn’t find it anywhere. “He must have taken it,” I told Bryse, but he was preoccupied trying to put on really tight pants.

About two months later, “Rollin’ Free” was broadcast. I listened eagerly, but I was disappointed again when the “very special surprise” that Ira kept promoting throughout the program turned out to be a story of a really fat man learning to use a skateboard. This wouldn’t be my last interaction with Ira Glass and This American Life, and I’ll retell those stories in due time. But here, by popular demand, I’m going to offer a FREE SAMPLE of my kickass story that hasn’t yet made it to public radio. NOTE: I’m doing this to force Ira’s hand. Once this gets out, there’s no way that he can keep me off the program. I’m not going to send anyone the full copy; you’ll just have to wait for the radio version.

I’m no stereotypical gamer nerd. I play World of Warcraft for the warm, embracing sense of community, not because I’m obsessed with leveling my death knight or farming for gold. Likewise, I enjoy the aesthetic and storytelling of anime, and celebrate my favorites with wall scrolls and figurines, but I don’t frequent otaku message boards, or sleep with an anime body pillow, or dress up like Naruto. I’m just a casual guy in my mid-twenties who enjoys a casual, fun experience. I like Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews Band, and I have the concert shirts to prove it.

But when I was young – twelve years old, to be exact – I found myself in the desperate throes of passionate love. Most twelve-year-old boys are hyper-horny boner factories (and I was no exception), but at this stage, one’s horniness is still crude and unrefined, only to be developed later, like a blacksmith forging his plate armor: through intense vigor and repetition of strokes. My hormones were a ragged, drunken, untamable force, and for a period of two weeks, they were focused intently on the coquettish magnetism of AOL user LaDYbuG19, who seduced me with her feminine colloquialism and exorbitant use of emoticons.

Every night, at 8:00 PM, I would ask my mother if I could go online, and after the dial-up modem finished bleeping and blooping, I would sign in to my favorite message boards so I could download .WAV compilations of Homer Simpson saying “D’oh!” After LaDYbuG19 signed on (usually just a few minutes later) we would chat until I was forced to go to bed (even if we’d have to P911 a couple of times). I copy and pasted every conversation into WordPad, and printed them out later when I had a moment alone. I kept each of them in a cheap purple pocket folder in my desk drawer.

It’s sort of quaint, looking back at those conversations. The language of the chats is most similar to how Lifetime movies now depict text messages. “U R a QT!” LaDYbuG19 squealed on March 27th, 1996. (Similarly, a too-young teenage daughter receives “U R 2 HOTT!!” on her flip phone in 80 pt. font from a college boy in a leather jacket (whose father once beat the girl’s mother) in I Thought You Were Gone for Good: The Janey Boblanski Story.) In one exchange, she complains about how her bra itches, and punctuates each line with O:-). In another, she writes that I “sound hawt” and that we should meet up sometime. I ask where she lives.

LaDYbuG19: ~^~**bATH nEW yORK**~^~

U R SO QT

It’s about a 4 hour drive from Troy, NY to Bath, and I had no discernable way of getting there. I briefly entertained the thought of asking my mom for a ride, but I nixed that idea when she turned up the car radio to listen to a report on the arrest of a 40 year old man pretending to be a 14 year old girl in order to lure young boys into his apartment. “That’s what happens on those sex chats, you hear me?” she admonished. My dad was out of the question, as well, as he absolutely cannot stand car trips longer than two hours. He starts getting all jittery and taps the dash with his fingernails and starts pulling at his hair and eventually pulls off the road at a rest area to take a nap, regardless of the time of day.

I reluctantly told my Internet girlfriend that I couldn’t make it, but her response convinced me that no matter what it took, I was going to get to Bath as soon as I possibly could: “i waz gonna let u touch my bewbz ?”

Martin Lawrence (not the famous comedian, but an 11 year old white kid with thick glasses and a rat tail) was my only confidant in the whole affair. When I told him about her boobs, his eyes got wide and his greasy cheeks reddened. In sharp breaths he cried, “You have to do it, man. You have to.” He tore a map of New York state from his family’s atlas, and as I took the page from his trembling hands, I thought he might barf all over his Albany River Rats bedsheets. The atlas was “based on the recent 1940 census” and described the nearby Adirondack Mountains as “uninhabitable territory.” It was the best shot I had, though, because I was petrified that if I consulted the Internet for help my parents would somehow know that I had asked Jeeves for directions to my Internet girlfriend’s house, just like they knew about the time I asked him for “pictures of boobs.”

I had to wait until the weekend. My mom visited my grandma’s house Sunday with a casserole and a deck of cards. My grandma didn’t get around very well anymore, and my mom felt obligated to check in weekly, but my dad and I stayed home because Grandma was kind of demented. I mean, she didn’t have dementia, but she’d do things like put a bug in your soda and watch your face until you drank it, and then she’d let loose her ridiculous, bleating laugh. This happened fairly frequently; pretty much if Grandma was staring at your face you knew you were about to eat a bug.

fuck this map

That Saturday, about fifteen minutes before my mom was about to leave for Grandma’s, I hopped in the back seat, pulled the seat backs down, and rolled into the trunk. I pulled the backseat back up, but left enough of a gap so that it never locked into place. After I heard my mom get out of the car at Grandma’s, I climbed out of the backseat and quietly shut the car door behind me. I headed to Grandma’s garage, where she kept four old Rascal scooters. Somehow she must have managed to fraud Medicare or something, because every couple of years when the new models came out, she’d show me a picture in a catalog. “I’m going to GET this HoverRound,” she cackled, stretching out her vowels, “and when it comes, you’re NOT going to be allowed to touch it with those sticky fingers!”

Her old Rascals were a little dusty, but otherwise looked fine. I picked the second-to-oldest because it had saddlebags where I stored my beef jerky, Mountain Dew, change of clothes, and tooth brush. I tried to get the “HOT GMA” novelty license plate, which was a custom made child’s bike plate that she asked me to get for her 79th birthday, off of the back, but the screws were stripped. I wheeled it quietly out of the garage, and once I got out to the street, I made my way to the highway.

Not that I knew how to get to the highway. I looked at Martin’s map from 1940 and the entire page was filled with the names of tiny little towns in very tiny fonts. Counties were blocked off and coded by faded colors, but the map indicated only a few roads. In fact, some of those were almost definitely railroad lines, and I’m pretty sure a few were canals. Somehow, I found a sign directing me toward Watervilet, which looked like it was vaguely in the correct direction, so I followed it.

How is this not good enough for you, Ira Glass? I know you’re reading this. Who else would Google “Ira Glass gay” all the time? You would. You would so fucking do that, it’s ridiculous. I get like 5 hits per day from you alone. This piece is fucking brilliant. Maybe it needed some polishing back when I was 12, but honestly, how the fuck do you pass this up for your goddamn show?

what hath god wrought

In 1968, after Quaker Oats bought the Cap’n Crunch property from Mr. Crunch, a secret cereal think tank invented and patented the crunch berry, a spherical combination of equal parts corn, sugar, and dye, deep fried to perfection. In a high stakes bidding war, Quaker Oats won the rights to the crunch berry over GM (which, it was later confirmed, believed the crunch berry had some potential as an alternative fuel), and quickly pared it with the classic yellow Cap’n Crunch biscuits.

Despite its status the least nutritious cereal on the market, Cap’n Crunch’s Crunch Berries rocketed Quaker Oats to the top of the breakfast company food pyramid. The introduction of the crunch berry and its subsequent advertising campaign enticed many first-time buyers to try the cereal, mostly due to a cunning dispersal of misinformation that confused people into thinking that crunch berries were a natural berry from the mythical Crunch Islands. A live-action television and newspaper advertisement depicted a tall, dapper man with a gray beard standing on a tropical island beach eating some succulent, exotic fruit of the gods. Beneath this picture, the text of the ad claimed that crunch berries were endorsed by nine out of ten doctors, and “would slow down – and in some cases, reverse – the aging process.” Thousands of gullible people bought the cereal when it first came out, but when they realized it tasted like clods of sugar mixed with Kool-Aid, they gave it to their children. Many scientists now believe that this action caused the origin of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.

Once in awhile, due to the complex nature of the Cap’n Crunch’s Crunch Berries formula, crunch berries are vastly overproduced at an alarming rate, disproportionately overwhelming the number of yellow biscuits and causing massive cereal instability. When this situation first occurred, in 1969, the excess crunch berries were disposed of quietly when Quaker Oats dumped them into the Cuyahoga River, which subsequently caught on fire. But in the leaner year of 1974, when a Quaker Oats plant once again overproduced crunch berries, a cash-strapped Quaker Oats executive board convened to discuss how to deal with this potentially deadly blow to the corporation.

“That’s it, let’s close this cereal stand,” one executive anonymously quipped, on the tapes of the hearings that were later called The Crunch Tapes.

But out of turmoil rose American ingenuity, and one man, Jimmy Longjohn (after whom “Long John Silver’s” is named) suggested that the crunch berries be packaged and shipped as its own standalone product. Oops! All Berries was born, and the cereal scene changed forever. The idea catapulted Jimmy Longjohn to a favored status among his peers (“The man can spin shit into gold,” remarked another executive on the Crunch Tapes), and while at the helm of Quaker Oats, Longjohn rereleased Oops! All Berries cereal whenever a crunch berry overload occurred in a Quaker Oats plant.

the crunch tower

Longjohn wasn’t content to rest on his laurels, however. Because of the commercial success of Oops! All Berries, Longjohn tried to reproduce the conditions that allowed for Oops! All Berries cereal. Though its easy to assume that this process would be as simple as pouring crunch berries into a box without yellow biscuits, pressure from stodgy old board members (who just didn’t “get” Oops! All Berries, despite its financial rewards) as well as several government organizations, including the FDA, EPA, and SEC (which could all be swayed by corporate lobbyists so long as Oops! All Berries remained an accident rather than a design), forced Longjohn to stage campaigns to “accidentally” overproduce his beloved crunch berries.

However, this goal proved elusive. Longjohn only succeeded once, in 1983, of producing enough excess crunch berries by “accident” to manufacture an Oops! All Berries craze. Under flimsy pretenses, Longjohn put a six year old boy named James Van Der Beek (who later went on to play Dawson in the WB series Dawson’s Creek) in charge of the crunch berry production mechanism. The opportunity for a child to control the crunch berry machinery was part of an advertising campaign where kids from ages 5-9 completed a gauntlet of activities (including collecting 20 box tops from Cap’n Crunch’s Crunch Berries, completing a crunch berry coloring contest, and writing a 14 line poem dedicated to that sweet crunch berry taste). Van Der Beek’s poem wowed the judges, and Longjohn was certain that the child’s “love of the crunch,” as the boy put it, would instigate an unparalleled crunch berry overflow. Longjohn was right, and the incident was later referenced in an early Dawson’s Creek episode, in which Dawson films his own version of Spielberg’s classic Jaws. Dawson can’t find any fake blood, so he drops a few red crunch berries into the water, and as the immediate area turns a deep red, he repeatedly crams fistfuls of dry crunch berries into his mouth. This episode garnered the highest ratings of any WB program, only to be surpassed by the third series finale of 7th Heaven.

Longjohn was never again able to ignite an Oops! All Berries phenomenon. It appears that only divine intervention can truly cause the skies to erupt with sweet crunch berry rain. In his one success, it seems that Jimmy Longjohn flew a little too close to the sun, as he was diagnosed with dementia in 1985. As the President of Quaker Oats until his death in 2008, he would have loved the outpouring of support for the latest Oops! All Berries craze. Though he worked with many cereals over the years, Oops! All Berries always remained the dearest to his heart.

slipknot 4 lyfe

(Actually, that’s Alex’s.  I’m not sure if I’ve ever listened to a Slipknot song in my life, now that I think about it.)

Coincidentally, in December of 2001, I wrote about a very real, personal microcosm of the Afghan conflict that occurred in the basement of our friend (and voraciousbunnies contributor), Mr. W.  (By the way, Mr. W. isn’t named after a generic cola from Wegmans; no one, to the best of my knowledge, has ever called him that.)  I’ve endured a number of extreme battles in Mr. W.’s basement.  For example, my world literally changed when Mr. W. got a foosball table.  Brightly festooned in Mardi Gras beads procured from his gay hairstylist, Mr. W. would bound down the stairs to his basement clutching The Belt, the prize of the “undefeated foosball champion” (as he styled himself).  The Belt, for reference, looks exactly like this belt, from the episode of How I Met Your Mother when Ted and Barney are competing to see who can complete a three-way first:

the belt

I think that there may have been a giant foam cowboy hat from Six Flags Darien Lake involved somehow as well.

The foosball war waged on for centuries and I’m not sure if I ever beat Mr. W.  If I ever did win, he would claim that those matches weren’t considered “tournament play” and therefore didn’t besmirch his “undefeated foosball champion” rank.  I never, therefore, won the Belt, but I don’t think I could have pulled it off anyway, in terms of personal style.  I don’t, for example, have any Mardi Gras beads, and The Belt would have clashed pretty dramatically with my plaid overshirts.

The foosball tournaments occurred later in high school, but in December of 2001, Mr. W., though sheer bluster, convinced us all to accept his challenge:  a deathmatch, Port Crane versus the World, in the Atari classic Combat.  In retrospect, I have no idea if we ever actually got around to playing Combat, but the hype was incredible.  Posters were made.  Taunts flew wildly.  Here’s how I described Mr. W, and his bravado, back in 2001:

To understand how all 6+ of us can be amused by such a retarded concept, you have to realize the kind of person this “Mr. W” is. And no, he isn’t the man who invented generic Wegman’s soda. This kid does things like run around during volleyball in gym class yelling at people about how they “have no intensity” and “can’t touch the force field (because it’s too strong for you, and its too strong for me)” all the while jumping in to Power Rangers’ poses. I think it’s safe to say that this person scares me very much, especially when I have AIM conversations like this:

Mr. W.: ultimate dance party 2001!!!!
Adam: Uh..what?
Mr. W: all you favorite hits!!
Mr. W signs off

It does kind of frighten me that I made the same joke about generic Wegmans soda in 2001 and today, about 8.5 years later.  Also, as I mentioned, I don’t remember anyone ever actually playing Combat, but according to this 12/10/2010 post, I was at a distinct disadvantage, because according to Mr. W., I would “never figure out how to steer.”

A milestone in voraciousbunnies history was made in December of 2001 when Alex’s first, and only, commentary for the site, ominously entitled “Rappas,” was published.  This discussion shone a spotlight on the nature of the African American Vernacular English dialect, colloquially known as “ebonics,” or as some linguistic anthropologists, like Alex, term it, “rapspeak”:

Ok, we’ll begin with a bit of an intro to ebonics(that’s fancy-talk for rapspeak). If I recall correctly, the gentlemen in the “ghettos” of the big cities began this trendy thing. I’m sure they’ve had the new word releases planned out for years and whatnot, because just as a phrase like “bling bling” is started to become worn out, it’s replaced with the ultra cool “xxxx”. Ok, you all are well versed in rapspeak, so you’ll now be able to decipher Mr. Teeple’s responses to my intelligent queries.

Mr. Teeple, whose first name I removed here, was simultaneously one of the most fascinating people in our class and absolutely the most frightening.  Alex described him as a tenth-grader somewhere between the ages of 17 and 23, and that seems pretty accurate from what I can remember.  Teeple was adorned with “tats and chains” (“I can get you some in my friend’s basement,” he helpfully mumbled to my future wife at the teen dance club “Chameleon”), one of which read “TEEPLE” down his forearm.

“My dad has the same tattoo,” he confided once, in the locker room.  ”Only his says NAZI.”

A tall, gangly kid named Pat, who usually wore a neon-green T-shirt decorated with chili peppers and the words “Hot! Hot! Hot!” to gym class, frequently taunted Mr. Teeple, who once responded by pretending to punch him in the head (instead punching his open palm) while screaming “KNOCKOUT!  KNOCKOUT!  KNOCKOUT!”  Teeple also, according to Alex’s “interview” with him, performed something called a “crack call” (which I think was some kind of hooting noise that echoed across the gym).  I can’t remember if we termed it the “crack call,” or if he did.  Either possibility seems likely.

I don’t know if this was supposed to be about rappers or ebonics or Teeple himself, but the piece ends with Mr. Teeple’s enduring gift of rhyme:

Teeple: [He begins singing.]My name is Teeple; I rule all the people; Fuck with me; I’ll throw you off a church steeple!

Teeps, if you’re reading this, I genuinely hope that you are happy and safe and warm somewhere.

Six days after Alex wrote this piece, he and Craig gave me my Christmas present early.  I eventually became an English major and read a lot of classic novels and short stories, but not one quite tugs at my emotions like “I Am a Fairy Princess,” a chronicle of the various types of fairies, short stories about fairies, instructions informing me how to make my own fairy wand, and pink fairy wings for me to wear.

What’s odd is that, while I still have the book, the wings disappeared long ago.  I have no idea what happened to them.

I’ll end this article with one final quote of mine from December 2001:

…Christmas is evil and everyone knows that the Virgin Mary was an anarchist raver and Joseph was a communist Red Army Bolshevik. And the angel was Osama Bin Ladin.

Merry Christmas!

fuck you dude

This is a multi-part story-thing update. Check out Part 2 here.

This American Life, hosted by Ira Glass, is a fantastic award-winning public radio program that features a variety of thematically related journalistic and creative non-fiction stories each week. They’re also a bunch of fucking pricks because they’ve been rejecting my awesome goddamn story for years.

I made my first This American Life submission back when their most famous contributor was the guy who played Geoffrey from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air who, in a conflation of his fictional character and the actor’s own personality, offered a deluded tale about tripping on mushrooms with “Master Jazzy Jeff” at a Steak N’ Shake. This story aired in the 1996 episode “Tripping Balls” (#36).

Here’s the rejection letter I received:

Dear XXX,

We regret to inform you that your submission, “Me and My Rascal,” does not meet our needs at this time. We considered the piece for our 41st episode, “Scootin’ ‘Round, “ but we decided to take the episode in another direction.

Thank you for your interest in This American Life!

Sincerely,

Ira Glass

I decided, at that point, that I would begin my own radio program that would eventually usurp This American Life, only my version used the AOL/script-kiddie vernacular that was so popular in the mid-90s. Teh Amr1can LIEFF!!! premiered its first, and final, episode on November 13, 1996. The theme was “v1deo g@mez!!1” and the recording was an uncompressed WAV file that only lasted 7 minutes. I was prepared to make a second one, on “wayz to h@ck AOL” but I forgot both my AngelFire password and username.

Over the next three years, I laughed, and loved, and grew – physically, emotionally, and spiritually – and matured from a budding Internet troll to a serious student of the pinnacle of artistic creation, video games. I wrote a primer on video games as art in 1999, declaring the video game to be the art form of the new millennium. It was published, in an extremely abbreviated version, as a letter to the editor in Nintendo Power. This was my first paying writing gig.  As compensation I was sent a cheat code for NHL Blades of Steel ’99 that gave everyone a gigantic Wayne Gretzky head.

My newfound writing acumen inspired me to submit my work to This American Life again. I pulled my tale out of a dusty wooden box in the attic and reworked “Me and My Rascal” (now titled “My Rascal and I”) and I submitted it for episode #131, “Young People Using Stuff Designed for Old People.” My rejection letter came in the mail some 3 months later, just two weeks before the episode aired. Instead of using my story, they devoted the hour to a man who used Viagra “just to see how long it would stay up,” some trite crap about lazy teenagers using the scooter carts at Wal-Mart, and a report about a genius baby billionaire who had already cashed in on his 401k at 18 months.

What’s worse is that hack David Sedaris stole my shit and just made it about elves and eggnog or whatever. Even though the producer called my story “an improbable fit for the program,” listen to “Holiday Tomfoolery” (#148) – no wait, don’t, I’ll tell you what happened:  Sedaris used my story word for word, but he substituted in the word “sleigh” for “scooter,” set it in December, and instead of me trekking throughout upstate NY on a Rascal it’s about him meandering through a Macy’s in an elf costume. Fuck that guy.

fuck you too you goddamn nerd

I had largely written off the show for several years, but in 2003, when I was a senior at SUNY Old Westbury, This American Life dramatically reentered my life. I had recently gotten busted by some bros for pinching some weed from the on-campus marijuana farm, so I was tooling around on my Rascal for a bit while I was waiting for my bones to fuse back together. About 2 weeks later, fucking Ira Glass shows up on campus looking to report on the farm for episode #253, “Rollin’ Free.” He was striking out hardcore with some Long Island Jewish girls and he was sweating pretty hard and adjusting his glasses really frequently and his voice even cracked a few times. I had heard he was on campus from my roommate (who was gay, not that I care, but just saying) so I rolled up behind him in my Rascal and I said, “Hey man, I think I can help you out.”

He looked down at me and said, “I don’t know, I’m looking for information on a marijuana farm? I’m here to report on it for my gay radio show, it’s called This American Life.”

“Oh yeah brother, I know all about that gay show.  I’ll take you there, hop on.”

Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to get on the elliptical too often lately, so there was barely enough room for the both of us in the seat of the Rascal. He tried kind of half-sitting on my lap but his ass was so bony I made him get off. He decided to just walk along side, which I guess worked because we were only about half a mile away from the farm anyway. I tried talking to him a bit but he was listening to his iPod and when I started talking he visibly moved his thumb around the touch circle thing to turn up the volume, until I could hear “Bring Me to Life” by Evanescence playing over and over from his earbuds.

We made it there and he looked around and smelled some of the plants a bit. I couldn’t really go through the farm with him because I would have crushed them with my tires so I waited for him to get back. He picked some and then he asked if we could smoke some back in my dorm. “You know, for my gay radio show,” he said.

So, I got high with Ira Glass and my roommate (the gay one) Bryse back at our dorm room. Bryse was hitting on Ira and he seemed a little into it. Bryse said, “Hey Ira why don’t you check out this American life” and he pointed to his weiner. Bryse was really bad at being gay. Like, I’m not even sure if he really was gay or if his mom named him Bryse so he felt like he had to be gay. Ira kind of chuckled and looked at his weiner a little but then he saw me watching from the Rascal out of the corner of his eye and he stopped.

“Hey,” I said, “I submitted a story to This American Life once.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, taking a drag. “What was it about?”

“It’s called ‘My Rascal and I,’ and it’s about this time I rode around upstate New York on my grandma’s scooter. I was just a kid at the time, like 12 years old, and my Internet girlfriend lived in Bath and I lived up in Troy so I found an old map and took off one day.”

“That’s fucking fascinating, man, that rules. I’m going to put that on the air. I am going to make you famous, man.”

Continued in Part 2!